Santana thinks something is up when she sees a crumpled red sweater with a fucking swan outline on it under Quinn's bed. But when Quinn does that shifty-eyed, lip bite thing she always does when confronted, Santana knows.
"Don't give me the seduction technique, Quinnie." Santana huffs, poised over the porcelain sink, eyeing you applying eye-liner. A jolt of anxiety shoots through you, fingers quivering and creating a smudge on your left lid.
"Shit, Tan. Look what you made me do."You move to run a wet paper towel under the jets of the sink, but Santana pushes herself against it, blocking you. "Confess." She trills, her eyes lighting up in that oddly sexy evil mastermind way. You have to look away for a moment.
"Stop giving me your queen bitch eyes." You complain, clenching and unclenching the paper towel in your hand. "My makeup is at stake."
"Grow up, Lucy." Santana ices, and you know she's not playing around. You both know just how fucking banned that name is, you laid down the law the first time she found out about it. And you know she remembers. You smirk, because if she wants to hurt you this bad, then your little "thing" with Berry-sorry, Rachel- must be killing her. And you plan to draw out the process. You give your best country club shrug and retort "Sorry, I hit my growth spurt at thirteen." You pause and add in an innocent hair toss for good measure.
"It shows." Santana snaps, but the corners of her lips quirk upwards on the last syllable.
"It's about to." You giggle, attempting to push past her. She slaps your back in retaliation, but it proves to be feeble.
"Ha!" You gloat, tossing a little water on her just to rub salt.
"Look-" She starts, in that somber way that entails a serious talk. Luckily, the bell is on your side and you know that if Santana is late to Econ again Mr. Belfry will for sure write her up. So she scampers without so much as a good-bye, ponytail swinging.
"You can come out of the stall now." You croon, hearing a sigh of relief as a response.
"Thank God." Rachel mutters, emerging from the stall. "Do you know how hard it is to stand on an automatic toilet in wedges? I'd complain, of course, but tight spaces are common on the Broadway stage-" You can't stand anymore blathering, especially because it entails watching her lips and not, you know, kissing them. So you latch onto the nape of her neck, and kiss her. As it deepens, you make a point of shoving her against the sink, and sweeping your fingers through her hair, ten pale pink fingernails entwining with her jet black locks. And juuuuust as your fingers fall from her hair and start their way down the scratchy plaid example of colorblindness she had the audacity to call a skirt, some one intrudes.
"Fuck." Rachel whispers. And you watch her lips.
"A-ha!" Santana cries, brandishing her hall pass like a weapon. You make show of rolling your eyes, but press knuckles to your cheeks to stop the flushing.
"Don't freak." You croak. Damn, you were hoping it would sound more like an order.
"San-Santana, how did you find out?" Rachel stutters, wounded deer expression on full blast.
"Don't worry, it had to do with the loudness of that 'which should not be legally deemed an outfit', not your incessant mouth-breathing."
"Which is weird, considering the schnozz." You inject, immediately feeling the sting of Rachel's pained look. "Sorry. Old habits die hard." You explain, crinkling your nose. Santana lets out a low whistle.
"Y'all need more help than I thought." Santana observes, bugging her eyes. "Come to Auntie Tana my sapphic sweeties."
You both roll your eyes, a silent forgiveness, solidarity.
"Ugh. Don't roll your dough-eyed orbs at me." Santana snarls. "Come here, Pressed-Comma-Lemon. Wanna sit on my lap?" She raises her eyebrow. After a tepid pause, Rachel tentatively steps forward. You grab her back.
"The hell, Rach?" You hiss.
"Well, um, this is new territory for me, for us! Santana is a seasoned veteran of-of lady love."
Santana arched a painted brow. "That is a new one."
"Ugh!" You shriek. You so did not feel like bearing your soul in a claustrophobia-inducing ladies room to your pushy-in-a-cute-way girlfriend and pushy-in-a-not-so-cute-way best friend. A title that was quickly becoming obsolete. But if going with the flow meant listening to the two most important people in your life ramble about 'foundations' and 'processing' and 'the most seamless way to move from making out to sex' then you will bite the bullet.
Plus, knowing Rachel, it might end in a sing-off.
Both sets of eyes are on you after your crass outburst. Santana does her familiar 'I got my way' smirk, while Rachel's features contort into confused sympathy. She wears it softly.
"Let's get this over with." You mutter, pressing your lips together. You and Rachel each plant on the row of porcelain sinks at your disposal.
Santana watches, eyeing her newest victims.
"I'm here to help." She drawls.