Thank you for all the reviews, it means a lot. Sorry for my Spanish errors, the only language I'm taking at the moment is French and I won't have Spanish until next year. I also owe you a big excuse for not updating in a while, I just came back from Italy where I've been for the past few weeks. Unfortunately, it's time for me to go back to work now (and after that, school) so it might take a while to update, but thank you for sticking with me!

…

"I try to say just anything, just anything so you won't go.

You can show me how to speak love."

- Stay with me (Quédate conmigo) by Pastora Soler

…

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 07:01 PM

20th street, Washington, D.C., the United States

…

Santana leaned over, keeping her eyes on the bodyguards in the front of the car as she lowered her voice, "At the next traffic light, get out of the car and follow me."

Quinn barely had time to look distraught or worry or to tell her 'no, you're crazy' or maybe even warn the bodyguards before the car stopped and Santana opened the door, pulled on her hand and got out.

She faintly heard the car doors slam shut and the bodyguards calling after them as the car behind them also opened it's doors, two more bodyguards coming out and running after them.

"Miss Fabray, stop!"

"Keep running, miss," Santana told her, a cheeky smile on her face as they entered a back alley and pulled her into an emergency exit of a building she had never seen before in her life. It looked old and deserted but as soon as they entered, she heard the loud music and breathed in the smokey air.

As she tried catching her breath, she shot Santana a glare, entering the girl's bathroom, "Are you kidding me? Do you want to get yourself fired? Or worse, killed?"

"Your father won't fire me. Trust me, cariño.Besides, if those guys are smart and want to keep their job, or have any job in the future for that matter, they won't report this and they'll wait at the address I left on a note in the car." Santana fixed her hair, looking at Quinn in the mirror, "Lighten up. It's time to have fun."

The Latina threw her another smile, one that said 'you don't even know what's coming', and too be honest, Quinn felt like whatever was coming wouldn't be worth the trouble she'd be in if her father ever found out.

They left the bathroom and walked into, what Quinn guessed, was a bar, hence the dim lightening, loud talking people and barely dressed girls.

"Maybe we should just leave," Quinn tried reasoning with Santana as she watched in awe how people drank beer and did shots all the while some guy was singing, no, screaming into the microphone on the small stage.

People looked so, carefree. She hadn't seen people act this way before. Including Santana. Especially Santana. It was different and she felt uncomfortable but safe at the same time.

"Let's dance," Santana ignored her previous statement and grabbed her hand yet again. Quinn pulled it back, shaking her head. "No, thanks, I'll just get something to drink. You want anything?"

Santana let out a quiet, almost giggle-like, laugh like she knew something Quinn didn't and shook her head. "You know where to find me."

Quinn wrung herself through a sea of people, the smell of smoke and sweat mixed with beer invading her nose, trying to reach the bar. She watched all the people and she felt,- she knew she was out of place here.

Her clothes, her hair, her ridiculously expensive jewelry. She was dressed to impress and people here weren't impressed. She felt like a joke and a child at the same time.

Finally, she reached the bar and ordered herself a sweet tea, something her help, who was currently off having a good time, made her a while back. She looked at Santana, she was dancing with a few guys, obviously enjoying the attention. She moved her body to the beat like Quinn had never seen before. Who was she kidding, the only dances she had seen before were ballroom dancing and ballet, which she had seen in the Swan lake, a show her grandmother and grandfather had taken her for her twelfth birthday.

The bar man put the drink in front of her and she handed him ten dollars without looking at him and murmured a 'keep the change'.

"You look like you're not having much fun," the bar man said as he wiped the counter with an old rag and something about the teasing tone in his voice irritated her. She looked up and saw a darker colored man, about the same tint as Santana, with a hairstyle people commonly referred to as an mohawk and a handsome face, not that she would let herself admit that.

"I'm not. This is just not my kind of scene," she sighed as she stirred her drink with a straw, staring at the way the ice cubes moved. The went down as long as she pushed hard enough, but always came up.

"So you're saying you're better than this, pretty girl?" He sounded amused and something about him made her want to wipe his mischievous smirk off his face. He raised an eyebrow at her as he stopped wiping the counter andpoured himself a glass of beer.

…

Wednesday February 23th, 1971, 09:36 AM

Presidential Building, Beijing, China

…

She rushed into President Zedong's office, knowing that if she got caught, she'd probably be murdered for spying and the future of her country wouldn't look as great as the purpose of this visit to begin with, had looked.

She picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew like the back of her hand.

"Hello?" She hadn't meant for her voice to quiver. She had meant for herself to be strong and mature about this. She hadn't even been gone for three days.

"Who's this?" The connection faltered a bit but she recognized that voice anywhere.

"I miss you so much," she breathed and she realized she had become a girl she had prayed for she wouldn't become. She didn't want to be this dependent of someone, of him, of anyone.

"I miss you too, pretty girl," he told her earnestly before adding a sincere, "but you shouldn't be calling me."

"I know," she sighed as she leaned her head back on the chair, mindlessly playing with the cord of the phone. "I just didn't know what else to do."

She heard some chatter and laughs on the background and wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him. "You know you'll always be my pretty girl, right?"

"I do," she bit her lip, spinning the cord around her finger, "I just care a lot about you, you know?"

"And I'll never know why."

…

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 07:34 PM

Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States

…

"I did not say that," she defended herself, before lowering her voice, "I just don't fit in here." No one had ever been able to offend her so much, by saying so little.

"You won't unless you loosen up a little, pretty girl. No one likes an tight a-," she cut him off, glaring at him. "Stop calling me that, as a matter of fact, stop talking to me." She took the straw out of her drink and angrily gulped down half of her glass.

He raised his hands in defense, "No one told you to talk back." He smirked at her again and she huffed, knowing he had her there before looking back at Santana. She was still busy having the time of her life. Never in her life had she wanted to leave a place so badly, but she couldn't do that to Santana. She'd went through all this trouble to do something nice for her, so the least she could do was hang in there for half an hour. A small half an hour.

"My name is Puck," he told her as he dried a glass after washing it.

She sighed, "Quinn."

"That's a pretty name."

"I wish I could say the same," she leaned her head on her hand, continuing to play with her straw.

"No need to get rude."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." Her head snapped up and her voice trailed off as she saw the teasing look on his face. She couldn't help but smile a little at that. He was definitely different than Sam, but then again, she probably shouldn't compare them because she wasn't dating him, that Puck guy.

"So you can smile," he joshed her and she felt bad. She hadn't been raised this way. To be rude and unthankful and judgemental to people when she didn't even know them. "It's a nice one," he added and she could practically feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

"Puckerman, quit hitting on girls way out of your league and get over here," she heard a voice ring through the speakers and for a second she prayed this 'Puckerman' guy was any good because if he wasn't, this would might be the shortest half an hour of her life. Silly her, she should have connected the dots.

"Well, sorry to cut this lovely conversation short, pretty girl, but duty calls," he winked at her before jumping on top of the bar, getting off just as fast and walking towards the stage. He was the 'Puckerman'.

She turned around on her bar stool, a confused frown on her face as she watched the scene in front of her unfold, intrigued. He grabbed a guitar and connected it to some kind of electronic amplifier and talked with the other guys who were holding instruments for a moment before he started singing. It was nothing she had ever expected to come out of a guy like him.

Puck Puckerman. What kind of name was that? But like one of her favorite authors once said, what's in a name?

She had always been a smart girl. Even before she was home schooled, she got the highest grades in her classes. She was the kind of girl that wondered if people would ever run out of lyrics or where the saying 'it's raining cats and dogs' came from or why the trees were green and the sea was blue. She was smart, something that got overlooked because of her looks many times, but then again, if she was really wondering about this boy, this man, then she might not have been as smart as she thought.

Everything about him said, screamed trouble. Yet, she was looking at him like she was a girl in the front row at a Johnny Cash concert.

…

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 07:49 PM

Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States

…

"Man, do you even know who that is?" Finn, his best friend since grade school, asked him, causing him to roll his eyes. "You're lucky one of her bodyguards hasn't floored you yet."

"I don't care who she is, I was just being friendly to a customer," he took the guitar from Finn and hooked himself up as Finn sat down behind the drums.

"She is the president's daughter," Mike cut in, after all these years he could still say something normal like 'one beer, please' or 'I ran a red light this morning by accident' and still make him crack up. His accent was to die for. "Even I know that and I'm an immigrant."

Puck shrugged, he figured she was some kind of high society lady. She looked like one. She sure was stuck up like one. In a fun way. "Don't worry guys, it's not like I'm into her."

"You said that the last time and she turned out to be your first serious girlfriend," Finn recalled as he balanced his drumstick on his index finger before throwing it up a few inches and catching it in his hand.

"Will you girls hurry up with your talk about periods and boyfriends? People are waiting," Jesse's annoyed voice cut in as he put his bass around his shoulder. Puck tried to remind himself on why they let him in their band again before remembering he was the only one who made enough to pay for their equipment and advertisements. Or rather, his father did.

"Showtime," he muttered as he turned around and placed the microphone stand in front of himself as Finn started counting down from 3 to 1.

His eyes found the blonde girl again and for the first time, he actually remembered a girl's name after hearing it just once. Quinn. She sure was pretty, like he had told her. But there was something about her, the way she acted and talked and looked, that made him want to know everything there was to know about her.

It was weird. Uncommon. Unlikely. Impossible. It was all kind of things he didn't understand.

…

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 08:03 PM

Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States

…

They were playing their third song when Santana sat down next to her.

"See anything you like?"

"No."

"Quite lying."

"I don't know," she looked at the stage again before facing Santana. "Do you come here often?"

"Don't change the subject, miss Fabray," Santana took a sip of a drink Quinn hadn't seen her order.

"I'm not," she bit back, irritated, "I'm just interested, that's all. If you don't want to tell me, it's okay."

Santana sighed, taking another sip of her drink, "I come here on Friday nights and some Saturday nights when I'm off duty."

"I never knew that," she stated, more to herself than the dark haired girl next to her.

"I know. It's okay," she shot her a smile before putting her drink down and taking Quinn's glass out of her hands and putting it down next to hers. "Time to dance. No excuses."

She got pulled onto the dance floor and she could practically taste the salt of sweat in her mouth but she didn't have time to feel disgusted as Santana's good mood was contagious, and before she knew it she was moving her body to the same beat everyone was.

"What do you know about that Puckerman guy?" Quinn leaned closer to Santana, trying to raise her voice enough so she could hear her over the music.

"His name's Noah, but everyone calls him Puck. He's almost 18. He lives above this bar. He's annoying most of the time, sleeps around a lot, he's a good singer but an even better songwriter, he's not going to college because he's trying to 'make it'," she rolled her eyes, complete with air quotes and everything before going on, her voice even louder this time, "He's raised as a Jew by his mother, his father left when he was little. His favorite color is blue because when he was a kid he dreamed of seeing the sea and when he did, it became it favorite thing in the world. His favorite things in the world right now are his car, curse words and girls. Anything else?"

Quinn shot her a confused look before looking over at Puck.

Santana let out a laugh, which Quinn couldn't hear over the music and she remembered thinking it looked weird, seeing someone laugh but not hearing it, before offering her an explanation by yelling in her ear, "He's my cousin. cariño."

…

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 08:28 PM

Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States

…

"So what did you think?"

"What did I think about what?" Quinn asked him, trying to remain cool under his gaze. She was sitting back at the bar, but she had waited a few minutes longer than she had wanted to, she hadn't want to seem like she was sitting down because of him or for him or something ridiculous like that.

"About our songs," he raised his eyebrows at her and she bit the inside of her cheek.

"It was fine."

"You're kind of strange, pretty girl," he chuckled as he threw the rag over his shoulder, turning around to grab a bottle of whisky she had seen before in her father's office, for an other customer.

She didn't want to let him get under her skin, she want his his words to matter, but he did and they did.

She swallowed hard, her stomach felt knotted, "Aren't you underage?"

"Maybe, but so are you," he said as he poured himself a glass of the same liquid he had given the other customer and finished it in one gulp.

"You're not allowed to work here, are you?" She was the one to raise an eyebrow this time, her finger tracing the rim of her glass.

He huffed, "Who are you gonna tell?" He licked his dry lips, wondered out loud, mocked her even, "Your daddy?"

She knocked over her glass and the small remains stained her dress, and without wanting to, tears formed in her eyes. "Oh no.."

"Here let me help you," he appeared at her side, using a few napkins to sloppily wipe her lap, only creating a bigger mess. "It's just a dress," he remarked as he looked at her face.

"I just don't want to be this person," she whispered to herself and he stopped his movements.

"Are you okay, pretty girl?"

"I'm fine, just tired."

He touched her arm for a second, asking if she was sure and for a moment memories she didn't really remember, of a big white picketed fence house and two kids and his smile surfaced her mind and she was beginning to think she was insane.

There was something there, something she didn't want there to be, but was there anyway.

…

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 09:13 PM

20th street, Washington, D.C., the United States

…

Quinn had so many questions but didn't ask a single one and Santana smiled at her again, trying to tug a piece of her fringe behind her ear, putting her hand back in the pocket of her coat, "I know that look."

"What look?"

"You're wondering, maybe even worrying."

"It's nothing."

"That look tells me it's everything."

"It's not. How can something be everything?"

"You'll understand one day," Santana told her and she sounded a bit off as she nudged Quinn with her elbow softly, she added, "It's Puck, isn't it?"

"No," she said a little too quickly and the sly smirk on Santana's face made her sigh. "Maybe."

"I've never told him where I work, all he needed to know was that I was making money and he didn't have to worry, that's enough," she didn't elaborate any further, just stated out of the blue that that was the way it was. "That was enough."

It was getting colder by the minute and Quinn didn't remember a single winter that had been colder than this one. She had to start wearing her winter coat in October, while she usually was able to postpone it until at least November. She didn't like to carry around the extra weight.

"Did you have fun tonight?" Because of the cold it looked like Santana was smoking every time she spoke and Quinn couldn't tear her eyes off Santana because of it.

It set her on edge, how Santana never gave anything away unless she pried, and pried, and pried for it, or asked her clearly.

She shrugged, pondered about her answer, looked at her feet, avoided Santana's stare, avoided sounding ungrateful, "Sure."

"Do you think I'm.. Strange?"

At this Santana chuckled, "No. Different maybe."

"Different then everyone or just people like you?"

"People like me?" Santana raised her eyebrow at Quinn but she remained looking at her feet as they walked in unison. "You know what I mean. And tell me the truth."

"Everyone. Not because of where you come from because even growing up you were different from the people who were like you. Like Franny for example. I used to think you had an old soul, something my Abuela told me about when I was little. You can be sweet and mean at the same time, that's my favorite quality of yours," Santana joked and Quinn smiled as they stopped in front of a nice looking building.

"Once we step in there the night is over," Santana looked at the sign of the café, letting out a deep breath.

"Can I see him again?" She blurted out making Santana turn her head to her.

She nodded slowly, "Okay. If that's really what you want, I'll find a way."

"I want to."

"C'mon," Santana nodded her head into the direction of the small café and started walking towards it, Quinn following her lead.

"Miss Fabray, thank God," one of the bodyguards muttered, shooting Santana a glare.

"I could get you fired."

"But you're not gonna," her eyes turned into slits, "Or do you really want to admit you lost track of the President's daughter and her Hispanic help?"

He huffed and she grinned, "That's what I thought."

Quinn muffled a small laugh, casting her eyes to the floor once again after she watched four bodyguards look so small compared to sweet, snippy Santana.

"Now bring the car around, we don't want to be late."

…