A/N: A fairly longer chapter than usual this week! I apologize for the ongoing gratuitous use of Lord Tubbington as a plot device. I just can't help myself.
By the end of the week, they manage to work out a morning routine that doesn't involve Santana wanting to punch Quinn in the face, for the most part.
On the days when she has to be at the coffee shop, Santana wakes up early and gets herself ready to go right as Quinn's trudging out of her room. The other days, Santana attempts to sleep in while Quinn, who is ludicrously clumsy when she wakes up, bangs around the apartment. It gives Santana nightmares about that time Coach Sylvester sent them to this boot camp that was disguised as a cheer camp and Quinn nearly broke her neck practicing a lift one morning.
Sometimes, they even manage to have a half peaceful sit-down breakfast together.
Still, it's a little excessive that she has to deal with Quinn's face every mother-loving morning, day, and night. If nothing else, at least it's pleasant to look at.
What's absolutely most excessive, though, is that one night Quinn shows up at the bar where Santana performs.
Santana is halfway through her set, eyes mostly closed because by this point she's lost in the song. The music is melancholy on the outside, but it's one of the few places she can find true happiness and still express herself so candidly. Just close her eyes and let emotion fill up her voice until it nearly cracks.
She pauses after the song to smile at her audience. Mostly it's middle-class, middle-aged men who come here after work to drown their cubicle-induced sorrows-this isn't exactly the classiest joint in town-but tonight Santana spies a familiar blonde head out there. Quinn is sitting at one of the back tables, no drink, and staring right back at Santana.
What the hell, Fabray?
Quinn used to come by here every so often, but given all the catfighting, Santana was under the impression that they were on an "off-again" phase of their on-again, off-again relationship. No good can be behind this little visit. Maybe Quinn found out she borrowed her earrings and is now here to whip her ass about it. That wouldn't be too far-fetched, actually.
She clears her throat and says into the microphone, "A special thank you to our returning guests tonight. And if I happen to be wearing any of your belongings, it was purely by accident." Some audience members chuckle like there was some joke to get, but most of them, including Quinn, look confused. Santana adjusts the mic and launches into her next song.
As usual, Quinn's eyes don't leave her for the entirety of the set. It's jarring and slightly serial killer-esque, but Santana's used to it and she survived years of Rachel Berry glaring maniacally at her during performances because the midget felt threatened that Santana was better than her. She's a pro at ignoring loco ladies in the crowd.
She finishes up with an original song, then does a small curtsy and thanks the band before leaving the stage. She heads straight for Quinn's table.
"So, what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" Santana asks when she gets there. It's mostly lighthearted because she's high off being on stage.
Quinn manages to look bashful and roll her eyes at the same time. She stands up, pats down her skirt, and says, "Brittany asked me to come keep you company. I'm doing her a favor."
It's a complete, barefaced lie, judging from the fact that Quinn is looking above and to the left of Santana's actual face. Santana crosses her arms at this development.
"Brittany, huh? It wouldn't have anything to do with me being the best singer you know?"
"Nothing," Quinn confirms with what might be a little smile on her lips.
Santana nudges Quinn with her elbow. "Come on, pinocchio, let's liquor up," she says, cocking her head toward the bar.
Quinn nods and follows her. "You were amazing, though," she says tentatively, like she doesn't want to admit the words. "I love when you sing Feeling Good."
Quinn waxing lyrical about her isn't exactly Santana's fantasy, and she knows she's the shit, but for some reason, tonight it makes her feel warm around the face area.
"Thanks, Q. Maybe I'll give you a private show if you let me watch TV at a loudness level that's actually discernible."
"I just have this portfolio I've been working on and I can't get distracted, I told you," Quinn explains, needing to go ruin the moment. It's like she was born a wet blanket. "My boss told me that the promotion could possibly hinge on-"
"Ugh, stop," Santana interrupts, waving her hand. "None of that tonight. I will literally beg."
"Really?" Quinn smirks, taking a seat at a barstool. "The floor seems kind of gross."
"I'll risk it," Santana says. She walks behind the bar. "Besides, my knees are pretty practiced."
Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose and giggles. "Of course they are."
"So dainty," Santana comments, reaching for some glasses. She's slightly impressed. This iota of friendliness between them actually doesn't feel like getting a spinal tap. She fixes herself a vodka tonic and Quinn an amaretto and coke because the girl has a sweet tooth the size of Lauren Zizes. Santana's convinced it's because she's so damn hormonal all the time. She slides the drink in front of Quinn. "Here, let's drink to me."
"Hey," calls the bartender. "No freebies!"
"Shut it, Ian," Santana snaps at him. "I just busted my butt up there. I think I gets to treat my friend to one drink."
He scowls and turns back to whatever lame conversation he was having with whatever lame customer. Santana looks back at Quinn.
"I'll leave him a tip," Quinn offers guiltily.
"For what?" Santana asks. "I made the drink. You might as well give it to me. Here, you can slip it in my tits if you want. Easier access." She points at her chest.
For a second, Quinn's eyes drop to her tits, like she's entertaining it. Or maybe she's just enjoying the view. Then she clears her throat and looks away, taking a sip of her drink. The heat in Santana's face suddenly triples and hyperawareness prickles her body. Fuck this sex-drought. It's messing with her hormones. She tips her head back and downs a quarter of her drink in an attempt to cool her inappropriate ass down.
"Listen…" Quinn starts, rubbing her finger into the condensation on her glass, and Santana meets her eyes questioningly. Just then, though, her manager comes up to the counter and slides into the stool next to Quinn.
"Nice job tonight, as always," she says to Santana, slipping her an envelope across the counter.
She stuffs it in her back pocket and says, "Thanks, Rhonda."
Rhonda part-owns the bar with her husband. She's a small, sassy woman, old enough to be Santana's mother but like a million steps ahead in the cool old lady department. She turns to Quinn. "How are you, Quinn?"
"Good, thanks," Quinn smiles politely. "And you?"
"Getting by. Just making sure I don't kill my husband most days," Rhonda responds.
Santana watches their exchange dubiously. The fact that Rhonda even knows Quinn's name is scary. It means she's seen her enough times to remember, which means she's seen her enough times to…
"So, are you two ladies together yet or not?" Rhonda asks with a knowing smile in Santana's direction.
…make a suggestive comment about her love life. Not surprising. Ever since she found out Santana has a preference for the ladies, Rhonda hasn't shut up about it, like she thinks it's some sort of fun secret to be shared between them.
It's dark in there, but Quinn blushes so hard Santana can see the ruddiness underneath her cheeks, like her skin is trying to emulate a stick of Bubble Yum. She, on the other hand, is accustomed to Rhonda's brazenness and doesn't feel guilty about punishing her for it.
"Funny you should ask," she says to Rhonda casually. "We just moved in together, actually."
Rhonda's smile fades very quickly. Santana smirks. That's what you get when you mess with Santana Lopez, former temporary head cheerleader and mastermind of the Bully Whips.
Rhonda looks back and forth between them. "Moved in together?"
Santana nods. "Last week."
"You were single a week before that, Santana. Don't you think that's moving a little too fast?" Rhonda asks.
"No. We just couldn't bear to be apart," Santana shrugs and reaches across the counter for Quinn's hand. "I had to be near her. Right, Quinny-poo?"
Quinn looks down at her hand and then makes this odd noise between a laugh and a squeak, like she's partly amused and partly alarmed. Santana doesn't blame her. She'd feel the same way around the brilliance that is herself.
"You kids these days," Rhonda says, exasperated.
Oh stop, woman. Not two minutes ago she was making a shameless comment about them hooking up, and now they're children? Besides, if Quinn was hers, what would be wrong with making sure she had full possession? Santana finishes off the rest of her drink. "I'll send you the wedding invite," she adds.
"You do that," Rhonda responds, "but at least make sure it isn't any time soon. It all goes downhill from there-take it from me."
"I can't imagine," Santana says dreamily, throwing a faux-loving sidelong glance at Quinn, who stares back at her, lips pursed.
Rhonda is starting to look a little charmed. She clears her throat. "I'll admit, it is nice seeing you in love, Santana," she says. "You have a different spark in your eyes when you're with this one," she gestures to Quinn.
The 'spark' is probably that never-ending irritation Santana feels around Quinn.
"So I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Rhonda continues and Santana looks back at her curiously. "But we have to cut your weeknight slots next week."
Santana tenses up, letting go of Quinn's hand. "What? Why?"
"I'm sorry, Santana, but it'll only be for the week. We need to cover some repairs in the restrooms and money's tight."
"What are you talking about? These sheep adore me. The only time it's ever busy in here is when I'm on that stage," Santana argues. She refuses to be skimped on pay again. Not when she still owes Ryan her last portion of rent.
"I know that, sweetie, which is why we gave you the contract in the first place. But this takes priority," Rhonda shrugs. "Think of it as a vacation week?"
Great. Just fucking wonderful. "But I don't need a vacation," Santana says tersely. "What I need is to pay my rent."
"There's nothing I can do about it," Rhonda says, her tone nowhere near apologetic enough.
Fuck this. Santana is sick of how people in this city, despite how chummy they pretend to be, would rather slit her throat than give up any of their money. Unfortunately for her willing fists, she can't even throw down if she ever wants to come back to this shithole.
"Hold on a second," Quinn pipes up, her brow furrowed. "So you're cutting one of your sources of income when you and I both know you need cash flow to cover maintenance costs? I don't typically deal with financing short term expenses, but even I can tell that's poor management."
Santana blinks. She has no clue in hell what Suze Orman over here is saying, but it sounds legit. And kind of hot. And now Rhonda is looking at Quinn like she just realized the cute little puppy sitting harmlessly in the corner actually bites. It's probably the zillionth time in Quinn's life she's managed to garner that reaction from someone. Santana is slightly proud, if not a little nervous about where this is going.
"I've been running this place for thirteen years, little lady," Rhonda responds, folding her arms across her chest. "I think I can make decisions about my own expenditure."
"But it's illogical," Quinn insists. "You can't raise funds if you're losing income."
Rhonda's starting to look like she's about to really blow, so Santana grabs Quinn's arm. It's a tough call to make. As much as she'd like to see this showdown play through, she can't afford to give up her paycheck, and Quinn pissing off the person responsible for handing it to her won't do.
"Come on," she says, throwing her a pointed glance. "We're bouncing."
Quinn still looks annoyed, but at Santana's words, she stands and turns her nose up at Rhonda. If anything at all, Quinn is loyal to a tee. Maybe her spirit animal reallyis a puppy. Just probably an annoying one, like a pomeranian.
Santana doesn't bother saying goodbye to Rhonda. Instead, she pulls Quinn into the back of the club so she can pick up her purse, and then they exit through the back door.
"I appreciate you pulling your credentials out of your overeducated ass, Quinn, but I need this job," she says as she walks down the street toward the subway station.
"But that was bullshit," Quinn says exasperatedly, hurrying after her. "She can't do that."
"Really? Because to me it felt like any other day," Santana shrugs. "My friend gets me kicked out of my apartment, my boss cuts my pay." She has too much pride to sound bitter about it. She reserves that for the stage, or for when she's had more than one vodka tonic to drink.
Quinn has the decency to remain silent in response to that, and they don't talk even as she follows Santana underground and onto the next train out of Brooklyn. The car is crowded, so they have to stand near the doors, in each other's space.
Quinn studies Santana, then she frowns. "Are those my earrings?"
"I don't know," Santana says, staring blankly back at her.
Quinn leans closer and pushes Santana's hair away from her face, her fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"They are," Quinn smiles, tugging on one lightly. "You could have just asked me, you know."
"And had to sit through the wonderful experience of you verbally castrating me? No, thank you," Santana says, swatting away Quinn's hand. It's making the skin of her neck and jaw way too sensitive. Not to mention Quinn's smile is bright and doing something annoying to her insides.
Quinn lowers her arm back to her side and laughs. "Right. Like you'd ever just sit there and take it."
"I would if there was begging involved."
It takes Quinn about four seconds longer than necessary to get the joke, and then she looks scandalized. "Santana!"
"What?" Santana responds. "I was raised in Lima Heights. It's in my nature to exploit gutter-worthy moments. And don't even try to pretend like you have innocent ears, teen mom."
"Is it also in your nature to abuse tired nicknames?"
Santana raises an eyebrow. Touché. "If you'd rather, I have a nice selection of fresh ones to choose from."
"Stick to 'Quinn'," Quinn says pointedly. "Anyway. The earrings look better on you. Keep them."
Santana smirks and leans closer. "Lavishing me with expensive jewelry already, Fabray? This is moving faster than Rhonda expected."
Rather than give her a catty response, Quinn breaks eye contact. She stays quiet for a while, staring out the windows of the train at the inner walls of New York, then asks, "Why did you let her think we were together back there?"
Santana studies Quinn's face. Her expression is characteristically masked, with the exception of a lingering flush on her cheeks.
"She was prying," Santana shrugs. "It was a joke."
Quinn blinks at those words, like she's surprised or something, Santana doesn't know.
"She was the one who was joking, Santana," Quinn says defensively and takes a step backward, putting space between them. "Don't you think you took it a bit far?"
"No," Santana says, frowning, "but clearly you do."
"Just don't do it again," Quinn says cryptically.
This doesn't happen very often, because she's hardly ever in the wrong, but Santana wants to kick herself right now. She should have known better than to joke around with the world's biggest buzzkill.
"Oh, lighten up, bossypants," Santana says, irritated that she has to defend herself around Quinn for the ten millionth time. "It was a joke."
"Stop saying that," Quinn snaps, eyes stormy.
"Jesus, fine," Santana snaps right back at her, confused as to why this is an issue. She knows Quinn isn't so closeted that she'd mind the public suggestion of a relationship between them. Which means she must be uncomfortable with the thought of being with Santana. Specifically her. For some reason, that irritates Santana down to her bones.
The train arrives at their stop just then, and she turns and strides ahead of Quinn before the girl can spout any more bullshit. Santana needs some time away from this madness between her and Quinn. It's giving her fucking heart palpitations.
"Listen," she says when they get to the exit. "You run on home, pop a few stabilizers. I'll see you later."
Quinn looks offended, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she turns on her heels and stalks down the street.
Santana watches her go for a second, then shakes her head and goes in the opposite direction. She doesn't actually have a destination in mind, but she needs to cool down. Apparently the only way to do that is to be away from Quinn.
She didn't realize how quickly the constant back and forth between them would get so tiring. She can deal with being on the defensive, no problem-she learned how to do that in the first grade, but this is becoming too unpredictable. Santana can't tell when her walls should even be up anymore.
Frankly, it's messing with her chi.
She doesn't stay out for too long-just walks around the block a few times and people-watches for a little bit-but it's still pretty late when Santana gets back to the apartment. So she's surprised to see that Quinn is still up, sitting in her armchair with a binder spread open across her lap.
"Hey," Santana says as she enters the living room.
Quinn looks up at her, stands, and walks out of the room without a word.
Santana blinks. Okay, then. Her confusion level goes from moderate to like, Berry trying to handle a dick for the first time. Either Quinn sat there for a half hour just so she could pointedly give Santana the cold shoulder-she would-or she was waiting up for her. The second option is too much for Santana to comprehend right now.
She groans and goes to get a towel. All she wants right now is a shower and some sleep to clear her mind. When she comes out of the shower, the lights are off in Quinn's room, so Santana shakes her head and goes to curl up on the couch.
Santana is a fairly light sleeper, and the discomfort from sleeping on the couch makes her doubly so, so when a bloodcurdling scream comes from Quinn's bedroom in the middle of the night, she's almost instantly awake. Santana blinks her eyes open groggily and hears another scream.
What the hell?
She pushes herself up on her elbows.
"Oh my god," Quinn yells from inside her room.
"Quinn?" Santana calls.
She shoves her blankets off, starting to get a little concerned about all this havoc, but before she can go check on her, Quinn comes charging out of her room. She's wearing just her bra and pajama bottoms.
"He peed on my bed!" Quinn yells to Santana, face bright red.
It must be like three in the morning, so Santana can't be blamed for being a little slow, but it takes her a few moments to absorb what Quinn just said.
She's shocked for maybe a millisecond, and then she bursts out laughing.
It's a good thing that Quinn's already in the bathroom because she probably wouldn't appreciate seeing Santana rolling around on her couch laughing.
Lord Tubbington, maybe you aren't so bad after all.
The perpetrator trots out of Quinn's room just then. He looks up at Santana, mewls innocuously, then runs off to his food bowl. It sends her into another round of hysterics.
Quinn marches back out of the bathroom holding rags and a bucket in her hands. She pauses in her tracks.
"Are you… are you laughing?" she asks Santana murderously.
Santana sits up, as straight-faced as possible. "Absolutely not."
Quinn glares. "Get up and help me."
Santana does as she's told. With that expression on her face and that disarray of hair-seriously, it's pointing in every cardinal direction-Quinn could scare her into doing anything.
She follows the angry lady back into the bedroom and helps her tug the sheets off the bed.
"How did this even happen?" Quinn asks, starting to scrub at the mattress. The stain is big and right in the center of the bed.
Santana throws the sheets in a pile on the floor where Quinn's pajama top is laying, then grabs a rag and gets to work. "Looks like Tubby had some trouble finding his litter box."
"I said how, not what," Quinn responds grumpily.
Santana has to bite her tongue really hard to make sure she doesn't laugh or say something teasing in response. She doesn't want to get strangled tonight, but she can't help it that this is possibly the most hysterical thing to ever happen. It makes up for all the weirdness of the past week. Maybe even the past year. She doesn't even care too much that she has to help clean up.
"Ugh, we can't. I'm going to have to get it cleaned professionally," Quinn says miserably and stands up after a while of scrubbing. "Ew, god, gross." She holds the rag as far away from her body as she can.
Santana rolls her eyes and takes it from her, not as girlishly squeamish. She picks up the rest of the things to take to the washing machine.
"Want to wash those too?" she asks, nodding toward Quinn's pajama bottoms.
Quinn looks down, nods, and strips them off. She drops them into Santana's pile, then turns around to rummage in her dresser.
Santana's urge to laugh effectively dissipates at the unobstructed view of Quinn's back, ass, and legs that she's granted just then. Quinn's wearing simple white cotton panties that are accented with black lace trim. The lace hugs her slender hips and ends right beneath a pair of stunning back dimples. Santana's pulse inappropriately kicks into high gear, making her heart pound heavily in her chest, apparently uncaring of the fact that the catpocolypse is going on right now and that she's currently holding a pile of piss-wet linen.
Pull it the fuck together, Lopez.
She turns around and tries to shake the image of Quinn's backside from her mind. They've shared locker rooms and bathrooms their entire lives. She can deal with a little exposed skin from Quinn.
Kind of.
Not at all, apparently.
And Santana thought she was a tits-and-abs kind of girl.
She hurries out of the bedroom before this morbid train of thought can go anywhere else, and goes to shove the soiled linens into the washing machine and wash her hands.
Of course, the object of her twisted affections happens to walk into the bathroom right then.
Santana tries to look at anything but at any part of Quinn, who is completely oblivious to the miniature lust-crisis Santana has going on over here because she's still freaking out about the stupid cat.
"I think some of it got in my hair," Quinn complains, lifting her hand to touch her head. "Can you check?"
"No way am I getting near that mop. Just shower already," Santana retorts.
And for the love of all that is holy, do not strip off any more clothing in her vicinity.
Santana leaves the bathroom as quickly as she came in and goes back to her position on the couch, burying her face in her pillow. She tries to force herself to go back to sleep, or at least remember that this is supposed to be a hilarious ordeal. Disgusting even.
It definitely shouldn't be filling her whole traitorous body with heat.
Santana grunts in frustration and rolls onto her back, trying to conjure up everything about Quinn that she hates: the general holier-than-thou attitude, the hypocrisy, the mood swings, that self-righteous little smile, her scary undead gaze. Wait. Are those supposed to be bad things? The sound of running water from the shower is distracting Santana.
The one thought that manages to somewhat kill her lady-boner, thank Sappho, is how terrifying it is that this is happening because she took one glance at Quinn's ass. Santana's never been so out of control of her own body. The thought is mortifying enough to put a giant damper on her fucked up libido.
She rubs at her eyes irritatedly and swears that like, tomorrow she's going to go out and finally get laid. And it'll have absolutely nothing to do with Quinn or her wet, soapy body.
The water in the shower stops and a few minutes later, Quinn walks out toweling her hair. Thankfully, she's got a fresh set of clothes on. She still looks pissed like... well, like a cat peed on her bed.
Okay, despite Santana's inadvertent crisis, it's still pretty funny.
"I'm sorry I ever doubted you," Quinn says, joining her on the couch. "That cat is an asshole."
"Told you I was a good judge of character," Santana shrugs, sitting up to make room for her. "I guess I should've told you about the incontinence, though. Tubbs is an old guy."
Quinn doesn't even react to the comment. She just curls up in a little ball at the end of the couch, head on the armrest, and moans.
"Fuck," she whines. "I'm so tired."
She looks slightly pathetic, with her eyes shut and her hair still soppy like some sort of wet, pale woodland creature. Santana feels something odd well up in her chest like-wait. Is that sympathy? That emotion isn't supposed to be in her repertoire.
"So, what, are we supposed to share this couch now?" she asks. She doesn't think that would be too wise.
"You can take the bed, if you'd rather," Quinn says sleepily, burrowing into the cushions.
Santana nudges her with her foot. "Rude."
"You know who's rude?" Quinn blinks her eyes open. "Lord Tubbington. He has absolutely no fucking manners."
"Do you hear yourself right now?" Santana asks, trying to refrain from laughing. It's amusing that a cat can make little miss strait-laced Quinn all potty mouthed. "Besides, don't pretend like you didn't completely have it coming, Fabray."
Quinn groans, tugging one of the blankets over her legs. "I know. And I don't even believe in karma."
It's a little surprising to Santana that Quinn's taking it all in stride. Maybe she's delirious because it's some assholeish hour in the morning. Maybe she's actually admitting that she was in the wrong. That would be unprecedented. Santana stares at her and Quinn stares right back for a few beats.
"Santana," she says, voice soft.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," she says.
Whoa, Quinn. Way to completely stun her. "You're... What?"
Quinn purses her lips and sits up to face her. "Look, I was going to say something earlier at the bar, but then you had to go and..." she shakes her head. "Anyway, I'm sorry about everything that's happened. I don't regret what I did. You fucked me over and I acted in self-defense, but I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand. And I feel bad that you have to deal with all this bullshit, from work and from your jackass of a landlord and everything. It isn't fair."
Trust Quinn to convolute a simple apology. Santana looks at her skeptically. "Thanks, but I don't need a pity party from anyone but myself."
"I don't feel sorry for you," Quinn says. "Actually, I think it's amazing that you manage to accomplish so much and still seem to have a life. I'm just mad because you don't deserve to be treated like crap by anyone."
"Namely yourself?" Santana asks, raising an eyebrow.
Quinn doesn't break eye contact. "Including myself," she corrects. "Except for when I have to defend myself against your obnoxious words. Or fists."
Santana snorts.
"Which, let's face it, is about every other thing you say to me," Quinn says.
Santana nudges at her again with her foot and their legs remain touching. The move is probably a little risky, given Santana's apparently raging hormones, but it feels nice to stretch her legs. And if Quinn's warm, smooth leg just happens to be laying right there, well then that's a bonus.
"I like it when you defend yourself," Santana admits, surprising herself with the words.
A smile tugs at Quinn's lips. "I figured. I mean, you do attack me more than anyone else we know, including manhands, despite the fact that I know you don't really hate me."
"Don't get ahead of yourself now, blondie," Santana warns.
"But it's okay, because I don't hate you either," Quinn adds.
Not a difficult achievement, considering no one could possibly hate this face for too long, but Santana will take the quasi-apology. And the power that comes along with being on the receiving end.
"So charming," she smiles. "Apology accepted."
Quinn looks pleased with herself.
"But don't go on thinking you don't still owe me a thousandfold for what you did," Santana continues. "I may forgive you, and yeah, some peace around here might even be uncharacteristically pleasant, like your singing voice, but I do still have my pride."
"Of course you do," Quinn rolls her eyes.
"Good, just needed to make that clear," Santana says, fluffing up her pillow.
Quinn watches her with half-lidded eyes, clearly trying to battle sleep, then asks, "So how do I owe you?"
Thank you, Fabray. Exactly the question Santana wanted to hear. She smirks.
"First of all: full and open access to your wardrobe. But only the sexy outfits. None of that earthy, flowery Martha's Vineyard stuff you own. Not interested." What she means to say is she couldn't pull it off half as well as Quinn does, but she would never voice that blasphemy.
"Fine. Anything but the Burberry dress," Quinn says around a yawn. "I just got that tailored for a conference. And only if I get to wear your things too."
Somehow, the thought is hilarious. But whatev, Santana can live with that.
"Deal," she says. "Secondly…"
She goes on to list demands until Quinn succumbs to her sleepiness and conks out on her, sprawled on her side and taking up far more space on the couch than she should. Santana's too tired to object, so she just curls up against Quinn's legs and falls asleep before she can take notice of how closely they're laying.