eighteen
"I swear to God, if you two don't get out of the bathroom right now—"
"Shut up, Streisand!" Santana shouted, voice booming into Quinn's ear.
"Jesus, shut up," Quinn said, swatting at Santana's thigh in retaliation.
"I have an audition this afternoon!" Rachel said, her voice rising an octave. "This is so much more important than your shower sex!"
Santana snorted, tipping her head over to rest on Quinn's shoulder. "Should we tell her we're not actually having sex?" She settled more comfortably into Quinn's side, stealing her coffee and taking a sip.
"Where's the fun in that?" Quinn stole her coffee right back, finishing it in one gulp.
"It would ruin our reputation."
"We have a reputation?"
"Well, Rachel thinks we're dating and both nymphomaniacs."
"We're not dating. You're way too high-maintenance."
"And you're psychotic. It works out pretty evenly. Why did you drink all the coffee?"
"Because I made the coffee."
Rachel pounded on the door again. "Don't make me pick the lock!" she screeched.
"You don't know how to pick a lock!" Santana called. She stretched, wincing at the tightness in her muscles. "You seriously need to warn me next time you want to get all up in this against a wall, Q, I haven't been this sore since the Cheerios."
"Well, maybe if you got more exercise, you wouldn't be so sore."
"Not all of us have a fancy Ivy League gym we can go to." Santana yawned and pushed herself up to her feet, reaching out automatically to help Quinn up as well. "If we don't leave she'll start screeching out some show tune to smoke us out."
"I need to head out anyways," Quinn said. She passed the empty coffee mug to Santana and stepped around her, fixing her hair in the mirror. They'd been fighting for space at the mirror before Rachel started hounding them, and then another hour after that just to spite her, and Santana had done her make-up three times just to kill time. "I want to catch the early train so I can finish this paper before tonight."
"Overachiever. What's happening tonight?"
"I'm going to some play with Micah."
"Use protection, I don't want to catch anything from you. Like a baby."
"Pretty sure Micah's gay."
"Well, you say you're straight, but somehow you keep banging me, so…grain of salt." Santana elbowed her way up to the mirror, rummaging through Rachel's bag of make-up and emerging with Rachel's favorite eyeliner.
"He's also trying to set me up with his roommate."
"Also gay?"
"Yeah, but seeing as she's a girl, I probably have better chances with her." Quinn quirked an eyebrow at Santana's reflection. "Rachel will murder you."
"I'd like to see her try." She pocketed the eyeliner. "Okay, let's go, I want to hit that coffee shop on the way to the train station."
Quinn opened the door, gliding out past an indignant Rachel. "Why do we always have to go to that coffee shop?"
"Because I'm playing the long game on that one barista! I've almost got her number." Santana followed her out into the loft, blowing a kiss at Rachel, who darted into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Quinn ended up leaving Santana at the coffee shop to flirt with the barista so she didn't miss her train. The next morning, Quinn had a coffee date lined up with Micah's roommate, Brooke, and a triumphant text from Santana regarding the barista and btw taking the train up this weekend, I need that skirt back that you stole from me.
twenty-one
"Okay, so," Santana said through heavy breaths, her limps rubbery and loose and she lay splayed across her bed. "Not that I'm complaining about multiple orgasms or anything, but what happened to the whole you having a girlfriend thing?"
Quinn was silent, staring up at the ceiling. Santana gathered enough energy to roll over onto her side, brow creasing as she took in Quinn's profile. "You okay, Q?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," Quinn said after a few seconds. She turned to face Santana, pulling the blanket up higher. The heat in the loft was on the fritz again, and the temperature had plummeted when the sun went down hours earlier. "I broke up with her."
"Why?"
"She was still hung up on her ex."
Santana stared at Quinn evenly for long moments, before saying, "It's hard to get over some people, Q, you know that." Her eyes drifted down to the wrinkled sheets under her, and she took a slow breath.
Quinn sighed. "It's not like you and Britt. She was still sleeping with her ex."
"What?" Santana's melancholy snapped over to rage in a heartbeat. "She cheated on you? I'm going to kick her ass all the way back to Canada."
Quinn rolled her eyes, chuckling. "She's not from Canada, she's from Minnesota."
"Whatever, she grew up in an igloo and I'm going to make her wish she never left."
"Don't. You really don't need to."
"Bullshit, no one cheats on my friend," Santana argued, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself onto her elbows.
"Oh, trust me, I know," Quinn said. She smiled serenely. "It's fine, though. I'm okay."
"You sure?" Santana said dubiously. "You say the word and I can get a whole posse of lesbians to come with me to beat her ass."
"Very sure." Quinn yawned, settling more comfortably into the pillow. "We weren't together very long and we were better as friends anyways."
"Okay," Santana said after a moment. "So is she back with her ex? Because that girl was hot and if you don't mind I—"
"You're not sleeping with Brooke," Quinn said sharply.
"But—"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really. Go to sleep."
thirty
"Morning!" Rachel chirped as Quinn shuffled into the kitchen. "When did you get here?"
"Midnight or so," Quinn said blearily, greedy hands reaching for the coffee cup Rachel was holding out for her.
"I would say I didn't hear you come in, but I certainly heard—"
"Shut up, Rachel," Santana muttered as she materialized behind Quinn. "Give me coffee."
Quinn took another sip of her coffee and then dumped a spoonful of sugar into it and handed it to Santana. Rachel watched silently as Santana drank her coffee and Quinn prepared another cup for herself. Santana drained her coffee and hip-checked Quinn out of the way so she could make it to the fridge, holding the orange juice behind her for Quinn to take as she searched through the leftovers.
"Santana, pizza is not breakfast."
"Not if you're a vegan who eats fake pizza, no. But if you aren't, cold pizza is a longstanding traditional breakfast for college-aged Americans."
"You're starting to talk like Rachel," Quinn commented from the other side of the kitchen, where she was pouring orange juice into four glasses.
"Take that back," Santana said through a mouthful of pizza, rolling her eyes as Rachel smiled triumphantly.
Quinn handed a glass each to her and Rachel and hopped up to sit on the counter next to the coffee maker, preparing another cup of coffee with cream and sugar.
"It's not an insult," Rachel said indignantly. "I have fantastic elocution."
"That's not a word," Santana mumbled. The hand holding the pizza waved sleepily at Kurt as he skipped into the kitchen, fully dressed with his bag slung over one shoulder. Quinn offered him the coffee she had prepared and pointed to the last glass of orange juice.
"Morning, beautiful roommates," he said cheerfully. "And hello, beautiful roommate's lesbian lover who made me coffee and is thus the most beautiful of us all." He kissed Quinn on the cheek and chugged the orange juice, transferring his coffee into a travel mug and grabbing a banana.
"Good-bye, beautiful people," he added, waving and disappearing from the loft.
"Where's he off to?"
"Breakfast date with whatshisbutt," Santana said.
"David," Rachel supplied.
"Do we have stuff for pancakes?" Santana asked, sticking her head back in the fridge. "Real pancakes. I'm still hungry."
"You can't cook," Quinn said mildly. "You almost burned my dorm down last month making Easy Mac."
"Faulty wiring is not my fault. Make me pancakes."
"Eat some fruit, it's better for you," Quinn said, even as she slid off the counter and shoved Santana out of the way. "You guys need to go to the store. You're going to get an omelet instead. Rach, you want anything?"
"No thanks," Rachel murmured, chin propped in her hand as she watched Santana take Quinn's vacated spot on the counter. Quinn moved around the kitchen easily, pulling together ingredients for Santana' omelet.
"Stop staring, Rachel, it's weird," Santana said, reaching out and flicking her in the forehead.
"I'm not the weird one here," Rachel retorted, smacking Santana in the shoulder.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that you two are ridiculous!"
"You're the one who does vocal warm-ups at six in the morning," Quinn interjected.
"And you two are the ones who can't admit that you're dating," Rachel said, crossing her arms smugly. "Either you're here or Santana's with you every weekend, you basically finish each other's thoughts, you do that creepy anticipation thing, you keep me awake all night with your extremely vocal lesbian sex. Just grow up and admit that you're in a relationship!"
"We're not dating," Santana said flatly. "Quinn's crazy, I don't want to date that."
"And Santana has the emotional maturity of a fourteen year old boy and no intention of ever working a day in her life," Quinn added. "I would murder her after a week." She smirked when Santana saluted her merrily and Rachel rolled her eyes.
"Oh, please!" Rachel said. "How can you not realize it? Aren't lesbians supposed to be moving in with each other after the first date and incredibly committed and emotionally prescient?"
"Okay, one, offensive," Santana said. "And two, no. Just no."
"And three, Quinn's not a lesbian," Quinn said. "Four, even if I was, I sure as hell wouldn't date Santana."
"Amen to that," Santana muttered.
"Come on," Rachel insisted. "When was the last time either of you went out with someone else?"
"Last week," Quinn shot back. "Ethan, pre-med."
"Last night," Santana said triumphantly. "Simone, tattoo artist. Dumber than a post, but wicked hot." Rachel blinked stupidly at them, and Santana high-fived Quinn.
"But—"
"No," Santana said.
"But—"
"Just let it go, Rach," Quinn said. "We're not dating. We're friends, we have sex, that's it."
"When has sex ever been simple for you?"
"Since I started having sex with people I actually want to?" Quinn said shortly, wheeling around with a spatula clenched in her hand. "Let it go, okay? Jesus, Rachel, not everyone has a pathological need to define themselves by being in a romantic relationship at all times."
Rachel flinched, jerking visibly back from Quinn's words, and Quinn sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. Santana watched silently, eyes sliding back and forth between the two of them.
"I'm sorry," Quinn said, her voice tight. "That was uncalled for. But we're not dating, okay? We're friends and what we have works, and we're both happy. Isn't that what matters?"
"You're right," Rachel said quietly. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry." She padded over to the sink, setting her empty coffee mug in it, and walked off towards her room.
"That was harsh, Q," Santana murmured.
"I know," Quinn said, taking a deep breath. "I'm just tired."
"Damn right you are," Santana said with a smirk. "That's what happens after a night like—"
"Finish that sentence and I'm giving your omelet and your number to the doorman and telling him you want to go on a date."
"I hate you."