A/N- This will be a short thing with about three or four chapters, centered around a Quintana friendship and Faberry relationship eventually. Hope you enjoy!
"Tell me something." She demands in the darkness.
You laugh and roll over to look at the back-lit lump you know is her, Brittany's hair is sticking out bright and blonde from the top of the blanket. You know the tall dancer must be asleep because Santana is running her fingers through her hair so gently, "What do you want to know?"
"Anything." She pauses a moment, "Something about you I don't know already."
"You know everything about me."
"Nobody knows everything about anyone else." She states simply.
You think for a moment, playing with the edge of the blanket, "I'm addicted to peanut butter."
"Invalid, I already knew that."
You huff a sigh of annoyance, the ancient springs of the fold out couch dig into your worn spine, it's the first sleepover since they've let you out of the hospital. The uncomfortable sensation is magnified by your recent surgery but you revel in the pain because it reminds you of being normal and of being able to feel, "I love reading poetry."
"What kind?"
"Any kind. Mainly sad poems."
She laughs, it's light and you can see her shoulders shake with it. It's been ages since you've seen her let go and be so free like this. By ages, you mean it's been since you woke up after your first surgery. She hasn't been this free since she confirmed with her own eyes that you were still living, "Of course." Considering how long you've known each other, this news is no surprise to her.
"Tell me something." You ask quietly.
She doesn't say anything for a few beats and you wonder if she's heard your question, "I believe in love at first sight."
Before you can contain it, you're asking in your signature smart-ass style, "What about blind people?"
She answers with a smack on your arm, "Tell me something."
"I don't believe in ghosts."
She hums her agreement.
"Tell me something."
"I used to be a brat."
"You still are."
This time you avoid her slap but catch her laughter full force, "Tell me something."
You rub your left foot gingerly over your right ankle as you contemplate your next words, "I used to cut myself."
She doesn't move- you're not even sure if she's still breathing. You know you're not, "Where?"
"On my ankles mainly, but a few times on my hips and the tops of my thighs."
Her hand snakes from it's place on Brittany's back over the top of the blanket looking for yours and when she finds it, she doesn't hold it. Instead she rests hers over yours gently like you'll break if she pushes too hard. You might.
"Thank you."
"For what?" You can't imagine why she'd be thankful after what you've just unloaded on her.
"Telling me."
Your lungs burn in the good way. You never thought there would be a good way again after you felt what the bad way was like in the hospital when you woke up after surgery. But slowly, bit by bit, day by day, you've been moving on and growing stronger.
Every other day Santana has been making you go running with her. Today is Saturday and you've just made it six and a half miles- a personal record since the accident. You collapse in a heap on the soft grass of the park next to your house.
Her laughter is easily distinctive behind you and you throw up you fist, middle finger proudly sticking out.
"That's not a nice gesture, Quinnie."
"My body is on fire. I simultaneously can't feel anything and can feel everything at the same time. Is that normal?"
"No." She laughs and lays down next to you, one arm thrown easily behind her head- she is barely sweating and you hate her for it.
"Tell me something." You ask. You just want to be distracted, but this has become your way of communicating. Small truths exchanged one for one.
She brushes her bangs back and furrows her brow in thought, "I've only ever punched three people." This surprises you, sure you knew she wasn't as big of a bitch as she let on, but you thought that she'd gotten into it with more people than that, "That can't be right."
"Yeah. There was that boy the day we met in elementary school, then in middle school a kid who tried to pick a fight with me, and then Karofsky when he slushied Brittany our freshman year."
"But you've slapped me at least five times."
"I said punched, I lost count of open handed hits a long time ago."
You laugh, that makes sense, "Gotcha."
"Tell me something."
"I don't believe in marriage."
"What? Quinn, the closeted hopeless romantic doesn't believe in marriage! Has the world tipped on it's axis?"
"The world is naturally tilted."
She flicks your arm playfully, "Not the point blondie. Explain."
You roll over on your stomach with a groan, "It's just such an archaic gesture. I mean it's the root of a male dominated society to begin with. Besides, mature adults don't need a piece of paper or a ring to prove their dedication. That's just as insecure as a pinky promise."
"Who kicked your puppy?" She asks rhetorically.
"Shut it. Tell me something." You prop your head on your hands to fix her with a proper stare, arching your eyebrow in your signature style.
"I actually like the movie Rent."
"Knew it!"
She looks genuinely surprised that you're not surprised, "How?"
"It's the only movie you didn't threaten to punch Rachel if she made us watch it at the last Glee bonding night." You remind her.
"Oh right. Tell me something."
You take a deep breath, what you want to say had been burning a hole in your throat for the last eighteen years, "My mom- she's a." You stop and try to figure out the words.
Santana scoots over and wraps an arm around your shoulders, you relax into the embrace, "You can do it, Q." You wonder how long it's been since she found out, because she must already know. From how much time she spent at your house ever since you were kids, there's no way she doesn't know.
"Judy's an alcoholic."
She doesn't say anything, just rubs her hand up your arm gently. You don't realize it until she goes to pull you up, but you've been crying, "Come on, let's get an ice-cream and watch Rent."