Disclaimer: Still don't own Glee. Ryan Murphy's ignoring my letters asking for control of the show...
Author's note: Sorry it's taken so long! Holidays are hectic and then I re-wrote the entire middle third several times because I'm fussy with my own work... Anyway, enjoy!
"Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"
Santana groaned as she was dragged back to consciousness and slid a hand from beneath the covers to switch off the alarm, silencing the shrill recording of Brittany's voice (one of the blonde's various attempts at helping her girlfriend overcome her hatred of mornings). Gritting her teeth, she threw back the covers and clambered out of bed tiredly, a yawn escaping her lips; she hadn't slept well at all, her night plagued by dreams of being left behind by Brittany and their friends, excluded from their successful lives. And now, just to make everything that little bit worse, on the one morning this week she could have slept in (she'd been covering as many shifts as possible recently so she could spend more time with Brittany once she returned), not due into work until midday, she'd forgotten to change her alarm from its usual setting of 7:30am.
"Just fucking perfect," she muttered bitterly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she made her way to the bathroom, ignoring her laptop as it sat in Brittany's pillow. Her clothes were tossed unceremoniously into a heap in the corner of the bathroom before she climbed into the shower, slamming the door shut behind her. There was, after all, no blonde to worry about waking.
Damp hair tied into a messy bun, the brunette trudged into the kitchen, feet instinctively carrying her to the coffee machine perched on the counter (handed over by her father with a knowing look the day they moved into their first apartment) as her brain struggled to pull itself from its early morning fog without the aid of caffeine. She glanced around the kitchen as the machine whirred, frowning at the mess scattered over the counters, the plates stacked precariously next to the sink and the embarrassingly large quantity of empty bottles next to the bin. Her liver ached just looking at them.
High school Santana would have been impressed.
She stacked the dishwasher between sips of coffee, a look of disgust etched onto her face at the state of some the plates. Brittany would have been horrified, obsessed as she was with having a clean kitchen, but Santana had found herself becoming less preoccupied with trivial things like hygiene during her girlfriend's absence. If anything, a colony of bacteria would have provided some company in the lonely apartment. Still, her early wake-up provided the perfect opportunity to clean the kitchen before tonight; it was her turn to host the weekly drinks night with Quinn and Rachel (rarely the same night two weeks running due Santana's job at the bar), a tradition she'd clung to fiercely in Brittany's absence, and she really wasn't in the mood to deal with a lecture on cleanliness from Quinn (she still blamed the journalist for her girlfriend's obsession), or pitying looks of understanding from Rachel. Draining the last of what promised to be the first of many cups this morning, she pulled on one of Brittany's jumpers before taking out the trash, her residual frustration over the previous night's ruined Skype call worked out as she forced it down the chute.
Kicking the front door shut behind her, Santana fetched her laptop and the post she'd collected last night before returning to the kitchen, perching on a kitchen stool as she poured herself another cup of coffee, slightly larger than the last at the sight of several thick bills. She'd never realised just how much of her adult life would be spent giving other people her money; not for the first time, she found herself wishing she was back in high school as she sorted the bills into two piles, those that needed paying immediately and those that could wait. Several envelopes were addressed to Brittany, invitations to important parties judging by their fancy designs; presumably the dancer's name was once again being included in guest lists now she was due back in the country. Though the brunette knew she would be Brittany's plus one to each of the events, she couldn't stop the pangs of jealousy that rushed through her as she set the envelopes aside, annoyed that her girlfriend had neglected to mention them (the postal invitations were merely a chance for the hosts to show off, guests aware they were invited weeks in advance); Brittany withholding things because she feared Santana's reaction hurt more than the pitying of the former Glee club members, while simultaneously wracking her with guilt over every stab of envy.
She sighed heavily, her focus drifting from the post to her laptop as she opened her emails, hoping Brittany had found the time to send her a short message. Disappointment coursed through her once the page loaded, her inbox filled with the usual mix of spam, email subscriptions and messages from friends but empty of any contact from the blonde. Sipping her coffee, she began to make her way through them: six emails with the word 'Viagra' in the subject box, all deleted quickly with a small snort; another message from Puck asking to sleep on their couch (no, she wrote back, not after I woke up to you fucking some redhead on my couch the last time you stayed); two emails from Quinn containing links to articles she thought the Latina would find interesting; and one from Rachel about the latest animal welfare campaign she was involved in. Santana had learnt to delete those emails immediately after she was somehow bullied into spending an entire day handing out leaflets in Central Park at the height of summer last year...
Dressed as a whale.
The diminutive singer had bought Santana drinks for an entire month to make up for it.
Lifting her arms above her head, she stretched out the remaining stiffness in her back as her eyes scanned the rest of her emails before stopping at one from Mercedes sent yesterday, her interest sufficiently piqued by the words 'New song, Satan!' in the subject box to open it.
Hi, Satan. How's things? And when is that dancer of yours back in the country?! I've attached the file of a new song I recorded this week. You know the drill, I won't approve it until I hear what you think... Where would I be without your brutally honest critique? Much love, W x
Santana chuckled, still amused that Mercedes signed off her emails as Wheezy. She appreciated every time the singer involved her in her career, touched by how much her opinions (both positive and negative) were valued. It had led to quite the argument between Mercedes and her record label during the release of her first album; her management felt that a dedication to Satan on the album sleeve didn't portray the best image to her fan base... In fact, she appreciated everything the diva was doing for her, her jealousy tamped down through gratitude. She knew, through Brittany, that Mercedes showed her managers videos of Santana performing as often as she could, but unfortunately she didn't yet have enough clout at the label, despite the success of her debut record, to secure anything for the brunette.
Turning up the volume on her laptop, Santana opened the file, frowning after the first few seconds. This was much more mechanical-sounding than what she was expecting, more akin to the dubstep craze of their senior year than Mercedes' usual soulful style...and, was that the sound of water in the background? She wondered briefly if the singer had attached the wrong file before deciding to close and reopen it, suspecting it just hadn't loaded correctly. Her frown deepened when the sound didn't disappear once she closed the file, and her eyes flicked around the kitchen in search of the source.
"Shit!" she shouted, slipping off her stool as her eyes widened in panic at the flood of water spreading across the floor from the dishwasher. She stumbled to the machine on shaky legs, curses slipping through her lips in both Spanish and English as she switched it off, before she hurried to her bedroom to grab some dirty towels to soak up the mess. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes once they were laid down, a lump forming in her throat; her hands flew to her mouth just as the first sob escaped and her shoulders shook as her tears began to fall. What was this? She shouldn't be dealing with broken dishwashers while most of her friends enjoyed their success. She shouldn't have to debate who to call first, the repairman or one of the jobs she so desperately needed to keep to tell them she would be late. She shouldn't need to worry about what Brittany was doing right now, whether she would be free to transfer some money into their joint account just so Santana could pay to have the stupid machine fixed... What had happened to her life?
"It's open!" Santana called at the knocking on the front door, nodding in greeting at Quinn and Rachel as the couple stepped inside before continuing to slice limes in the kitchen. The hosts always decided the drinks, and she had a rather nice bottle of tequila (a gift from her boss at the bar after she volunteered to clean up on Monday morning after a private function the night before) just waiting to be opened...
Tossing their coats onto the dining table, the two made their way to the kitchen area, Rachel dropping a grocery bag filled with snacks on the counter while Quinn searched the cupboards for bowls.
"Shit, S, what happened? Did someone with OCD break in?" she asked with a chuckle, emptying several packs of crisps into the bowls. "I've not seen the kitchen so clean in months..."
"Rachel," Santana muttered in a bored tone, absently throwing a lime at Quinn, which the former cheerleader caught with a smirk, "kindly tell your girlfriend that if she says one more word about my kitchen, I'll sneak whiskey into all her drinks tonight...we all know how well that ends." The shorter brunette rolled her eyes, her amusement betrayed by the small smile playing about her lips. Though she'd initially been shocked by how harsh the two seemed to be with each other, she'd soon learnt that bickering and light-hearted teasing comprised a large part of the pair's interactions. Her respect for Brittany had grown tenfold after seeing the two together and learning to tell when they were truly angry with each other; she'd never understand how the dancer coped during their vicious and spiteful high school years.
"Now now, Santana, you know better than to involve me in your childish squabbling. Honestly, it's like Brittany and I are your mothers, not your girlfriends," she scolded playfully, carrying the tequila and glasses through to the living room at the Latina's silent request. "And you know I should be saving my voice, what with opening night coming in little over a week, not straining it to make myself heard over you two."
Pulling open the fridge, Santana rolled her eyes at the latest mention of Rachel's new show. She understood the Jewish girl was excited ("You only debut on Broadway once, Santana."), and was secretly proud of the girl who'd wormed her way into her life, yet the constant reminders were both tiring and jealousy-inducing; she must have heard about the show at least twice a day for the past six weeks. Santana could only assume it was a near-constant topic of conversation in the Fabray-Berry household, though she knew Quinn was too whipped to say anything.
Not that she was in any position to gloat. One pout from Brittany had had her standing in the rain for six hours to buy tickets for Britney Spears's latest comeback tour.
(Neither Santana nor Quinn knew that their girlfriends had begun a secret competition over what they could get their girlfriends to do. The Britney tickets had put the dancer in the lead.)
"Alright then, bitches," Santana began, setting down the ingredients for margaritas and a cocktail shaker on the coffee table before she flopped onto the sofa, proceeding to pour out a shot of tequila for each of them. "I've had to deal with a broken dishwasher and two would-be shoplifters today, and I haven't held my girlfriend in four months, so drinks night has officially begun!"
Glasses long abandoned, Santana took a swig from the near-empty bottle before passing it to Quinn, sprawled across the other half of the sofa, as she lazily flicked through TV channels, settling on a programme for only a few minutes before moving. The blonde nudged her when a fashion show flickered onto the screen, drunkenly judging other people's clothes a favourite past time for the two.
"Ooh, this reminds me, Santana!" Rachel squealed excitedly, perking up from her position slumped on the other couch (she never had learnt to handle her alcohol). "Have you decided what you're going to wear to my opening night? After all, it's most important to look at one's best on nights such as these, and you don't want to be caught out if you happen to be included in any photos with me."
"Shut up, Berry," she replied shortly, her patience waning with the short diva. Rachel had somehow managed to relate nearly every conversation topic to her impending debut and only a sense of gratitude to Quinn for the past few months had prevented her from snapping.
"I was also wondering where you would like me to leave your tickets..."
"Rachel," Quinn cut in warningly, her eyes fixed on the developing scowl on Santana's face.
"...at the theatre, or would you prefer if I brought them here? I know you have quite a busy work schedule..." Santana clenched her fists, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "...so it would probably be easier if I brought them here. Plus, I'd hate for there to be a mix up at the box office and for you and Brittany to not receive your tickets. I don't know if you realise, but it's going to be very popular, so there will most likely be a lot of confusion in the office..."
"I said shut the fuck up, Berry!" she spat harshly, fists still tightly clenched as she glared at the other brunette. Quinn sat silently, her gaze flickering between the two, as though she was unsure who she needed to drag out the room. "Are you fucking incapable of talking about something that isn't your goddamn show, or are you really still that self-involved? Yes, I know how popular your show is going to be, because you keep fucking telling me about it!" She shrugged Quinn's calming hand off her shoulder as she pushed herself up and began to pace jerkily back and forth, the dam holding back her torrent of emotions finally broken.
"Christ, I'm happy for you, but do you ever stop to fucking think that it might be hard for me to hear about your 'unparalleled' success? No, you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't fucking go on about it all the time...you wouldn't forward me every single damn article about it, or links to every interview you do! My inbox is full with shit from you about your play...articles from Quinn by her fancy journo friends...recordings of Mercedes' latest songs...invitations to film festivals to watch screenings of Artie's film, or videos of Mike's latest performances, and maybe, if I'm lucky, a message from my girlfriend from wherever the fuck she happens to be at the time! God, I might as well just have fifteen messages telling me I'm a failure, because that's what they're all saying anyway..." Hot tears were slipping down her cheeks by this point, but she made no move to wipe them away, her fists clenched too tightly at her sides. Rachel looked shell-shocked, her eyes wide as she sat frozen on the sofa, while Quinn had stood up, watching the Latina closely, but seemed wary of approaching her.
"San, you're not a..."
"Don't finish that sentence, Q," she interrupted bitterly, her gaze drifting from Rachel to land on a photo of herself and Brittany on the wall. "Don't finish it, because I don't want to hear you lying to me... We all know I'm a failure. I'm working three shitty jobs and spend most of my time being ordered around by rude customers, and I'm about as far away from being able to change that as Puckerman is from settling down. Poor old Santana Lopez, hey, can't get a singing gig anywhere, clinging to the coat tails of her talented, successful friends and girlfriend." She sighed heavily, anger seeping out of her body at the thought of Brittany, and shook her head, further tears slipping out. She opened her mouth to speak once more before closing it, shaking her head at the other two women before she spun on her heel and hurried for her bedroom; locking the door behind her, she slid down it to rest on the floor and pressed her face to her knees, hoping to stifle the sounds of her cries.
Back in the living room, Quinn sighed, dragging a hand though her hair as she stared in the direction the Latina had disappeared. Throwing her phone to Rachel with the instruction to call a cab, she set about cleaning the living room, internally debating whether to tell Brittany about her girlfriend's meltdown; she didn't want to worry the girl while she couldn't be there to do anything, but at the same time, if the situation was reversed...
"Cab will be here in five minutes," Rachel murmured softly as she shut the fridge, deciding she would tell Brittany, but not until the blonde returned. Nodding, she sighed at the unshed tears glistening her girlfriend's eyes and walked over to press a kiss to her forehead.
"It's not your fault, you were just the...the breaking point," she said gently, brushing back Rachel's hair. At her girlfriend's nod, she kissed her forehead again before heading towards the bedroom, knocking softly on the door to alert the Latina to her presence.
"Santana," she murmured, wincing as the muffled sound of a sob travelled through the door. "I love you, okay, I'm a bitch and I've known you since we were thirteen, so you know I'll always tell you the truth... You are nota failure, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me. You didn't let me think it in high school, so I'm not gonna let you now."
Santana choked slightly on her tears, the lump in her throat growing with her best friend's words. She made no attempt to reply, and heard Quinn leave after a few seconds, followed by the distant sound of the front door closing, but knew the blonde realised she appreciated it. Brushing away the worst of her tears, she pushed herself up and stumbled over to the bed, not bothering to change into her pyjamas before she slid beneath the covers, pulling them over her head as if that could block out the memory of the disastrous end to the night. At the back of her mind, the brunette knew Brittany would be waiting by her laptop for their daily call, but for the first time in four months, she was happy to avoid talking to her girlfriend.
The insistent sound of her buzzer echoed throughout the quiet apartment, drawing Santana's attention away from her phone as she typed out a message; she and Brittany had been trading texts all day, since Santana had sent her girlfriend an apology text on her way to work that morning. Clambering up from the position on the sofa she'd flopped into as soon as she returned home mid-afternoon, she walked over to her door and stabbed the answer button viciously.
"Who is it?" she asked tetchily (unsurprisingly, she'd earned less tips than normal that day).
"It's, uh, it's me...Rachel," came the crackly reply, a scowl immediately painting itself across Santana's face at the response.
"If you've come to give me the tickets for your show, Berry, you can fuck off..."
"No, I've not...I'm not here for that, I just...please, can you just let me up?"
She debated saying no, or better yet, just leaving the diva out in the cold to figure it out for herself, but decided that if she'd made the journey over here to apologise, she could at least try to hear her out. She had, after all, matured greatly since high school. Buzzing the main door open for Rachel, she finished her message to Brittany before pulling open the door at Rachel's knock, stepping aside silently to let the shorter brunette in.
"So..." she began slowly after Rachel, perched cautiously in the edge of the sofa, made no move to speak, hoping it would jolt her into revealing why she'd come.
"Oh, right...I, uh, I just came to say two things, Santana. Firstly, I wanted to apologise. You were right, it's been incredibly self-centred of me to keep on about my show...I was only doing it because I'm excited, but looking back I can see why it sounded like showing off. I never meant to make you feel inferior in any way, you have to know that...I don't think you're a failure, not at all. In fact, and I really hope I don't come across as condescending here, my respect and admiration for you has done nothing but grow over the past few years..."
Santana nodded, forcing a tight smile to show she accepted the apology. "And the second thing?"
Rachel mirrored her nod, pulling a sheet of paper from her pocket and setting it down on the coffee table. "Okay...remember senior year and how much fun West Side Story was?" At Santana's nod, she ploughed on. "Well, I found out that the director with whom I did my first ever show, Gregory Matheron, is doing a West Side Story revival of sorts, using all the same music, but adapting it to a modern setting. He was happy enough to send me through all the audition details when I mentioned I might know someone who was interested," she explained, pointing at the sheet of paper on the table.
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying, Santana, you should audition. You were fantasticwhen we did it before and Matheron has a history of casting relative unknowns. I know you never planned to go into musicals, Santana, but...I think you should at least try. Who knows what might happen?"
Santana nodded dumbly, eyes darting between the paper and Rachel as she ignored the buzzing of her phone, before a thought occurred to her. "I...I can't, Rae, I have work..."
"Auditions are Monday afternoon, and I know you don't work then. I told him that you may turn up, but it's up to you, I'm not pressuring you. Just...promise me you'll think about it?" she asked, drawing her coat around her as she stood to leave. Santana was in shock, the possibilities offered by that scrap of paper racing through her mind. Yes, there was every chance nothing would come of it, but if Rachel thought she was good enough...
"Thank you," she muttered softly, drawing the shorter woman into a tight hug, pulling back a few moments later with a flush on her cheeks and a lump in her throat.
"Don't thank me...just think about it." Rachel smiled and walked to the front door, glancing briefly back at Santana before she left, closing the door quietly behind her as she left the Latina to contemplate the possibility of another chance.
Author's note: So, what do you think? Just one more part to go after this!