-Quinn-
Trying to pry open your eyes whilst suffering from yet another painful hangover is something that has always challenged you. It doesn't seem to matter how many times you suffer or how many times you tell yourself never again, inevitably you always end up back here; head pounding, stomach churning and body aching.
It's the gradual realization that you're not in your bed up in New Haven that has you slowly opening your eyes, blinking in protest at the light in the room. As you slowly regain consciousness you come to realize a number of things. The first, is that you lie sandwiched between Kurt and Thomas in a bed that looks suspiciously like that of a flamboyantly gay man, and you can only muster up mild annoyance at the way Kurt has obviously been trying to cuddle into you. Clearly he did not anticipate having you in his bed, and you wonder if you were invited or if you invited yourself. Probably the latter, you think, as you watch Thomas snore softly.
The second thing you notice is that you are still wearing last night's clothes, and though it's not the first time this has happened, usually when you wake up in this particular loft it's pyjamas or nothing much at all. Your thoughts shift to Santana who is no doubt passed out face down on her own bed, impossible to move and near impossible to wake. You wonder why you're not there with her, and you feel the beginning of panic fluttering in your stomach as you squint and desperately try to piece together the events of last night.
You remember cake – you remember Santana and Rachel smearing it on each other's faces and Rachel nearly combusting on the spot when Santana cheekily asked if she wanted to lick it off. You had offered in light of Rachel's refusal but Santana had just smiled and wiped it off herself as her eyes flickered around the room like she was looking for something.
You remember karaoke; well, with the machine unplugged and Rachel unable to locate the correct cord, not so much karaoke as just a Rachel Berry singalong. Or really, just Rachel standing on the sofa, belting along to Beyonce and attempting dance moves that you're surprised didn't result in a trip to Accident and Emergency.
You remember moving round the party attached at the hip with Santana, and you remember the feeling of being watched that came along with it. Brittany's eyes following you around the room had left you feeling equal parts guilty and exhilarated and it was only when you took the time to watch her expression more carefully that you found yourself pulling back a little as a result of the annoyance and sadness that was there.
You remember an awkward conversation with Santana's work friends and Brittany, and a passive-aggressive comment about Brittany being Santana's ex that had fallen from your lips without much thought. You remember Brittany following you to the fire escape like you knew she would, and you remember the defiance in her eyes when she told you she would be getting out of Lima.
You almost can't quite believe that you actually asked Brittany to give you time and space to make a proper go of things with the ex-girlfriend she was so obviously still in love with. You weren't even really sure if that was what you wanted until you said the words out loud. You definitely find it hard to grasp the fact that Brittany had agreed to it, but there was conflict and something else in her eyes that suggested it was far from a green-light. It's not like you expected much else.
When you had returned to the party Santana had sought you out immediately, desperate to be assured that you and Brittany hadn't argued again. You had lied (a little) and told her you were just having a catch-up, but the way Santana's eyes continued to flicker towards the window suggested she probably didn't believe you. When Brittany had returned to the party looking somehow simultaneously resolute as well as a little lost and defeated, you knew Santana had wanted to go to her. You could see it in the way she was no longer focusing on her conversation with Kurt and the way her leg bounced up and down restlessly. But Brittany didn't make it difficult; she walked across and took up a seat next to you on the sofa, and you were so grateful for it.
And just like that, Brittany had sat and chatted and laughed with you all, as if nothing had changed. The effect on Santana was almost immediate, and you watched her settle and relax, the tension leaving her shoulders and the crinkles of her forehead smoothing.
The last thing your foggy brain remembers is drinking a lot. Then drinking some more. And now, now you wish you hadn't bothered drinking at all.
You slowly extricate yourself from the frankly garish sheets that cover Kurt's bed and shuffle down so you can stand without having to climb over anyone. You notice your own pair of pyjama shorts lying crinkled on the floor, as if you'd attempted to put them on and simply given up, and you kick them in the general direction of your bag before moving out into the living area. You're surprised there are no stragglers; you had half expected to find NYADA kids passed out across the sofas and on the floor, but all you can see is the carnage left behind from the night before.
You shuffle towards Santana's room - more out of habit than anything else - and slide in to find that, true to form, Santana is sprawled face down on her bed, sheets discarded from her body and covering a lump that looks suspiciously like a person on the other side of the bed. Your stomach flips slightly, but when you move closer you can see brown hair fanning out from beneath the covers, and it wouldn't be the first time a drunken Rachel Berry tried to get into Santana's bed rather than her own. Previous instances had resulted in a lengthy conversation about the importance of personal boundaries and some very strict rules about drinking vodka as well as an absolute ban on tequila. You're pretty sure Rachel flouted all of those rules last night, but at least she isn't spooning Santana like last time, so she may yet live to see the afternoon.
You hear a knock on the door, and you turn around from where you're standing at the side of the bed to see Brittany moving into the room carefully. She looks beyond tired but she has showered and changed, and she looks a little more like a functioning human being than you currently feel standing here in last night's dress and smudged make-up.
"You're up early," you mumble through a yawn, and groan as a wave of nausea washes over you.
"I couldn't really sleep."
You regard her carefully and think better of asking her why. She's shuffling on the spot like she's anxious about something, but she steps a little further into the room and comes to a stop just out of your reach. Her eyes are flickering between your face and Santana's sleeping form, and she chews on her lip.
"I think I'm gonna go," she says softly, and you frown.
"What, home? Now?"
"I think so. I was only really supposed to come here for the weekend. I have school work that needs done and I've already missed a bunch of Glee rehearsals, so…" she explains, and you're not really buying it. You know that the excuse of school work serves a multitude of purposes because you falsely used it yourself a matter of days ago, and you're pretty sure the New Directions lost at Regionals, so you can't imagine why they would need to rehearse in Spring Break.
"Brittany-"
"I'm doing what you asked, Quinn," she says, quiet but firm and with a more than a hint of warning. You tell yourself that it's okay to feel the way you feel, and to ask for the things you want, but the way Brittany looks at you makes it difficult to convince yourself. She glances to Santana and you decide to leave them alone so Brittany can say goodbye. The last thing you see before you exit the room is Brittany crouching down by the side of the bed and softly rubbing Santana's back to wake her, and you don't know how to interpret the awkward and unfamiliar feeling in your chest.
You have no idea how long it will take for Brittany to say her goodbyes, but you really don't want to hang around to watch them, so you've been pruning in the shower for almost half an hour now. The remnants of your hangover are lifting to be replaced by dread and a dull feeling of panic that makes staying locked in the bathroom seem the most appealing proposition for the day ahead.
You know that if Brittany doesn't tell Santana about the conversation the two of you shared last night, Santana will ask you anyway.
You wonder idly which one of you will be the first to bring up this thing between you. You tell yourself it's casual, and that you're having fun, and that it doesn't need to be any more complicated than that. It is though, and you can't be the only one to notice it. There's a disconnect between the things that you allow yourself to openly want, and the terrifying feelings that you're bottling up, and you don't want to feel this way anymore.
You don't want to feel like you need something from Santana, particularly not something you're pretty sure she can't give you. Because attention is one thing, and affection is another, but devotion is something different entirely. You know Santana loves you - of course she does - because you're friends, but there are days when sometimes that doesn't feel enough anymore, and it's unsettling. It's unsettling, because you do need, and it makes you feel weak.
You shut the water off and wrap yourself tightly in a towel, before walking towards Rachel's room, unwilling to return to Kurt's and too scared to re-enter Santana's. You grab a clean bathrobe from the closet and wrap yourself in it, shivering a little as you watch water droplets evaporate from your skin. When the door creaks open some ten minutes later and a bleary-eyed Rachel stumbles through, she looks only mildly startled to find you sitting on her bed, before diving headfirst into her pillows and groaning loudly.
"Good birthday?" you ask, your tone dripping in delight at the pained noises coming from the head of the bed.
She mumbles something incoherent before rolling on to her back with her eyes still shut tight.
"It feels like something died in my mouth," she winces, and you shudder, because - gross.
As much as you enjoy Rachel's colorful descriptions of her hangovers, this isn't really the bed you want to be in, and so you get to the point.
"Is Santana awake?"
"Mmmm," she hums, and you assume that means yes. "Brittany left," she says after a moment of silence, and you knew you could count on Rachel to answer the unasked question. She opens her eyes and looks down at you, quirking an eyebrow. "What did you ask her?" You wrinkle your forehead at the question.
"Ask who?"
"Brittany. I heard you talking earlier." You freeze and your eyes widen as you are caught in Rachel's stare. "What did you ask her to do?" Rachel's voice isn't judgemental, but there is an edge to it that suggests she might already have a clue, and she might not like it. You don't answer her; your words are failing you and you have no idea how to explain what you said or more importantly why you said it. She looks… worried.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Quinn."
You don't have the heart or the courage to tell her that you have no idea. You think she probably infers it from the terrified expression on your face.
"Don't break her," she warns, and it is very much a warning, before she turns on her side and buries her head into her pillow. You take that as your cue to leave.
When you move back into Santana's room you see that she is now under her bed-sheets, curled up and staring off out and into space until she sees your figure by the door. When she glances at you you're relieved to see she hasn't been crying but she looks empty and vacant in a way that's disturbing.
You wonder silently what to do. You want to comfort her, because you've gotten pretty good at that – every time you're here and Santana has come home upset or grumpy after a crappy day, you could always fix it with a simple touch. Santana, despite how much she might protest otherwise, is a tactile person, and sometimes you know she just needs someone to hold her. But you've played the role as comforting friend and now you know things are more complicated. It doesn't help that you feel indirectly responsible for her sadness now. She just stares at you, through her thick long eyelashes, and you make your decision.
You cross the room and head for the dresser, slipping on a pair of your own sweatpants and a t-shirt that you had left here, before climbing into bed beside Santana. You reach out and hesitate, before you let a finger trail across her shoulder and down her back. She turns, slowly, and comes to face you with her arms bent and her hands resting just below her chin. She still hasn't spoken, and you realize you haven't either, and her gaze is haunting as it bores into you. Her face is mixture of conflict and barely disguised sadness, and you're not really sure how to feel about it.
You do the only thing you know how to do, and you reach out and clasp her wrist, pulling an arm away from her body and towards your own. She doesn't hesitate, and her eyes float shut with relief as she moves into your open embrace, but her arms are loose and limp as they wrap around you. You feel at ease when she shuffles down and turns her head so she can place it against your chest, and you content yourself to bury your nose in her hair.
There are no words, but you don't really need them, not right now. You feel anchored in a good way, and so you allow the feeling of want that never strays too far from the surface to consume you entirely. Just for now, you tell yourself.
It's nearly 2pm when Santana emerges from her bedroom properly, to find you curled on the sofa, watching reruns of Friends on the TV. Her hair is messy and annoyingly it only makes her look even more gorgeous standing in her shorts and baggy sweatshirt. She flops down onto the opposite end of your sofa and quickly clambers underneath the blanket you had been wrapped in.
"Well, well, well. I was wondering when you might join the land of the living," you say with a hint of amusement in your voice. Playful seems like your best option here, and the teasing is second-nature. You hope she'll meet you halfway, and you can avoid any awkward heart-to-hearts while your head still feels quite so fragile.
"Yeah well, this is your fault you know. I distinctly remember being practically spoon-fed tequila and it sure as hell wasn't my idea…"
"So what, I'm a bad influence on you? Somehow, I don't think so Santana."
"Well you definitely were last night," she grumbles, and you nudge her gently under the blanket with your foot.
"Well it makes a change, usually it's you corrupting me," you grin with an eyebrow raised, and finally she cracks a smile.
"What can I say, it's a hobby. I always knew you had a wild side in there somewhere, Q."
She's wearing that smirk – the one that simultaneously makes you want to slap her and devour her all at the same time – and you roll your eyes and shift so she can stretch her legs out if she wants.
"I reserve it for special occasions," you mutter as you re-focus on the TV.
"I must be very special then…" she replies without hesitation and her voice is low and laced with temptation. She's more right than you'd like to admit, and you wonder if she even realizes. You don't trust yourself to speak, or to even really look at her, so you just smirk as you continue to stare at the television screen. You know it will drive her mad, and shehates to be ignored, especially when she's getting her flirt on. It's a game you've played many a time, feigning your indifference, and you know her stubbornness will never let her drop it.
There's movement under the blanket and your breath catches when she stretches out and you feel the edge of her foot running up the length of your calf and sliding to settle underneath your upper thigh. Suddenly your entire body feels hyper-aware of her presence, and your head snaps across to her just as quickly as a shiver creeps up your spine. Her eyebrow is quirked in an unspoken challenge, and it's completely maddening.
Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if this is all just a game to Santana, just another competition to see which one of you can outdo the other and who will yield first. It's the paranoid Quinn Fabray of High School, who never entirely trusted Santana and who always questioned her motives, that fills your head with doubt. But then you've placed so much of your trust in her already, and she hasn't been reckless with it once.
"You have your moments," you manage, but it's barely above a whisper, and God why is that smirk of hers so damn enticing. Her foot moves an inch higher but her expression remains unchanged and you're vaguely aware of the way your chest is rising and falling with the breaths you're taking.
"Just moments?" she asks with dangerously dark eyes, and she pushes her other foot against your knee causing your legs to part just slightly. You think the next sound either of you hears will be the hint of a whimper that falls from your lips, but the sound is masked by the front door of the loft sliding open and then shut.
"Oh you're up. I thought you guys would still be in bed."
The voice belongs to Kurt, and it's never felt quite so unwelcome you think as you look over to see him idly flipping through a pile of mail as he stands only feet away from you.
The mask of confident seduction slides quickly from Santana's features, and you swear you see a flash of guilt - or is it regret - in her eyes as she quickly retracts her legs and pushes up of the sofa before heading for the kitchen. You're unable to do much other than blink stupidly at the space she just occupied until Kurt comes into your line of vision, his eyes narrowed.
"You know of all the moods I expected to find Santana in when I got home, frisky was not top of the list," he says, sitting down on an armrest and glancing off in the direction Santana disappeared to.
"I guess you don't know her like I do, then."
It's not particularly surprising to you that Santana would use (or, try to use) sex as a distraction, but the realization of it leaves you feeling considerably less sexy all of a sudden. You were probably a matter of seconds away from being another (very) willing victim of Santana's attempts to forget about the things she doesn't want to think about.
Santana returns with two bottles of Lucozade and chucks one to you before plonking herself down unceremoniously into her previous spot.
"I'm feeling pizza," she announces with an airy voice, and your eyes light up instantly.
"I thought you were on a diet?" Kurt asks scandalized, and Santana just scoffs.
"Kurt, I've not eaten since yesterday and my blood is running pure alcohol. I'm in the mood to eat my own body-weight in dough and not give a fuck about it."
Kurt considers this for all of a moment before nodding seriously.
"Make mine a Hawaiian."
"You sure you wouldn't prefer the Sausage Sensation?"
"Oh how did you know?" Kurt says rolling his eyes dramatically and Santana sniggers, pleased with her own joke.
"What do you say, Q, double pepperoni to share? Shall we give it a bash?" she asks distractedly, not quite meeting your eyes.
"Yeah, I'd like that."
Oh, and you'll take her pizza too.
