Treacherous
A collection of Quinntana oneshots for Quinntana week 2013
Day 01: Nerd/Popular
put your lips close to mine, as long as they don't touch
Quinn wasn't paying attention to what Mrs. Pruitt said to elicit a collective groan of protest from her classmates, but she does look up when she hears her name being called. She adjusts her glasses on her face and straightens a bit in her seat, attempting to appear as if she has any idea what is going on.
"Ms. Fabray, you'll be paired with Ms. Lopez, and your assignment is Shakespearean sonnets."
Quinn glances towards the front of the room, where Santana Lopez sits arm-in-arm with Brittany Pierce. They have their heads together, whispering, and Santana doesn't even glance upwards when her name is mentioned. Quinn represses a sigh, because she knows how this is going to go – she'll do all of the work, and Santana will sign her name at the top of every page. Quinn knows it will probably be the best grade Santana will ever have in this class, and they won't say two words to each other.
Quinn has been in this position before, during science projects and research papers. Teachers love to pair her up with the more popular kids who are too lazy or too stupid to do their own work. Quinn bristles when she remembers the two weeks she had to spend with Noah Puckerman during chemistry, and thanks God that she won't have to put up with anything like that when it comes to Santana.
Artie Abrams, beside her, gives her an apologetic smile. Artie knows the drill. He doesn't even flinch when he hears that he's been paired with Brittany. He does, however, clutch his hands together nervously when Santana turns around in her seat to look him over with dark, venomous eyes. Quinn is curious about that – how is it that Santana is more interested in Brittany's partner than her own? – but she decides not to let it bother her too much. She doesn't want to begin to understand how the minds of cheerleaders work.
"See you after school?" Artie asks, once the bell rings. Quinn helps him move his textbooks into his backpack.
"Yeah," Quinn says. They have a debate club meeting.
Quinn dodges through the sea of students, clutching a notebook to her chest. She feels invisible, and the way that other people push past her just reinforces that feeling. She stops at her locker and is too busy sliding the dial around to notice Santana Lopez materialize next to her.
"Hey, Pollyanna,"
Quinn jolts, nearly dropping her notebook, and stares at Santana with wide eyes. Santana leans against the row of lockers with deliberate casualness, not looking directly at her. Quinn takes in the short red Cheerios skirt and the dark curly ponytail in half a second, as well as the pale pink nail polish that matches the color of Santana's lip gloss almost perfectly. An instant later, Quinn becomes aware of the way she smells – like rich, exotic flowers. Santana is, all at once, looming larger than life next to Quinn, and Quinn is almost breathless at the sudden shift in her reality. She's been aware of Santana since they were in eighth grade together, but she doesn't think they've ever actually said anything to each other.
"When is this assignment due, again?" Santana pulls a nail file out of nowhere and begins to buff her nails.
"Uh," Quinn stutters, and then swallows. Her cheeks flare red, and she stares down at her lock. "Two weeks from Thursday."
"Great." Santana says dryly. "Your house or mine?"
Quinn blinks. "Excuse me?"
Annoyed, Santana turns to look at her. Quinn tries not to flinch at the moment of eye contact they make, before Santana's continue on a cursory journey down her body. For some reason, it makes Quinn feel hot all over, and incredibly awkward – she yanks her sweater down and turns, suddenly, jerking her locker door open.
"You know," Santana says, almost thoughtfully. "You're not completely unfortunate looking. Why do you dress like that?" She has a look on her face like she's smelled something slightly unpleasant.
Quinn scoffs. "If you're just going to insult me, you can forget it."
Santana's eyebrows rise, scrunching up her forehead. "Suit yourself, Lynn." She thrusts herself away from the lockers, bouncing on the heel of her white sneakers. "Find me after school. We'll get started at my house."
Quinn's cheeks are an embarrassing shade of red, so she doesn't look up as Santana walks away.
"Quinn," she whispers, shoving her books into her locker. "My name is Quinn."
Xxx
"You're saying that she wants to actually participate?" Artie asks, incredulity written all over his features.
Quinn nods, staring resolutely at the notecards in front of her. The rest of the debate team is working in groups, going over the subjects expected to be brought up during the next meet with Carmel High.
"Well, that could be good," Artie says delicately, his eyebrows rising.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "I think I'd prefer it if she let me do all the work."
Artie nods. "Well, she is Santana Lopez, after all."
"She's a bitch," Quinn says, with feeling. "She's going to make this much harder than it has to be."
"You'll get through it." Artie smiles at her. "How bad could it be?"
Almost as if on cue, the door to the classroom bangs open and everyone turns to gawk. Quinn, with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, turns slowly, and – of course – Santana is standing framed in the doorway, a fist on her hip.
"Hey! Pepper Ann!"
Quinn flinches, gripping her pen. "Jesus Christ," she mutters.
"I think you'd better go," Artie does his best not to smirk, but he fails.
Gritting her teeth, Quinn scoots her chair back forcefully, and yanks her backpack up from the ground. The rest of the debate club members stare at her as she walks out, and she makes a point of closing the door behind her.
Santana taps her foot impatiently on the linoleum. "What gives? I told you to come find me. School's been out for an hour."
Quinn stares at Santana for a full beat before answering. "I had plans."
Santana cocks an eyebrow. "This dweeb meeting is more important than the English assignment?"
Quinn prays for patience. "Yes."
"Look, here's the thing, blondie," Santana begins, her tone biting. "I'm taking time out of my day to get this thing taken care of, so why don't you show a little bit of consideration, here?"
"Excuse me?" Quinn can't believe this. "I have prior obligations, Santana. I have responsibilities. I can't just drop everything because you—"
Santana rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Let's just go."
Quinn huffs, biting the inside of her cheek in order to swallow every acidic remark that comes to mind. Her eyebrows pinch on her forehead, and she grips her pen tightly. Santana stomps away without a backwards glance, and Quinn follows – because, what choice does she have?
"Do you have a car? Can you just follow me to my house?"
Quinn shakes her head.
"Great, now I'm a taxi," Santana grumbles. "Here. Get in."
Quinn is used to having to hold her tongue, but she finds it hard to do around Santana. Something about her just rubs Quinn the wrong way – she feels it like static along her skin, irritating and abrasive.
Santana's car is sleek, black, and shiny – expensive. The interior is black leather, and Quinn tries not to grimace at the collection of empty Starbucks cups and receipts littering the passenger floorboard. Santana checks her makeup in the rearview mirror as Quinn buckles up, and doesn't offer any apologies or excuses for the mess. Santana ignores Quinn completely, starting the ignition, and she turns the radio up to drown out any possibility of conversation.
Quinn stares out the car window, her backpack in her lap. Santana drives too fast, too reckless, and Quinn squeezes her fingers into fists so tightly her knuckles hurt.
By the time they park in front of Santana's nondescript house in the suburbs, Quinn is almost sweating from adrenaline. Her hands shake as she unbuckles her seatbelt, and she slides out of the car, flooded with relief.
Santana leads Quinn up to the front door, opens it and flies through, not bothering to shut it behind her. Quinn, more tentatively, follows behind, closing the door slowly.
Santana has a nice house, that much is plain. The air inside is thick and heavy, laden with the smell of spices Quinn is unfamiliar with. She doesn't see Santana anywhere – she's left to stand in Santana's foyer alone – but she hears her, shouting in rapid Spanish.
Cautiously, Quinn tip-toes through an archway, and she sees Santana standing over a little boy seated at a table. She scowls, a hand curled around an apple, and gestures emphatically to the paper in front of the little boy.
"No, you idiot, that's a conjunction –"
"Santana!"
Quinn assumes it's Santana's mother hollering at her from the kitchen.
Santana sighs, glancing upwards, and Quinn feels her body jolt when Santana's eyes lock into place with hers. She gives an annoyed grimace. "Do you want an apple? Or a banana?"
"Who's that?" The little boy looks up. His hair is shaggy and falling into his eyes. He pushes at it with the back of his wrist.
"None of your business, squirt," Santana shoves at his shoulder. "Write 'do not' there."
"Santanita, who's your friend?"
Quinn's attention is drawn to the doorway leading from the dining room to the kitchen, and Santana turns to regard the woman standing there. She has long burgundy hair is wearing a stained apron, but Quinn notices the glint of gold at her wrists and the jewels on her fingers.
"This is, um – Kate." Santana says, gesturing with the hand holding her apple in Quinn's direction.
Quinn scowls, steps forward, and then offers Mrs. Lopez her best, for-adults-only smile.
"My name is Quinn Fabray. It's nice to meet you."
"Oh, very nice to meet you, too," Mrs. Lopez smiles brightly. "You call me Maribel, honey. Are you and Santana—?"
"Ma," Santana cuts in, frowning. "We're partners on an English assignment. That's all,"
"Oh, mija," Mrs. Lopez raises her eyebrows conspiratorially at Santana. "She's very pretty—"
"MA!"
Quinn studies Santana thoughtfully, and Santana starts yelling at her mother in Spanish.
The little boy grins, looking between the two women, who are now screeching unintelligibly.
They're interrupted by the arrival of another girl – Santana's sister, by the looks of her – barreling in, shoving them apart. Quinn doesn't understand Spanish, but she thinks the little girl is requesting some kind of snack. She's probably ten; is also tall and skinny. Santana scowls at her darkly, and yanks on her long, loose braid. The kid squeals, whipping around, and Santana laughs until her mother pinches her on her arm.
"Ouch!" She glares at her mother. "What was that for?"
"Santana!" Maribel looks like she's on the verge of a mental breakdown. "Leave your sister alone."
"Let's go, Hillary," Santana grouses, pushing past her sister to hook a palm around Quinn's elbow. "This is a circus."
"Tch!" Santana's mother makes a noise of disgust.
"I just told you my name," Quinn says, her tone dubious, as Santana guides her past a den strewn with plastic toys, and then up a flight of stairs. "Like, five seconds ago. My name is Quinn,"
"Yeah, yeah," Santana shoots Quinn a narrow look, before pushing into her bedroom. "I heard you, Squeaky,"
"Is it really so hard to call someone by their name?" Quinn tries not to gawp at Santana's room, which is dark and so – so disorganized. She picks over piles of dirty clothes on the floor, her eyes widening at the crumpled paper balls and various knick knacks strewn over every hard surface. Everything in Santana's room clashes: the bedspread, the posters on the walls, the furniture. It creates a kind of panicked, unsettled feeling in the pit of Quinn's stomach, and she swallows, hugging her bag to her chest.
Santana doesn't seem to notice. She immediately walks over to her closet, opens it, and begins unzipping her Cheerios uniform. Quinn is too preoccupied with being aghast at the chaos of Santana's room to really notice it, but within a moment Santana is nearly naked, down to a bra and panties. She yanks on a white gym t-shirt and turns to find Quinn rooted in the spot, still in the center of her bedroom.
"Will you sit down, you weirdo?"
Quinn snaps her jaw shut and shuffles over to perch, delicately, on the edge of Santana's bed. She squeezes all of her muscles tight, as if to avoid touching the wrinkled bedspread. Quinn feels like the messiness is contagious.
"How do you live like this?" Quinn can't keep the disgust out of her tone.
"What?" Santana pulls up a pair of gym shorts, squinting at Quinn.
Quinn shudders.
"Are you some kind of OCD freak?"
Quinn grimaces. "No." She shifts. "I just like things to be – neat."
"Yeah," Santana laughs, shaking her head. "You're definitely one of those crazies, like the counselor. Do you clean the bathroom with a toothbrush?"
Quinn glares at the back of Santana's head. Santana is oblivious. She bends down to uncover a laptop hidden beneath a haphazard pile of clothes.
She plops down next to Quinn on the bed, her back against the headboard. Quinn shifts, adjusting herself, and very cautiously pushes herself upwards on the bed until they're sitting next to each other. Santana is tapping away at her keyboard, pulling up an empty word document and a Google search. Delicately, Quinn unzips her backpack, and pulls out their English textbook.
"Do you even know what a sonnet is?" Quinn asks.
Santana turns to look at Quinn, very slowly, and Quinn feels heat rise up in her cheeks.
"Look here, Poindexter," She has acid in her tone. "I don't like this anymore than you do – you think I want your geek germs all over my room? No. You think I'd rather be here with you than at the mall with Brittany? No."
"Then why—"
Santana narrows her eyes. "It's my grade, too, pipsqueak. Just because you look like a female Stephen Hawking doesn't mean you have the brains of one. Got it?"
"I think I can handle this assignment, Santana," Quinn slaps the English textbook closed. "Just take me home."
Santana taps her thumb against the laptop, studying Quinn with dark, impenetrable eyes. Quinn flushes under the scrutiny, and stares at her lap, trying not to squirm.
"You don't get out much, do you?" Santana muses. "A sonnet is a poem made up of fourteen lines, usually written in iambic pentameter."
"What?" Quinn is a little thrown off by Santana's sudden change of subject.
"I know what a sonnet is," Santana smirks. "Quinn. So why don't you just settle down, and let's get this started?"
"Fine," Quinn mutters, flipping the textbook open to the chapter on Shakespeare.
She's surprised by most of what she's seen of Santana Lopez, so far – not the least of which, the fact that Santana knows what a sonnet is, and that she finally remembered her name.
"Hey, Squeaks,"
Quinn sighs and rolls her eyes. Santana is creeping along in her car next to the sidewalk that Quinn walks down, shouting through the passenger side window. Quinn squints, using her palm to shade her eyes. "What, Santana?"
"You need a ride?"
Quinn bites her lip. "We aren't working on the sonnets today."
"I know," Santana says, and flashes her a brief smile. "Do you need a ride?"
Quinn considers it for a moment before she shrugs and slides into Santana's car.
"Thanks," Quinn mutters.
"No problem." Santana slides a pair of sunglasses on her face, and then pulls into traffic without checking her blind spot. Quinn yelps as another car's horn blares out, and she quickly slips her seatbelt into place.
"You didn't have a meeting of the geek squad or whatever today?"
Quinn shakes her head.
"It's the Godsquad,"
Santana gives her an appraising look from behind her sunglasses.
"I'm a Christian," Quinn says, defensively. She doesn't know how Santana is always doing this to her – making her uncomfortable and edgy.
"Yeah, I got that," Santana drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "Why don't you have a car?"
Quinn frowns. "Could you be any more rude?"
"It's just a question!"
"I can't afford one," Quinn snaps.
Santana nods slowly. "So, you're poor?"
"Santana!" Quinn almost gasps. "Are you serious?"
"Is that why you dress like you get all of your clothes from the old lady section of the Salvation Army?" Santana frowns.
"Oh, my God," Quinn can't believe she's hearing this. "Please, just take me home and stop talking,"
"I think you need a makeover, Q," Santana says abruptly. "We can shop somewhere shabby-chic, like.. Target."
Quinn leans into her palm, rubbing her forehead. "Help me."
"No, listen," Santana sounds almost excited. "You really only need a few tweaks to your style and you'd be, like.. nerdy-cool. That's in, now, isn't it?" Santana bounces in her seat. "They call it hipster, don't they?"
"I don't know." Quinn groans. "Please stop talking about this."
"Just trade in those horrendous skirts for some, like.. skinny jeans. Throw on some makeup and a scarf or two and you'd be totally hot."
Quinn presses her face into the window and stares out, morosely.
"I'll take you shopping this weekend," Santana says. "You should be grateful. I don't usually give to the less fortunate, but I'll make an exception this time."
"Why do you even care?" Quinn asks.
Santana shrugs. "I like you all right, Q. You're not too bad. You just dress weird. You need some serious help with style, but otherwise, you're almost normal."
"Gee, thanks."
"I'm trying to help you," Santana insists. She pulls up in front of Quinn's house, and Quinn can't get out of her car fast enough.
"Just think about it, Fabray!"
Quinn shakes her head on the entire walk up to her house and through her front door.
She doesn't stop thinking about Santana Lopez for the rest of the night.
Quinn answers her door in pajamas, and she squints against the early morning sunlight. She wasn't prepared to see Santana dressed like that – it's the first time Quinn has ever seen her out of her Cheerios uniform – wearing a tight green dress with knee-high black boots. Her hair is down, for once, curled prettily around her face. She clutches a thin black purse in her hands and smiles brightly at Quinn.
"Hey, Squeaks. Good morning. Where's Judes?"
"Could you not call my mom that?" Quinn frowns, backs away from the doorframe, ushering Santana in. Santana breezes by as if she owns the place, though this is only her second time inside.
"Why the hell are you here at.." Quinn frowns, rubs one of her eyes, and glares down at her cell phone. "Nine o'clock? On a Saturday?"
"Early bird catches the worm," Santana says airily, and heedless, begins to walk through Quinn's house. Quinn follows behind her, slowly, taking in the sight of Santana Lopez rifling through stacks of envelopes on the coffee table and pulling open side table drawers.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Santana tries to sound innocent. She rounds, suddenly, and faces Quinn. "Are you ready to go?"
"Go where?" Quinn runs a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down.
"We're going shopping," Santana says. "Hey, you know something? In your PJs, you look almost normal,"
"Shut up," Quinn grumbles. "I don't want to go shopping."
"You don't have a choice. Go put some clothes on."
Quinn hates every single thing about the mall, which she details loudly for Santana on the way there.
"It's full of brainless airheads with more money than sense," Quinn says, with a pointed look towards Santana. "It's a tacky example of overwhelming consumerism in America. People buy things they don't need with money they don't have – Santana!"
Santana swerves just in time to miss the dog darting across the street.
"You're all right," Santana says, glancing over at Quinn.
Quinn's heart is hammering in her chest.
"Look, we're here." Santana grins, pulling into a parking spot. "You can keep bitching about it after I've got you in some more acceptable clothes. I didn't really think about it, but –" She frowns slightly, her eyes skipping down Quinn's frame. "It's going to be really hard for me to be seen with you like this."
"Santana," Quinn's voice is dangerously low. "You're such a bitch."
"Yeah," Santana arches a brow. "But at least I look good. You're a bitch who dresses like a grandma."
Quinn just rolls her eyes, but she gets out of the car when Santana does. The Lima mall is full of middle class families this early, which Quinn is almost grateful for. Most of the teenager won't be showing up until later in the day, after all of the mommies in sweatpants go home.
Santana pulls Quinn by her wrist into a Banana Republic, and doesn't even consult her as she starts pulling an assortment of blouses, skirts, tank tops, sweaters, and jean shorts together. Santana is like a concentrated whirlwind, moving through the racks of clothing. Occasionally she holds something up to Quinn, as if to check the size, but for the most part, she's determined and doesn't stop to talk.
"I can't wear that," Quinn squeaks. The shirt Santana holds is thin, flimsy, and almost transparent. "Santana. I'll look like a whore."
"You'll look fine. Sexy." Santana brushes her aside, adding the shirt to the pile.
"I can't afford any of this," Quinn says, after checking the price tag on one of the sweaters.
"I got it, Q," Santana says with a shrug. "Don't worry about it."
"I don't want you spending money on me," Quinn grumbles.
"Hey." Santana is comparing two shirts in the same style, but different colors. "Look at it this way – it's kind of like charity. I'm sure my dad can get a tax write-off or something."
"I don't think it works that way," Quinn says.
"Whatever," Santana shrugs, and leads Quinn towards the dressing room. "Try these on."
"There's like fifty different things here," Quinn stares at them. "I'm not trying everything on."
"Yes, you are," Santana insists, pushing her into the stall.
Quinn reluctantly sheds her own clothes, all the while staring at the myriad of hangers with all the different clothes on them. She plucks delicately through them, her brow wrinkling critically at some of the choices. "Santana – are you serious?"
"What?" Santana's voice is muffed through the dressing room door.
"No. No, no, no," Quinn ticks off, shaking her head emphatically, even though nobody can see it. "I'm not even going – this is indecent,"
"Quit being such a baby, Quinn," Santana's voice is closer, now, as if she's standing just outside the door. "Try something on."
Quinn yanks a pair of dark jeans off of a hanger, and pulls them on. "These aren't the right size," She grouses. "They're too tight."
"They're supposed to fit like that," Santana says. "Just open the door, Q, I'll help you."
"I don't need your help!" Quinn snaps. "I can put a pair of jeans on!"
"Coulda fooled me!"
Quinn scowls at the door, before shaking her head, and pulling on the first blouse she sees. It's a pastel pink color and it bunches at the waist. "Ick."
Santana bangs impatiently on the door. "Open up, Fabray."
Quinn jerks it open, her hair a flyaway mess. "Look, Santana, I'm tired of being your little fashion experiment –"
Santana chuckles, shaking her head. "You aren't wearing this right. Here," She uses soft, deft hands to adjust the top on Quinn, tugging and pulling. Quinn wills herself to stand still and not lash out, though her patience is wearing thin.
She notices, by degrees, the closeness of Santana. She's reminded sharply of the first day – how Santana's presence was like a physical force, slamming into her. Santana is larger than life, full of zapping, buzzing energy; and this close, Quinn can feel the warmth of Santana's skin, and can catch the smell of her. She holds her breath, because she's suddenly overwhelmed by heat, and it makes the color of her cheeks darken.
"There," Santana tilts her head, and steps back. "I wouldn't wear that shirt with those pants, but – it's an improvement. Your shoes, though.." Santana grimaces. "You need a haircut, too,"
"I'm not cutting my hair," Quinn says with a sigh.
"Of course you aren't," Santana sounds like she's humoring her. "Let's go get you some heels."
"I don't want any heels," Quinn mutters. "Santana, this is ridiculous. What are you doing?"
"I told you," Santana's voice has an edge of impatience to it. "I'm helping you."
Quinn pauses and takes a moment to look Santana over, and the moment hangs between them, still and breathless. Quinn has the strangest urge – to reach out, pull Santana close, to kiss her. She doesn't know where these feelings come from, or why she has them so suddenly; but it makes her throat tight, so she swallows, and finally just nods. "Okay."
Santana brightens on a smile. "Good. Get those. We'll just buy everything."
Quinn almost stutters. "Santana, no—"
"Stop arguing," Santana holds up a palm to silence her. "You know what you need?"
Quinn stares, unbelieving, at Santana. She waits a beat, and then says, "What?"
"Panties." Santana grins. "I bet you're wearing some kind of granny panties under there, aren't you?"
Quinn narrows her eyes.
"It's okay, Q. I'll save you from yourself. Let's go."
Quinn just sighs.
Half an hour later, Quinn's arms are full of bags, and Santana is dragging her into a Victoria's Secret.
"Just, like, five new sets, Quinn. You can keep rocking the panty-line on the weekends." Santana pulls her towards a bin full of thongs. "What's your favorite color?"
"Oh, are you actually interested in my input, now?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "I think red would look good on you."
Quinn shakes her head. "Green. I'd rather green."
Santana digs through the bin, and Quinn holds up one thong, eyeballing it critically. "People actually pay money for this? It's, like, some strings. It's not proper underwear."
Santana grimaces. "Please stop talking. You sound like you're fifty."
Quinn puts the thong back down.
"What trauma happened to you, anyway, to make you so stunted?" Santana asks, while still browsing for an appropriate thong.
"Were you dropped on your head as an infant?" Quinn scowls. "You're so rude,"
"I just tell it like it is, Q," Santana says with a shrug. "Here, these'll do. You want bras, too?"
"No." Quinn answers immediately.
Santana turns to regard Quinn, using her hand on Quinn's shoulder to straighten her. She very pointedly stares at Quinn's chest, and Quinn has to fight the urge to cross her arms.
"I bet you need some," Santana says, with a tut of disapproval. "What's your cup size?"
Quinn's cheeks burn, and she turns away from Santana without a word. Santana follows close behind her, and then grabs the crook of her elbow to steer her over to a wall with bras displayed. Quinn stands back, defeated, while Santana goes about trying to match bras to the thongs she's already picked out.
I can always return the clothes and keep the money, Quinn thinks, a little spitefully.
"All right. Do you need me to show you how to put these on?" Santana pulls Quinn towards the dressing room, and Quinn is getting tired of being tossed around like a ragdoll.
"No," Quinn snaps.
"I'll help you," Santana says anyway, and pushes Quinn ahead of her into the tiny dressing room. She shuts the door and pulls the latch, securing it. Quinn huffs, dropping the bags of clothes they already bought, and turns to face Santana.
"Take your shirt off," Santana says, unclipping one of the bras from its hanger.
Quinn hesitates, feeling that odd tugging in her body again, at the prospect of being topless around Santana. But Santana isn't even looking at her; instead, she's adjusting the straps on the bra, and Quinn shakes her head, mostly at herself, and pulls her shirt over her head. She turns around, with her back to Santana, and reaches behind her to undo the clasp.
Santana's hand brushes hers aside, and Quinn straightens, holding her breath, as Santana unsnaps her bra. Wordlessly, Quinn slides her bra down her shoulders, and she reaches behind her, blindly.
A moment passes, and Quinn is on the brink of looking over her shoulder at Santana, but then she feels Santana behind her. Santana's arms come over hers, brushing down the length of them, and she holds the bra open for Quinn to step into. Quinn's breath hitches in her throat, and she tries not to suffocate from the sensation of Santana pulling the straps tight, adjusting the buckle. Quinn stands stock still, almost paralyzed, because Santana's breath on the back of her neck gives her chills, and she feels weak and dizzy.
"Turn around," Santana orders, and her voice is low. Quinn does so, slowly, and she notices immediately that Santana hasn't stepped back. Now they're face-to-face, and Quinn's breath explodes in a surprised puff. She bites her bottom lip, hard, and her body shivers when Santana settles her palms low on her waist. They radiate heat.
"Lookin' good," Santana murmurs. Her eyes are dark and intense, and they search between Quinn's – her face holds an unspoken question, in the subtle tilt of her head, the angle of her lips. Their bodies are almost flush together, and Quinn is overwhelmed, again, by the aura of Santana; like an electricity storm, all sparks.
"Thanks," Quinn breathes. She doesn't know what to say, or how to react. Her body almost shudders at the feeling of Santana's thumbs sweeping slowly over her hips, up and down, and she reaches out, blindly, to steady herself, by hooking her own hands around the curve of Santana's hips.
Santana smiles slowly, her eyes lidded and feline. There's something predatory in the look – something like triumph in her eyes – before she dips her head, angling towards Quinn. Quinn notices that their pelvises meet, first, and for some reason that sends a flash of liquid heat through her body – she inhales, sharply, at the feeling of her bare stomach pressing against the material of Santana's dress. Her fingertips feel cold and her palms are clammy, and her head swims as if she's drunk; she clutches, hard, at the ridges of Santana's hipbones, as if she needs them to stay upright.
"You okay?" Santana whispers, her lips barely a breath away from Quinn's.
Quinn swallows, tilts her chin in the tiniest of nods.
Santana smiles that same devilish smile, before she presses their lips together.
Quinn's throat squeezes out a hum, a helpless murmur of a noise, and something about that has Santana reaching up to cup her neck, holding her close. Santana's lips taste like cherry lip gloss, and her smell is even more intense this close – Quinn focuses on breathing, and how it feels like she's kissing lightning, because the amount of heat and static coming off of Santana is almost unreal. Santana's lips are huge and soft and gentle, but so hot they scald Quinn; Quinn swallows, sucking in a breath, and in a moment she feels Santana's tongue lapping against her lower lip. Quinn gasps from the shock of it, and Santana takes advantage by licking into her mouth.
Quinn grips Santana, hard, and tries not to moan at the sensation of Santana's tongue sweeping over hers, licking towards the back of her teeth. Santana kisses Quinn like she has all of the time in the world – slowly, deliberately, like Quinn is something to be sampled and savored; there is heat present, but no impatience, and it surprises Quinn, who has never been kissed this way. It feels like she's drowning, slowly, and also like she's falling – her body feels lights and floaty, and her blood roars in her head, through her ears. She clutches at Santana, keeping her close, because otherwise she feels the strength would drain out of her.
Santana pulls away for a breath, and then comes back, rubbing their lips together before coaxing Quinn's mouth open again. This time, Quinn kisses Santana back, stroking her tongue into Santana's mouth, and Santana's grip on Quinn tightens almost imperceptibly. Quinn thinks Santana tastes like dark, rich coffee – bitter and strong, a total head-rush. Quinn's heart rate picks up, kicking in her chest, and this time, when they pull away, Santana's eyes are glazed and almost liquid.
"You're all right," Santana says after a moment, and Quinn thinks she must be able to hear her heart hammering in her ribs.
"Yes," Quinn manages, weakly. She unlatches her hands from around Santana's waist, and they peel apart.
Santana's gaze is assessing, now that there's distance between them. Quinn blushes and turns around, quickly undoing the bra, and putting her own back on. She yanks her shirt over her head, and by the time she has her hair smoothed out, Santana appears to have come to some decision.
"Do you want to get out of here, Fabray?"
Quinn jerks around to stare at Santana. "What?" She blinks. "Are you ready to leave?"
"Yeah," Santana nods. "I think so. If you are."
"Sure." Quinn bites her lip. "Santana, what—"
"Are you gay?" Santana asks suddenly.
"What?" Quinn balks. "I don't – uh. I don't know."
"You seemed pretty gay a second ago," Santana says flatly.
"Um—"
"Do you want to find out?"
Quinn almost chokes. "What-?"
"I'm asking if you want to have sex, Quinn," Santana says, her tone dry and even. She runs the material of the discarded bra through her hands, but her eyes are set and steady, peering at Quinn.
"Now? With you?"
Santana chuckles. "Not right here. But back at your place. Yes, with me."
Quinn bites her lip. "I don't know, Santana."
Santana's eyebrows come together, then she shrugs. "Suit yourself."
Quinn doesn't say much as Santana pays for all of the bras and the thongs Quinn didn't even attempt to try on – she's quiet when they get in the car, too.
"Why do you want to have sex with me?" Quinn asks, finally. Santana glances at her from the corner of her eye.
"You're hot," Santana says, bluntly. "Beneath all the hippie-grandma clothes, that is."
Quinn makes a derisive noise.
"Oookay," Santana sighs. "I like you okay. You're pretty dope."
"Thanks," Quinn says, speculatively. "Do you want to like – date me?"
"What?" Santana sounds panicked. "What? Who said that? No! I don't want to date anybody. Christ."
Quinn narrows her eyes, glaring. "What exactly do you have in mind, then?"
"Jeeze, I don't know – we're friends, right? We could be friends who have sex." Santana squeezes the steering wheel apprehensively. "Look, I didn't know you'd be all weird about this. Forget I even said anything."
"I'm a Christian," Quinn says slowly. "I'm a virgin."
"Well no duh," Santana smirks. "Of course you are."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Quinn feels anger flash through her, hot and painful.
"Nothing, Q," Santana says with a grin. "Just forget it."
"If this is about, like – taking my virginity, or something – you—"
Santana stops her with a look. "What do you take me for? I'm not some meathead jock after your V-card, Quinn."
Quinn bites her tongue, lowering her gaze. She feels ashamed, all at once, and doesn't really know why.
When they pull up to Quinn's house, Santana stops her from exiting the car as quickly as possible. "Listen." She takes a breath, and Quinn's eyes finally rise to study Santana's face. "This went badly. I didn't mean for it be so awkward. I meant to say, I like you, Quinn. I'm attracted to you. If you want, I'd love to make you feel good. But if not, I still want to be your friend." Santana grins, a little self-conscious. "You know, after school and on the weekends. Can't have you stinking up my rep."
Quinn doesn't know if she wants to slap Santana or kiss her – two directly conflicting emotions that make her huff and then sigh. She's charmed by Santana's open honesty, though. Quinn never thought there were so many twists and turns to Santana, so many surprises.
"I have to think about it," Quinn admits. "This happened really fast."
Santana gives a brief nod, then shrugs. "It's just sex, Quinn. Once you have it, you'll see it's no big deal."
"It is a big deal to me." Quinn says with a sigh. "Thanks for taking me shopping. I probably won't ever wear half of this, though."
"Even if you only wear half of it, it was money well spent." Santana squeezes Quinn's hands in hers. She seems almost apologetic, but she doesn't say anything else. Quinn slips out of Santana's car, gripping the shopping bags. Santana waits in the driveway until Quinn disappears inside of her house.
Sunday morning, Quinn calls Santana. She feels a like a pile of nerves, waiting for Santana to pick up.
"What's up, Squeaks?" Santana sounds easy and carefree.
It sets Quinn's jaw on edge.
"You have to take me on a date," Quinn says, without preamble. "Somewhere nice, with flowers and stuff."
"What? Why?" Quinn can hear the frown in Santana's voice.
"If you want to have sex with me, we have to go on a date first." Quinn twists the hem of her shirt between her thumb and forefinger.
"This is a lot of effort," Santana doesn't sound convinced. "You think you have a golden snatch or something, Q?"
"Jesus!" Quinn's voice breaks, and she hisses in a breath. "Do you have to be so vulgar?"
Santana laughs, and the sound makes Quinn's belly tighten.
"I'm a nice girl, Santana," Quinn says, almost indignant. "I don't just sleep with – anyone."
"I'm not just anyone." Santana sounds deadly serious. "You're getting the better end of this deal, I promise you."
"Just pick me up at 8," Quinn snaps.
Santana pauses, seems to debate it. "Fine," She gives an aggrieved sigh. "Fine, whatever you want, princess."
Quinn has a moment's flash of triumph, followed by a sudden rush of anxiety. They hang up, and Quinn buries her face in her pillows.
"I'm glad you decided to wear that," Santana says by way of greeting when Quinn answers the door. Santana is wearing another tight dress, this one black, and her hair is done up artfully, in a kind of twisty ponytail that Quinn can't begin to understand the how of it. Quinn doesn't feel underdressed, for once – she's wearing a billowy white sundress, and her hair is curled, flowing past her shoulders. Quinn feels pretty, which is an altogether new feeling, and the honest appreciation in Santana's eyes only makes her feel more confident.
"Thank you. You look lovely."
Santana smiles. "I know."
Quinn narrows her eyes at Santana, who shrugs, but takes her hand. They walk together to Santana's car, and Santana opens the door for her. Quinn can't help the pleased smile that creeps over her face.
"This is my first date," Quinn says, once Santana settles into the car next to her.
"I figured." Santana shrugs. "It's my first one, too, with a girl."
"Really?" Quinn tilts her head, looking Santana over.
Santana nods. "Usually, we don't.. " She gives a little smirk. "Sometimes, there's dinner after."
"Have you been with a lot of girls?" Quinn is genuinely curious.
"A few." Santana bites the inside of her cheek. "Why the twenty questions?"
"I just wanted to know." Quinn narrows her eyes. "Are they all girls we go to school with-?"
Santana just laughs. "I don't really kiss and tell, Quinn."
Quinn twists her fingers together in her lap.
"Don't you ever want to – to be with them? Like, as a girlfriend?"
Santana squares her shoulders, gives a little shake of the head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Quinn," Santana snaps. "I don't want any – relationship, okay? They aren't for me."
Quinn goes silent for a moment.
"But why?"
"God, you're obnoxious, you know that?" Santana grits her teeth. "Don't – just, mind your own business."
"Fine," Quinn's jaw clenches.
Santana is silent, and Quinn begins to wonder where they're going.
She's mildly surprised when Santana hops on the freeway and heads south, towards Dayton. She grips her hands into rigid fists as Santana, heedless to danger, zig-zags in and out of traffic.
"My father died in a car accident," Quinn says abruptly, mostly because apprehension coils in the pit of her stomach and makes her tongue swell, and the sun is fading fast on the horizon and everything is kind of a hazy blur.
Santana glances over at her, briefly, but doesn't slow down. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Quinn clutches her seatbelt, twisting it so tightly her knuckles turn white. "The speed limit is sixty-five."
"I know," Santana says, but – if anything – her foot presses even harder on the gas pedal. Quinn throws her quick, nervous glances, but she doesn't think Santana is doing it on purpose. She just genuinely doesn't realize how reckless she's being, and something about that terrifies Quinn.
"Please slow down," Quinn breathes.
"Oh." Santana's eyebrows wing upwards. "Oh, okay." She taps her fingers against the steering wheel for a moment, allowing the car to slow down a fraction. "But it'll take forever for us to get there this way."
"That's all right." Quinn's speeding heart rate begins to decrease, slightly, and her muscles begin to relax. "At least we'll still be alive when we get there."
Santana laughs; a short, amused sound. "You're safe as a kitten in a picnic basket with me, Squeaks."
"I highly doubt that," Quinn bites her bottom lip and decides to bury her face in her arms, even at the risk of smudging her carefully-applied makeup, because she can't watch Santana's daredevil driving tactics anymore.
Somehow, Santana cuts an hour and a half drive down to forty-five minutes, and Quinn's knees are jelly when she finally steps out of Santana's car. Her mind is spinning with national car accident statistics, coupled with the number of fatalities, and how many of those are at the hand of teenaged drivers. It makes her head ache and her throat tighten, but she lets Santana take her arm, anyway, and lead her towards the sandstone pathway that follows along the small strip that qualifies for entertainment in Dayton.
The air smells like the sea and of various food carts set up along the pathway, selling hotdogs and ice cream and gyros. Quinn realize she's hungry only after catching the scent of grilled onions, and she finds she's relieved when Santana pulls her towards a tiny Italian restaurant, nestled between a seafront souvenir shop and an arcade. Quinn feels almost overdressed – the restaurant is full of beach bums in cutoff khakis and flip-flops – but Santana looks at her with so much force behind her eyes, Quinn can't find it in herself to feel self-conscious.
They sit at one of the smallest tables Quinn has ever seen, squeezed towards the back of the restaurant, and they don't have much arm room or legroom to speak of.
"How did you know about this place?" Quinn asks while her eyes scan the menu.
"My parents used to bring all of us kids down here for spring break. We'd spend the whole week on the beach." Santana's smiles are like quicksilver, flashing out of nowhere, sparkling and dazzling. "We'd get our faces painted and eat pineapple whip until we threw up. It was fun."
Quinn smiles, and she can imagine it in her head. She thinks that anywhere the Lopezes go must be full of loud chaos, but – oddly – it doesn't unsettle her. Quinn thinks that she might grow to like that kind of messiness; the kind that's made up of the similarities found only among families.
She realizes the only similarity between herself and her mother is their blonde hair – and her heart squeezes.
Santana flirts boldly with the waiter, and even manages to order them two glasses of wine without being carded. Quinn is suitably impressed with her daring, though she's even more worried, now, about the prospect of driving home.
Santana doesn't notice it, however, and Quinn tries to relax. Santana makes it easy, because she keeps the conversation going – Quinn realizes, with a start, that this shouldn't feel as natural as it does. She can't imagine a reality where she has anything in common with Santana Lopez (and she doesn't), much less one where she can share a meal in peace with her. Quinn wonders what it means.
When they're done, Santana pays, and leaves the waiter a generous tip. Quinn thinks it's mildly amusing the way Santana smiles at him and is so obvious, but hey – it works for her. Santana guides her outside, and since the sun has set, it's chilly right off the water. Santana wraps an arm around Quinn's shoulders, hugging her close, and they walk hip-to-hip down the pathway. It isn't crowded, precisely, but clumps of people pass them on either side, hurrying from one site to another, dragging out the last hour before everything closed up for the night.
Santana stops at a small vendor cart and orders them two pineapple whips, which – Quinn comes to learn – is a kind of frozen treat, like ice-cream or sorbet. Quinn gets hers on a cake cone and can't help the happy flush that creeps up her cheeks. She feels a little bit like she's seven years old again as she bites into it, but it makes her smile nonetheless. Santana keeps their hands locked together as they walk, and Quinn is beginning to think they don't have a destination, precisely. There are streetlamps to their right and the lights coming from the buildings on their left, but the night is growing darker by the moment.
"Why did you bring me here?" Quinn asks, glancing towards Santana. "We've got an Italian restaurant in town – it's called Breadstix, isn't it?"
Santana nods, and Quinn watches her run her tongue over her pineapple whip.
"I didn't want to take you there," Santana says with a shrug. "I wanted to bring you someplace I've never taken anyone before – somewhere special."
Quinn's heart freezes in her chest, and she feels like the wind is knocked out of her; she struggles to breathe, and Santana turns to her, a line of concern between her brows. Quinn can hear, all at once, the kick-start of her pulse and she feels that her stomach tightens into a painful fist.
"What?" Santana's lips go up in a half-smile.
Quinn just shakes her head, and then presses forward, into Santana. Santana is surprised at the sudden weight of Quinn's hand on her back, but she doesn't have time to react before Quinn pushes their mouths together. Quinn can't taste much beyond the sticky-sweet pineapple, and their lips are cold, but Santana's bewilderment turns to passion in an instant; and then her arm comes up, holding Quinn low on her waist, and they're kissing in public, their free hands curled around dripping ice cream cones, and Quinn doesn't care, because Santana's mouth is hot and soft and fierce and gentle all at once, and it makes Quinn's skin tingle everywhere, and she can hear Santana's words in her mind like a whispered refrain: somewhere special. Special, special, special.
They kiss until they can't breathe anymore, until the pineapple whip is falling in melted rivulets down their hands, and Quinn knows her lips are swollen. Santana looks at her with a different kind of glint in her eye once they peel away – Quinn can see the way Santana calculates, though she couldn't say precisely what Santana is thinking.
She hopes, in a secret part of her, that Santana is thinking the same thing she is.
Quinn is nervous on the car ride back to her house, and she thinks Santana can sense it. She keeps rubbing her palm over Quinn's knee, and Quinn thinks it's meant to be reassuring, but instead it just makes nerves bounce and jolt in her belly. She doesn't say anything, and her mouth is incredibly dry, as they make their way back to Quinn's. She doesn't wait for Santana to help her out of the car. Instead, she takes quick, long steps up her driveway and onto her porch, and then lets herself inside without waiting for Santana.
Santana follows at an easy pace, but Quinn starts to feel like she's being chased. She swallows, and silently leads Santana up to her bedroom.
Santana doesn't force Quinn to say anything, and Quinn can't decide if she's more grateful or nervous about it. They stand, facing each other, in the middle of the bedroom, and Quinn feels like she's dying from the awkwardness of it.
Santana watches Quinn, and then gives a faint nod. She reaches down and peels the dress up and over her body, and Quinn's eyes go wide as every inch of skin is revealed. Quinn has a moment to notice Santana is wearing lacy black panties and a matching bra – but then she catches Santana's eye, and everything else sort of blanks. Santana stands in front of her with an eyebrow cocked, and it looks like a challenge to Quinn – Santana's hands are waist level, palms up, and it seems to Quinn that she's saying, see, I'm naked, and I'm fine.
Well, knowing Santana, she's probably saying something more like, look at this hot body, but whatever.
Tremulously, Quinn reaches to pull her own dress off, and before she can think too much about it, she just does it.
Santana's eyebrows go up, and then she lets out a low whistle. Quinn's cheeks burn.
"Very nice."
"Thank you," Quinn whispers, and then pulls the comforter to her bed down. She knows it's probably silly – she should probably just get naked now – but she can't. Instead, she lies down, and then tugs the blanket on top of herself.
Santana gives her an odd little smile, and then climbs up onto the bed next to her, wiggling beneath the covers. Quinn's breath stutters in her body when Santana wraps her arms around her, tugging her close. Quinn inhales and then exhales, trying to slow her racing heart.
Santana kisses her on her ear, once, and then lies with their faces close together. Quinn stares at Santana, and it's then that she notices the lights are still on.
"The lights are on," Quinn whispers.
Santana smiles, strokes a hand down the length of Quinn's hair. "I know."
Quinn bites her lip.
Santana kisses her, slowly. Quinn holds her breath, waiting for the flash of heat, the dangerous spark to ignite along her nerves, turning her blood to fire. It doesn't happen. She's too distracted by the galloping of her heart and the copper taste of panic in the back of her throat.
"Santana, I—"
"It's okay," Santana murmurs, almost sweetly. Her eyes are heavy and lidded and dark, and Quinn sees something there she has never seen before. "We can just sleep, Quinn."
"Really?" Quinn feels a flood of relief. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Santana smiles, a full-cheeked smile, and her dimples wink out. Quinn wants to stroke them. Her hand runs the length of Santana's torso, coming to rest easily on her hip.
"You're really a big sweetheart, you know that?" Quinn says quietly.
Santana laughs, and the sound reminds Quinn of windchimes. "Don't tell anyone. You'll ruin my street cred."
Quinn snorts, but she's smiling, too.
They fall asleep like that, Quinn holding Santana close, their faces on the same pillow.
Quinn wakes up with Santana wrapped around her, a leg thrown over her hip, Santana's face nuzzled under her chin. Quinn thinks it's somewhere between dawn and true daylight, and her eyes feel swollen and strange. She's never shared this kind of intimacy with another person, never spent a whole night with her skin sticking to someone else's. She likes the way it feels – how the crooks of Santana smell like sleep, how her hair is wild and fans out from her head in a dark plume. She likes, most of all, the sound of Santana's pulse in the absolute silence.
"I love you," Quinn whispers, and doesn't even know why she's saying it. "I wish I didn't. But I love you."
Quinn never thought she'd ever find love – especially not with someone like Santana Lopez, a girl who, until a week ago, didn't even know her name. Quinn has spent most of her time knowing Santana trying to avoid her, dancing around and dodging her in school, because Santana is known as a bitch to almost everyone. Quinn was just a nobody, is still a nobody; but she loves Santana, even though she has no right or reason to.
How did things change so quickly? When did her life get so messed up?
Santana stirs, making sleepy murmuring noises. Quinn snugs closer to her, hoping to hold onto the last fleeting moments before Santana wakes up. Quinn wishes, futilely, that she could pause this moment, store it somewhere safe.
"Quinn," Santana's voice is scratchy and hoarse. "What time is it? Why are you awake?"
"Shh, go back to sleep," Quinn whispers.
Santana shifts, looks up to Quinn. Her eyes are barely open. "Go to sleep, too."
"Yes," Quinn replies. She shifts her face until she's level with Santana, and then presses their lips together. Santana stirs, her limbs sliding out slowly, and she pulls Quinn even closer. Their tongues meet, and Quinn doesn't even mind that they both taste like sleep; this time, the fire is there, and it fills her up, shooting from her navel to her fingertips. They kiss like that, with their eyes swollen shut, until neither of them can breathe.
When Santana reaches, reaches, and pulls Quinn closer, her hand sliding down and between them, Quinn doesn't stop her.
Instead, when Santana slips into her, she says, "Oh," as if she has been asking a question all her life and never even knew it – and Santana, somehow, provides the answer, and it's so obvious, like Quinn should have known it all along.
It takes her months, but when Quinn finally works up the courage to tell Santana for a second time, "I love you," it's to her face, and Santana is awake.
Santana looks at her with curious eyes, and silence hangs between them for (what feels like to Quinn) the longest moment of her life. Finally, Santana smiles, a full-cheeked smile, the kind that brings her dimples out, and Quinn's heart almost stops when she replies with, "I love you, too."
A/N: Hey, guys. There will be a total of 7 oneshots that are completely unrelated that I'll be publishing beneath this title. I figured it was better than publishing seven different ones. If you want to leave a review, please do so for the corresponding day, so I'll know what the feedback is on. If you follow me on tumblr, we can talk about this and the rest of my fanfiction as well.
I hope everybody likes it! Happy Quinntana week!