The door slamming startles Rachel out of sleep, and she blinks at the ceiling, listening as someone moves around the apartment. It's still light outside, but she has two weeks of winter break left, and if storing up sleep is something people can do, she's going to try her best. Besides, her parents gifted her with some amazing new sheets for Hanukkah, and she's making the most of them.
Whoever it is, banging about in the kitchen, they sound angry, and she kicks off the covers and pulls on a pair of sweats. She pokes her head between the sheets to find Santana angrily stabbing some tuna with a fork.
Santana's completely obsessed with canned tuna, and Kurt made a joke about it that she didn't get until Santana explained, and then she helped Santana chase him around the apartment and hold him down while Santana covered his face in lipstick. He deserved it, for being so disgusting. New York has been a bad influence on him.
She hovers in the gap for a moment, watching Santana scrape at the edges of the tin. "Are you okay?"
Santana jumps, turning to glare at Rachel. "God, lurk much? And I'm fine," she snaps, then shoves the fork into her mouth. "Just peachy."
"Um, okay," Rachel says uncertainly.
Sometimes she still doesn't know how to talk to Santana, and only part of that is out of a lingering fear that Santana actually has a Rachel voodoo doll like she says she does. It's just hard to tell with Santana if she wants you to leave her alone or make a big fuss.
She's about to retreat back to her room when Santana slams the container in her hand down on the bench.
"I went on an audition," Santana says flatly.
"Oh my god, why didn't you say so?" Rachel says, coming over to the kitchen. "Was it amazing? What was it for? Did they tear you to shreds? I bet they tore you to shreds."
"This—" Santana waves her hand at Rachel, "—is the answer to your first question." She tosses her fork into the sink and storms off in the direction of her room.
"Wait," Rachel cries, and grabs Santana's arm. "Wait. I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry." She takes a breath, indicating she's calmed down—even if a first audition is something to be excited about! "Tell me how it went."
"Terribly," Santana sniffs. She pulls her arm from Rachel's grip and moves to sit on the couch, angrily tossing a cushion aside.
"What happened?" She perches beside Santana, biting her lip to reign in any further questions. It was obviously a disaster, but those make for some of the best theater stories. Maybe one day she'll tell this story in an interview, when people ask her about her equally famous, and only slightly less talented, former roommate.
"Nothing!" Santana huffs. "That's the problem. I got up there, sang like three lines, and that was it. That was it!"
"That's all?" Rachel's face pulls into a confused frown. "What else were you expecting?"
"I-" Santana stammers, "I don't know! Some kind of feedback?"
"In the first round? Sweetie, that's not how auditions work."
Santana sighs, and Rachel feels bad for her. She has no idea what she's doing, but Rachel doesn't think Santana would welcome being told that. "I'm sure you were fine, and they were just looking for something different."
"Yeah, maybe," Santana glowers. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about it."
…
"This show is dumb," Rachel pouts. She and Santana thumb wrestled for what they would watch, and Santana cheated so now they're watching old Law & Order SVU episodes.
Santana pauses, hand full of popcorn halfway to her mouth. "If you say that one more time, I'm going to swap all your tea leaves around in their containers."
"You wouldn't!" Rachel gasps. "You know how important tea is to my vocal care routine. Something you should be implementing, I might add."
Santana scoops up another handful of popcorn, tossing a couple of pieces at Rachel. "Can you please stop with that, you're not my mother."
"Thank god," Rachel rolls her eyes, even as she picks up the pieces of popcorn before they get lost in the blankets they're sharing. "And I'll stop if you tell me why we're watching this. I appreciate a local New York production as much as anyone, and as the last remaining Law & Order I hope it survives long enough for me to land a guest role, but this is so dated, and not in a classic way."
Santana replies around a mouthful of popcorn, Rachel only catching something about glasses, and possibly 'objection, your honor', before Santana's distracted by something happening on screen.
"Wait a second," Rachel cries, "we're watching this so you can perv on that district attorney lady?"
"Assistant District Attorney," Santana mumbles, "and no, not for that!"
"Yes it is!" Rachel laughs, and it only increases when Santana actually goes so far as to toss her hair, crossing her arms as she turns back towards the tv.
"Is not," Santana grumps, her foot nudging against Rachel's shin beneath the blankets.
"Is, too!" Rachel tosses back, toeing Santana's leg in return.
Santana lazily pushes her foot against Rachel's leg. "Stop it!"
"You stop it first," Rachel says, trying to get a better angle to actually kick at Santana's leg. "You started it!"
"And now I'm finishing it," Santana replies, reaching under the blanket and grabbing at Rachel's foot.
"No!" she squeals, kicking away as Santana tries to get a hold of her foot. She's incredibly ticklish and Santana can't discover that, although she may have just given herself away with her reaction.
Thankfully, she's saved by the sound of a key in the lock, followed by Kurt's head poking around the door.
"Is someone being murdered?"
"No," Santana says, smug grin in place. "But apparently someone is ticklish."
"Oh, I could have told you that," Kurt says, dragging his suitcase inside. "Finn used to— I mean..."
There's an awkward moment where Kurt tries to look fascinated by the inside of his carry bag.
"How was Finn, anyway?" Rachel asks after a moment. She doesn't want it to be awkward that Kurt's basically her ex's brother. Not that wanting it will make it that way; if that were true she'd have been plucked from her first class at NYADA to star in a revival of Funny Girl, and obviously that didn't happen.
"He's okay," Kurt says, but he says it in a way that Rachel knows he's lying. Finn's either perfectly fine or he's completely miserable, and she thinks it shows some personal growth that she hopes it's the first.
She doesn't have anything else to say to that, so she turns back to Santana. "So explain to me what's going on with this Assistant District Attorney and Olivia."
…
…
Their waitress has just set down their grilled cheese - with bacon for Santana, vegan cheese for Rachel, and god she loves New York - when Santana clears her throat.
"I enrolled in some singing lessons."
"Oh, that's fantastic," Rachel replies, genuinely pleased. She's been telling Santana she should, but she didn't think she was getting anywhere. Apparently Santana does listen to her occasionally.
"I might have lied a tiny bit on my application," Santana continues. "So you're gonna have to teach me actual shit about breath control."
She opens her mouth to snap that Santana could have learnt that sort of thing a million times over by now. But she swallows it down, telling herself that it doesn't matter that she's been trying for three years to teach Santana exactly that, it only matters that she's finally willing to learn.
"Okay," she says, "But my lessons aren't free."
"Are you serious?" Santana says, outraged, around a mouthful of food.
"My price is," she draws the word out, "you have to come to a show with me. Once a week until you start your actual lessons."
She's mostly been going alone. Kurt comes with her when he can swing the money and the time, and sometimes a group of people from school go together, and that's fine, but it would be nice to have someone come along regularly. And Santana needs the exposure; she's woefully unschooled in musical theater for someone who apparently wants to work in it. She's never even watched the Tony Awards.
"That—" Santana starts, but nothing follows. She frowns, taking another bite of her grilled cheese and swallowing it before she says anything else. "Deal."
Of course it's a deal, Rachel thinks, who would say no to theater once a week?
"Okay, let's make like Linda Lovelace and blow," Santana says as she counts out an exact tip and then drops an extra two dollars on top. "I gotta stop at the bodega and buy scandalous things that Kurt will not approve of."
…
…
"Pick a song already!" Rachel yells, not letting the drink straw in her mouth get in the way of letting Kurt know exactly how displeased she is. "Your final audition is on Monday!"
"I know," comes Kurt's reply from somewhere on the other side of the apartment.
"Do you really? Because you haven't done anything, and it's three days away."
There's no reply, and then Kurt appears in her doorway.
"You're not going to get in if you leave it to the last minute," she sighs, curling up on her side. "And then I'll be there all alone forever."
"Um," Kurt bites at his lip, and just like that she knows what he's about to say.
"No!" she cries, sitting up and almost spilling her drink. "You can't!"
"I'm sorry," Kurt says, rushing over to the bed. "I just— I don't want that anymore. I love my job at Vogue, and Isabelle thinks I have a real talent. I'd be crazy to blow this opportunity!"
"But we were supposed to do this together!" she says, and Kurt takes her glass to put down somewhere as she feels her eyes start to burn.
But we have a plan! And it's been rewritten and reworked so many times now it barely even looks like the same piece of paper they started on, and maybe it's better, this new version of whatever it is they're doing, but what if they move too far away from the plan and it all falls to pieces?
She scrambles onto her knees, her hands tight around Kurt's arms. "Why can't you do both?" she asks, blinking furiously. "That was your plan, wasn't it? You should do both! You don't want to close any options off to yourself so quickly!"
This is insane. Kurt's just being impulsive, and she has to stop him before he throws everything away. Otherwise he's going to ruin everything; why can't he see that?
"But I don't want to," Kurt says, extricating himself from Rachel's grip to pull her into a hug. "And if I change my mind, NYADA will always be there. Mandy Patinkin was 28 when he won his first Tony, and that's very young."
"But we were supposed to do this together," she chokes out, Kurt's shirt growing damp from her tears.
"I know. But how about we make this a little less about you right now, and a little more about me, sweetie," Kurt says, not without affection.
She sniffles into his chest, trying not to think about the last time Kurt wasn't going to NYADA. She's going to have to tell her therapist about this. "Sorry," she says, wiping at her eyes. "I think you're going to make a wonderful designer."
"Thank you," Kurt says, twisting a lock of her hair between his fingers. "And you'll be fine without me."
"No I won't," she pouts, watching him play with her hair.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but you've been doing this alone for a whole semester already. And you've been more than fine."
…
"I told you!" Santana cackles, and Rachel throws the piece of apple in her hand at Santana before storming out of the apartment.
…
It's still cold outside, and even though she's mad—and it's not really at Santana, but she can't be mad at Kurt for following his heart, so Santana it is—she only goes to the corner of the block and back.
If you rattle the door to their building hard enough, it opens without a key, and as she's unsuccessfully trying to do so, it opens from the inside and she stumbles forward, catching herself on the person in front of her.
"You forgot your coat," Santana says, standing there in her pajamas and uggs, her own coat tossed on over the top. She holds out Rachel's coat, the long black one, not the short grey one, and Rachel grasps it without thinking.
"Thanks." She doesn't put it on, though, instead pushes them both back through the door into the little foyer.
Rachel's about to head up the stairs, but Santana's voice stops her. "I'm sorry."
"Really? Why?"
Santana fidgets with the sleeve of her coat, refusing to meet Rachel's eyes, and she rolls her own, becauseexactly. Santana doesn't know when to stop, doesn't have any idea how—
"I'm sorry I made light of your feelings," she says, face turning up to look at Rachel. "I didn't mean to, really. It's just—" She shrugs, eyes darting around the small space. "Look, not to be all Doctor Phil levels of self-awareness, but sometimes I say the opposite of what I mean."
Rachel glares, biting her tongue.
"What I meant was I think it sucks your plans with Kurt are going down the crapper because he wants to be Coco Chanel instead of Zsa Zsa Gabor."
Somewhere in there Santana means well; it may have even been sweet. It doesn't mean she's ready to stop being angry, but she can save that for later. It's not really Santana she's angry at, after all.
"I wish I had a Santana to Human dictionary," she sighs, sitting down on the stairs.
Santana leans against the banister, staring into the middle distance for a moment. "You should ask Brittany. I think she had one."
They don't talk about Brittany. They don't talk about Blaine or Finn, really, either, but not as much as they don't talk about Brittany. She can't really imagine what it must be like to break up with someone because you love them too much, but she thinks Santana bringing her up is a good sign, though she's got no idea of what.
"Do you think she'd let me borrow it?" Rachel asks with a forced lightness, getting to her feet and heading up the stairs.
"Probably," Santana replies, following behind. "Then again, she spoke Santana and I ended up falling in love with her. Might want to rethink that."
"I'll be very careful," Rachel says dryly, and lets them back into the apartment.
…
…
"What's wrong with you? Stop touching me." Santana slaps Rachel's hands away from her.
Rachel dodges her, covering Santana's mouth with her hand. "Breathe," she demands, ignoring Santana's gloss-wet lips against her palm, because she thinks she's onto something.
They've been working on Santana's breathing for three weeks—only her breathing; Santana refuses to sing for her—and her lessons start on Monday. They've seen Chicago because Santana had never seen it on stage and that had to be rectified immediately, some avant garde... something that neither of them liked, and they're going to see Once on Wednesday night.
Santana glares but inhales through her nose, exhales, and inhales again. Rachel can't believe it's taken her this long to work out Santana's breathing problem.
"Oh my god, this is why you snore!"
Santana jerks her head away, her face doing that scrunchy thing that's not at all as intimidating as Santana seems to think it is. "I do not snore!"
Rachel bites at her lips, desperately trying not to laugh at Santana's indignation, because she knows she's right. Santana does snore, quietly, all night long. She and Kurt stood in the living area silently "oh my god!"-ing at each other when it first started. Her daddy does it, too, for the exact same reason, at the exact same time of year.
"Okay, if I snored, which I don't," Santana says, glaring at Rachel, "what's the reason?"
Rachel swallows down her laughter. "I'm pretty sure you have allergies."
"I do not! Allergies are for— nerds!"
Rachel pats Santana's arm, a comforting look fighting with a smirk. "Sweetie, you were in glee club. You're trying to break into musical theater—"
"Don't even finish that thought," Santana growls, and Rachel laughs until she has to sit down.
…
"I am officially a slave to the wage!" Santana's voice shouts as she slams the front door. "Working for the man! A brick in the— Is anyone even home?"
"Am I allowed to speak now, or are you not finished yet?" Rachel asks, coming out of her bedroom.
"Guess who got a job!"
Her immediate response is swallowed down because how could Santana have been cast in anything before her. "That's fantastic! What's the show?" she asks instead, putting on her best face.
"Oh please, as if you think I got cast in anything," Santana scoffs, and Rachel freezes. "As if I think I got cast in anything, but shame on you for using your fake face on me."
"Sorry, I—"
"Shut up and let me tell you about how I, Santana Lopez, am the newest member of the Starbucks family of employees," she says, pulling out a bright green apron from her purse and twirling it around.
Rachel really doesn't mean to laugh, but the idea is— "Are you serious?"
"Yep!" Santana replies chirpily. It's freaking Rachel out.
She stammers for something to say until Santana tosses the apron at her. "Oh my god, you idiot, of course this is the shittiest thing ever, Jesus. But I don't want to just waste all my mom's money before I even work out what I want to do, exactly."
"Don't scare me like that," Rachel says faintly, tossing the apron back at Santana. "It was like you'd been taken over by a pod person with no personality."
"Ha!" Santana laughs, "you like that I hate everything!"
"That's not what I meant," Rachel huffs, but it's too late, and Santana continues to laugh obnoxiously as she heads into her bedroom.
"You like it when I'm a cranky bitch!" she singsongs, even as she disappears through the sheets.
…
Rachel's lying on her bed, reading over some sheet music for her classes that start after the weekend when Santana appears in her doorway.
"Hey," Santana says, tugging at the sheet hanging beside her, "I got us tickets for Porgy and Bess next week."
"Oh," Rachel sits up. "But I'm done teaching you."
"I know," Santana shrugs. "It's like a thank you, or something."
"'Like a thank you, or something'," Rachel laughs, shuffling to the edge of the bed. "Can it just be a thank you?"
Santana shrugs again. "I guess."
"Well, you're welcome, I guess," she teases, and she can see the smile Santana's fighting. She can't believe she ever thought Santana was scary, when she's about as threatening as a Care Bear.
…
Santana isn't there when Rachel gets home from class, and she stares at her wardrobe trying to decide what to wear.
It's a Friday night; shouldn't she dress up for going out on a Friday night?
She's not sure, but it's the theater, so she pulls on this pantsuit she bought at a sample sale she and Kurt went to the week before—they're on trend, thank you, don't be rude—and she's twisting her hair up into a knot when Santana gets in.
"Hey, you ready?" she asks, hovering in Rachel's doorway. "Nice, by the way," she adds, nodding at Rachel's clothes.
"Just about," she replies. "You?"
"I was going to change," Santana glances at herself, indicating the ratty old jeans she wore to class that day. She heads in the direction of the bathroom, calling out, "These aren't exactly date night clothes," before the door slams.
She spends an extra moment on her makeup since they're apparently going all out this evening.
...
"We should have seen this first, is all I'm saying," Santana says, waiting for Rachel to go through the apartment door.
They went to Shake Shack with all the tourists after the show, and the wait for a table was worth it, but now Rachel's full of milkshake and fries and she wants to lie down and not think about how the drink wasn't vegan. Santana, on the other hand, ate a double something or other, and looks like she could climb the Empire State Building without breaking a sweat. Not that Rachel's ever actually been there.
She drops her purse on the table, stripping off her scarf and coat. "Well you've seen it now, so I don't know what you're complaining about."
"I'm not complaining, I just think you need to learn to sell people on things a little better. We could have seen this weeks ago. Just think how much more willing I'd have been if that's what I'd thought to expect every week."
Rachel's skepticism twists her face. "I've never seen you willing to do anything."
Santana laughs loudly at that. "Oh, you have no idea what I'd be willing to do with the right motivation," she says, winking at Rachel before disappearing into her corner of the apartment.
She's trying to think of a rebuttal when Kurt makes his presence known. "Good show?"
"Yeah," she tosses over her shoulder, following after Santana, because what does she even mean by that?
…
…
Her fall schedule is only a little different from last semester—no more general dance, thank god—but she gets home late on Thursday nights, and she really doesn't appreciate it. The subway is ridiculously busy at that hour and she just wants to get home without being groped.
The door slams with the force of her annoyance, and when she turns around Santana's frantically swiping at her face and slapping at the remote.
"Are you crying?" Rachel asks before she has a chance to censor herself.
"No," Santana says immediately, and then obviously realizing she's fooling no one, drags her sleeve across her face, gesturing at the tv with her other hand. "Shut up, you'd cry at this, too."
Rachel heads for the refrigerator, digging past the containers of Kurt's pasta to find a bottle of Snapple. "What are you watching?"
"If These Walls Could Talk," Santana calls over the back of the couch. "The gay one, not the one about abortion."
"I've never seen it," Rachel says, coming into the living area. The tv is paused on Vanessa Redgraves' face, and she frowns at it as she sits at the other end of the couch. "How far in are you?"
"I think this is the end of the first story, but there's two more." Santana shifts her legs around to look at Rachel. "I can go back to the start if you like?"
"But it made you cry," Rachel says with a smile. "We wouldn't want to put you through that again."
Santana shrugs, burying her hands inside her hoodie. "It's fine."
"Why are you watching this, anyway, if it's making you cry?"
"Because it's about lesbians, and, I don't know," Santana sighs. "I should know this history. It's like, they're my people, or something."
Rachel swallows another mouthful of her drink, twisting the cap back into place as she watches the tv drop into screensaver mode. "I don't really— I mean, my dad is Jewish, and so is Shelby. But daddy is African-American, and it's always been something I couldn't share with him, not really. I never really thought of it in reverse, that maybe dad and I being Jewish was something he couldn't be a part of, because we always had each other. I can't really imagine having this thing that makes you different from both of your parents."
"Rachel, your dads are gay," Santana says around a laugh. "You're not."
"Oh," she blinks. "That's—I never thought of that." She's never really thought about that at all.
"How do you see past the end of your nose?" Santana snickers, adding, "Sorry!" before she cracks into laughter, and Rachel can't help but join in.
"Shut up and start the movie over. I don't care if it makes you cry again."
…
…
"You're stretching wrong."
Auditions for the semester productions begin in three days, so she's rehearsing at home in what little space there is to do so. Or she's trying to, but apparently she's going to be heckled while she does it.
"I am not."
"Who are you going to believe," Santana says, moving to stand in front of where Rachel's laid out on the rug, "yourself, or a three-time national cheerleading champion?"
Even though it's annoying, Rachel grins up at Santana's cocky face. It's nice to see, because it's been so rare since her arrival.
"Okay, fine," Rachel says with a grin, "what am I doing wrong?"
Santana's got her folded in half on the floor, leaning against her back in a way that makes Rachel whimper just a tiny bit, when Kurt comes through the door.
"Um, am I interrupting anything?" he asks, giving them a strange look.
"No," Santana snaps, moving off Rachel's back.
"Don't be silly, Kurt." she dismisses. "Come back here," she directs at Santana.
Santana comes, even as she glares at Kurt, who's still looking at them like he walked in on them filming porn. Rachel rolls her eyes at him, because he's being ridiculous, and he leaves them alone.
…
…
She gets a part in her studio's production. It's not one of the big productions—freshman aren't allowed in those—but it's still a big deal to be cast freshman year in something that isn't entirely a student-run production. She has three lines, which means even though she's in the chorus she gets an individual credit, too.
After she comes home and screams with excitement for a while, and then freaks out for a while, Kurt and Santana frogmarch her around to the gross little bar that doesn't card them and make her drink tequila until she nearly pukes.
"To Rachel!" Kurt toasts, and it feels like only a minute later that she's slumped against Santana's side watching Kurt clink his glass against Santana's. She thought they had been doing tequila, but their drinks look tall and fruity and they smell like purple.
"I hate you guys," she slurs as they wander home, trying to ignore the way her entire mouth tastes like burning.
"Tequila is nasty," Santana snickers, steering Rachel back towards the middle of the sidewalk. "Why'd you let us buy it for you if you don't like it?"
"I thought we were doing a thing."
"There is no thing that involves me and tequila," Kurt says. "Silly Rachel."
"I miss you," she says, her hand reaching out to paw at Kurt. "Stop being so busy all the time."
Kurt takes her free arm, hooking it around his own. "We spent four hours getting facials the other day, Rachel."
"I know," she sighs. "It's not like it used to be though."
When she wakes up in the morning, there's a bucket beside her bed that she's immediately grateful for. Not that she has any recollection of how she got to her bed.
…
"I hate you guys," she says, falling across the foot of Santana's bed a couple of hours later.
"Such gratitude for the people who carted your drunk ass home last night, put you in bed, and got you a puke recepticle."
Rachel ignores her, bunches up some of the comforter to rest her head on and closes her eyes for a moment.
"Where is Kurt, anyway?"
"The gym."
"Okay."
The apartment's silent except for the sound of pages turning. She looks up to where Santana is propped against the headboard. "What are you doing?"
"Studying," Santana replies distractedly.
"What for?" Rachel mumbles, head dropping back to its resting spot.
"Singing lessons."
"I don't believe you go to them," Rachel says, feeling herself dropping off. "I've never heard you practice."
She doesn't remember Santana's answer.
…
…
"Hold up, Veganette Peters-"
"Nice one," Rachel snorts.
"-me first. You can spend five thousand hours basting your skin like a turkey when I'm done."
"Skin care is very important, why don't you understand that?" Rachel splutters. "But also not the point, I got here first!"
"Well I have a date, so you can just sit your pretty little butt down and wait. Hos before—oh, that doesn't work." Santana wanders into the bathroom, muttering about how there really should be some gender neutral friends before lovers sayings for her to mess around with, and how Liz Lemon is totally right that the word lover is gross, and—
"Excuse me, but you're not the only one with a date tonight," Rachel says, moving Santana out of the way of her spot in front of the mirror.
"Oh, please tell me this isn't with that Brody guy. Rachel, he sucks!"
"It's not with Brody," she sighs, digging through her drawer in the vanity. "His name is Ben, and he's in my ballet class."
"Well he doesn't sound gay at all," Santana says sarcastically.
"And who exactly are you going out with?" Rachel asks, eyebrow raised. "Hmmm?"
"No one you know," Santana mutters, nudging Rachel so she can get to her own drawer.
But Rachel isn't fooled; she knows Santana's bullshit voice - though it's usually reserved for when all the ice cream magically goes missing. "Oh my god, are you going out with that girl? Maria? From the party?"
"No."
"Yes it is!" Rachel shouts, pointing at Santana as she laughs. "Oh my god, you're going on a date with your one night stand. That's so cute!"
"Fuck off!" Santana snaps, tossing her mascara on the bench and shoving past Rachel.
"Shit," Rachel says under her breath, and then drops her own mascara to rush after Santana. "I'm— I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Santana turns on her, halfway across the living area. "Yes, you did, you exactly meant to make fun of me!"
"Okay, I did," Rachel admits, edging across the floor. "But only in fun. There's nothing wrong with going on a date with someone you already—"
"Yeah, okay."
"I'm just saying. It's nice. You must like her, which is, you know, nice," Rachel finishes with a shrug. She feels like she barely has a hold on this situation, out of nowhere, and she just wants to rein it back in before they start screaming at each other—something they've barely done since Santana's been living there, except about who uses all the hot water. (It's Kurt.)
She really needs to learn that Santana can dish it out but she absolutely cannot take it.
"So," she says when the silence has stretched on for too long. "This is the first girl you've dated since Brittany?" Santana nods, refusing to look at her. "Wow."
"Yeah," Santana sighs, leaning against the back of the couch between them.
"Are you taking her somewhere nice?" she asks tentatively.
Santana's fingers twist together. "She's taking me somewhere. I'm meeting her on 14th Street."
"You should take her something. Flowers. Or a single flower, since you're meeting up on the way."
"Yeah?"
"Girls like that," Rachel shrugs. "I've been on a few first dates."
…
And she'll probably go on a few more, because the evening is a total flop.
She's toeing her shoes off by the door, having awkwardly said goodnight to her date on the other side of it, when the light over the dining table switches on.
"Hey," Santana says. "You're home early."
"So are you," Rachel points out, wandering over. Santana sitting alone in the dark can't mean anything good, but she doesn't look upset.
"Touche," Santana replies, pulling the spoon from her mouth to point it at Rachel. The carton of ice cream in front of her is beaded with water.
Rachel sits, sagging against the wood with a sigh.
"Want some?" Santana asks, poking the ice cream with her spoon.
"If I say no will there be any left tomorrow?"
"Nope," Santana says easily, and hands over her spoon when Rachel holds out her hand for it.
…
…
Performing for a truly appreciative crowd is exactly as thrilling as she always imagined it would be.
She doesn't actually like On The Town all that much, but it was good enough for Bernadette Peters and so it's good enough for her. And none of that matters as she stands on stage opening night, the audience on their feet applauding. She imagines this is what doing drugs is like, because even though she's exhausted she wants to do it all over again immediately.
Her parents are in the crowd somewhere, as are Kurt and Santana, and as she's scrubbing off her makeup it occurs to her to wonder what they could possibly have talked about. Besides Rachel herself, obviously.
They're waiting for her outside, and her dad is as excited as she was the day she got the role, picking her up and spinning her around right there on the sidewalk in front of her classmates and friends.
"Baby, you were fantastic!" Hiram says loudly, and even as she blushes she can't help but beam.
She'd been so mad at her parents last summer, for their part in Finn's "noble gesture". When she'd arrived in New York her upset had hardened into fury, and she didn't speak to them for days, even as they dragged her around Manhattan and Brooklyn.
It all came to an appropriately dramatic climax when Finn's voicemail stopped accepting new messages, and she had no choice but to vent her emotions at the next available target.
It was only then that she learned they'd tried to talk Finn out of the way he chose to go about things, and her daddy had been particularly emphatic in his desire to wring Finn's neck—a thought that brings her a certain amount of pleasure—so she couldn't hold it against them forever.
They just want the best for her, and she wants to give them the best in return, and seeing her daddy stand next to Kurt and Santana, smiling as hard as he is, she thinks she might have managed to do just that.
"I'm so glad you both could be here," she sighs, clutching at Hiram's arm. "Can we go somewhere? You're leaving tomorrow, right, I want to see you before you leave again."
"You'll see us tomorrow, baby," Leroy says, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. "I think you have a cast party to attend now."
"But-"
"Come on, Rachel," Leroy says, "don't mess with tradition. We'll see you tomorrow for breakfast at Michael's, and we'll tell you all about how you blew the audience away."
"If it would be breaking tradition, then I guess I have no choice," she sighs dramatically, but she is a little disappointed not to be spending time with them, even as Kurt drags her in the direction of the subway entrance to join her castmates waiting for her.
…
The thing about a performing arts school is that everyone wants a turn in the spotlight.
Kurt's talking to the same guy he ends up talking to at every NYADA party he and Santana have been to with Rachel, and Santana's being harassed by Michaela, which is something she might have to put a stop to. She watches out of the corner of her eye, but for the moment she's just going to wait for her turn on stage with a drink at the bar.
She's pacing herself, because there's still another performance the following night, but she's had something blue and tingly, and she's glad they made her come.
Her moment alone doesn't last long, though—a lot of her friends are in the cast as well, and some of them drag her out onto the dance floor, but when her name is called she pushes through the crowd back towards the bar where Santana's still with Michaela and her friends.
"Come on!" she shouts over the music. "You're singing with me!"
"Uh, no I'm not," Santana mouths, but Rachel's not taking no for an answer, and pulls at Santana's arm until she either comes along or lets Rachel pull her to the floor. Even as Santana trudges behind her, she shouts, "I still have that voodoo doll!"
"You should get Kurt to make it a new outfit," Rachel laughs, leaning down from the steps she's reached so Santana can hear her. "He could probably even make my shredded sweater."
Santana's eyes are about to roll out of her head, but she steps up on stage after Rachel and grabs one of the sequined covered microphones.
The music starts up, a song she picked when she put her name on the list, and she turns to where Santana's alternating between glaring at her and looking at the crowd with some concern.
"You take Donna's part!" Rachel calls, turning to the front of the stage for Barbra's first line of the song and ignoring Santana's sarcastically incredulous, "Gosh, really?"
Rachel's worried she's going to be left without a duet partner as Santana continues to stand there frowning, but when it reaches her line, she steps up next to Rachel, hitting her cue. Rachel can't stop her arm from wrapping around Santana's, pulling her closer so they can step to the front of the stage together.
By the end of the eight minutes Santana's gamely following Rachel's lead in some very genre-appropriate choreography, and Rachel wonders if she should get Santana a karaoke machine for home.
…
They still have six more stops until Montrose Avenue, and Rachel desperately wants her bed, but Santana's almost asleep beside her so she keeps her eyes open, just in case.
"That was fun," Santana mumbles. "Even if Maria was there, and it was awkward. Thanks for saving me by the way, even if it was to sing that horrible song"
"I didn't realize I did." Rachel smiles sleepily and chooses to ignore Santana's slighting of a Barbra classic. "But I'm always happy to help out a damsel in post-date awkwardness."
"Nuh uh," Santana says, head moving back and forth. "No lesho points if you didn't do it on purpose."
"Lesho?"
"Like lesbro, but for not-bros." They've reached their stop and Santana hauls herself to her feet, waiting for Rachel to do the same. "It's better, trust me."
…
The next morning she scrolls through her Facebook feed while she's still in bed, squinting against the morning light.
There are a bunch of photos from the night before, both of the show and the after party, and she smiles at the pictures of people on stage at Callbacks. There's a whole album, and she's about to close out of it, because she can look at it later, but she spots a familiar neon dress, and she taps at the photo.
They both look ridiculous, arms in classic disco pose, but Santana's smile is blinding. Rachel looks pretty happy, too. She presses 'Like', and the list of people who've also liked it pops up - Santana's name right at the top.
…
…
"I just want to die, why won't you help," Santana manages to whine, even though her voice is fading quickly.
"I am helping you, just not so you can die. You have a cold for god's sake!"
Under Kurt's careful supervision, she's managed to make soup that is apparently edible. Not that Kurt bothered to help, but he did sit and make sure she didn't set anything on fire again.
"Here," she says, tray balanced on one hand as she fights her way through Santana's 'doorway'. "I made you soup."
"Is it chicken noodle?" Santana asks. Rachel's fairly sure Santana is more pathetic than she herself is while sick, but all she's asked for is soup and one of Rachel's extra blankets, which Rachel was happy to let her use.
"Yes, it's chicken noodle," she says, setting the tray down beside Santana's bed.
Santana's corner of the apartment is interesting, to say the least, and also incredibly messy. Rachel nudges a stack of magazines out of the way so she can fit the tray on the nightstand, and when they fall to the floor it makes absolutely no difference to the state of the room.
"Does it taste good?" Santana asks, struggling to sit up from underneath a quilt and three blankets. Her hair's a mess, and Rachel doesn't understand how she still manages to look so pretty.
"I didn't taste it," Rachel says, handing the bowl over and laying a dish towel across Santana's lap. "The stock isn't vegan."
"Aw, you cooked dead animal for me? You do care!"
"Don't get used to it," Rachel replies, taking the tray and picking her way back across the floor, stepping over a box filled with books.
…
"You okay?" Rachel asks later, head poking through the sheets. Santana's walls are black, unlike her and Kurt's pale blue pinstripes—Kurt's choice, not hers—but it makes the space cozy rather than oppressive.
Santana looks up from the book she has propped open on her knees, glasses perched on the end of her nose—a surprising discovery that Rachel teased Santana about once, and will never, ever do again.
"Yeah," she says quietly, tucking the book away. "Thanks for the soup."
"It was no problem," she says. "Well, the lack of problem was Kurt's doing, but it was my pleasure."
"Thanks anyway," Santana says, sinking back against her pillows. "You're really..."
Rachel steps further into the room. "What?"
"You're a lot nicer than I ever would have guessed," Santana says after a moment, pulling her glasses off. "I mean... I dunno what I mean. You're just really nice, when you don't have to be."
"Oh," Rachel says dumbly, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. "Thank you," she says, ducking her head. There's an awkward silence, and then she continues. "You know, you are, too."
There's no response, and when she looks up, Santana's fallen asleep.
Rachel tiptoes across the messy floor, collecting the empty bowl from beside the bed. She rescues Santana's glasses from the blankets, and the book, too, and as she sets them down on the nightstand she sees it's one of those paperback romances they sell at the drugstore.
She bites at her lip to keep from smiling too hard, but Santana's just so full of unexpected revelations.
…
…
Her alarm won't shut up, and she doesn't recognize the song.
She works out why when she remembers it's Sunday and she never set her alarm; the song is Santana singing. Actually, she listens closer, it's Santana singing in the shower.
The song is old, something bluesy she's embarrassed she doesn't recognize. Santana's giving it everything she could possibly have on a Sunday morning, and she sounds really good, even if she did wake Rachel up.