Chapter XI
A/N: Thank you to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and reviews!
As for ckeller48, I need a new adjective for you. Marvelous? Okay yeah, let's go with that.
Quinn's POV
"How often do you look in the mirror and think whoa I'm really good looking?" Sadie ponders from her seated position on the counter.
We were supposed to be headed to a spinning class, but we decided that an afternoon and evening of popcorn and movies sounded much more appealing. Sadie is infatuated with romantic comedies and not afraid to admit it. I gave her a two romcom limit, however. There's only so much that a normal person can take. I enjoy them on occasion, sure, but she has the cheesiest taste in them.
"Are you really looking at your reflection in the microwave right now?" I shake my head in disbelief, scrutinizing her from my spot on the couch.
"No, who do you think I am?" she smiles, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"I was just checking," I laugh, crossing my legs beneath me.
"I'm looking at my reflection in the fridge. The microwave is running so I can't see myself in it," Sadie clarifies, peering into the face of her black, stainless steel fridge.
"You're an idiot."
"If I'm an idiot, then at least I'm a hot idiot." Sadie slides off the counter to retrieve the popcorn from the microwave.
"Unbelievable. Do you need me to go so you and the fridge can be alone?" I mock, briefly contemplating exactly how one would go about having sex with a fridge.
"And Britt said you weren't funny." Sadie sticks her tongue out at me like a child would. I don't return the gesture.
I know I'm not known for my jokes, but I've never been specifically told that I'm not funny before. It stung a little when Brittany said it, I'm not going to lie.
Sadie's phone rings to the tune of some hip hop song that I don't recognize, lighting up in her pocket.
"Little early for a booty call isn't it?" I tease, while Sadie takes her place next to me on the couch.
Of course she doesn't even bother to bring a bowl over; she eats right out of the bag. By the smell, she's clearly burnt it. I know it's how she likes it, and she couldn't care less how I would prefer the popcorn to be.
"Oh honey, I hope you don't just restrict your sex life to the twilight hours. There's a whole other world out there to explore," she educates, making a broad motion with her hands.
"Fuck you." I kick her lightly with my foot. I may not have people constantly coming in and out of my apartment like Sadie does, but I'm definitely no prude. I think it's perfectly reasonable that I'd rather have a firm handle on someone's first and last names before I consider getting into bed with them.
"I told you at Britt's party that you're off limits," Sadie reminds me with a mouth full of popcorn.
I think that she made that comment somewhere around the time when the alcohol started to kick in. The truth is I have no interest in anything sexual with Sadie. She's definitely good looking, no one can deny that. But I can't ever imagine seeing her in that light, and it isn't because I used to hate her guts. It's difficult to put my finger on the specific reason but I know it has everything to do with Santana.
See, there are moments where Sadie reminds me of Santana. Like the way she constantly uses nicknames for people (some of which I've noticed are ones that Santana herself created). Sadie and Santana are witty in a similar way, and their senses of humor overlap significantly. Then there's the presence quality that they share. When Sadie walks into the room everyone notices her, and it's not because of her thick red hair; it's because she has the innate command, a presence that demands attention. Also like Santana, Sadie's fiercely loyal and extremely protective over the people she loves.
I fell in love with Santana once upon a time, so it wouldn't be so absurd for me to be attracted to someone with similar qualities, right? But it is absurd to me. The demonstration of these qualities almost unfailingly beckons me into the realm of my memory. With each familiar nickname, I can recall ten ways in which the two women are distinct from one another. Or at least how Sadie is different from the woman I remember.
Their differences are striking. For example, while Sadie may have finally decided to settle down in one area, she appreciates freedom and mobility whereas Santana prefers to plant roots and create routines. Santana never had a home situation like the rest of us did. She finds great comfort in having the same people around her, because it's the closest that she'll ever get to a family until she begins her own. Alternatively, when Sadie wants someone to like her she tries really hard to make that happen. Santana is more of the stand back and wait type with random bursts of effort mixed in.
Sadie spouts off her feelings without reservation whenever they happen, while Santana's feelings often have to be extracted from her. Santana reacts, she emotes, she expresses, but rarely does she talk about her issues without being asked. Sadie doesn't allow things to build inside of her until they combust like Santana sometimes does.
Sadie plays the role of the peacekeeper with her friends. She wants the people that she likes to get along with one another. Santana, in contrast, is a caretaker. Whether people want it or not she ensures that her friends are safe and okay. Santana is proactive where Sadie is reactive. Santana remembers the little things like what kind of coffee people drink, and which songs make people smile. Sadie tends to remember the little things only when she's involved in them. She's more of a big picture kind of girl.
Santana wouldn't burn popcorn when she's sharing it with another person, even if that's how she preferred it. She would "undercook" it, and play it off as a mistake, when in reality she deliberately didn't burn it. When Sadie does something for someone else she wants other people to know about it whereas Santana often makes efforts to hide the evidence of her good deeds. Santana talks a big game but she's secretly humble.
Sadie's far more forward and flirtatious, although Santana is capable of being both. They're impatient in different ways. Sadie values her own time greatly, while Santana gets anxious about wasting the time of others. Sadie, at times, lacks tact, while Santana is usually aware of the proper time and place for certain things. Santana loves surprising people, but hates being surprised, and I would guess Sadie enjoys both.
Most importantly, when Sadie hugs me I don't feel safe and at home. Santana's hugs always made me feel content in a way that no others ever have. Sadie smells like lavender soap often with a hint of cigarette smoke, which is nothing like my ex-girlfriend's scent.
Their mannerisms are different. One of my favorites used to be that Santana does this thing where she often takes people's hands when she's leading them somewhere. She mirrors lip biting, even though she doesn't realize that she's doing it. She crosses her arms frequently when she's experiencing a negative emotion.
More concisely, Sadie and I can never have anything because she reminds me of Santana but is decisively not Santana. It's not that the trade off in qualities trends positively in one woman's direction. Sadie certainly possesses some traits that Santana does not that would make her easier to be in a relationship with.
But, when Sadie does remind me of Santana, there's something that tugs inside of me that craves for more. Having any form of a physical relationship with Sadie would just be weird, because I would want her to be someone who she is definitely not.
"And why is that exactly?" I question out of curiosity.
"Sex and the City. Samantha really appreciated herself some sex, right? And yet, she never took a ride on Mr. Big even during Carrie and Mr. Big's breaks. You don't mess around with your best friend's most significant ex," Sadie explains.
"I'm her most significant?" My chest tightens at the thought. Santana wasn't my longest relationship, but our relationship definitely had the greatest impact on me of any that I have had since.
"Now who's the idiot? While we're on the topic of love, how was your date last week?" Sadie changes the subject, and I get the idea that she's trying to be more respectful of Santana's boundaries. Because of that, I don't press it, even though I definitely want to know more.
I've almost forgotten entirely about last week's date. It wasn't a memorable experience, if I'm being honest.
"It was…nice. She was…nice." Sadie tilts the popcorn bag in my direction and I convey my disinterest with a movement of my head.
"She sounds like a yawnfest," she observes, reaching for the remote control for the television.
"Yeah, that's unfortunately accurate," I sigh. She was nice, but she couldn't maintain a conversation to save her life.
Sadie's phone rings again, and this time she digs it out of her pocket to answer it.
"What quarter life crisis are you having right now, Fancy, that you need to be blowing up my phone like this?" she says into the phone, in lieu of a greeting.
It must be Kurt.
Sadie's mouth drops as she listens to whatever it is that he called to say.
"Tonight? You're kidding." She sits up straight, and tosses the popcorn bag onto the table.
"Yes, I could use the extra money, of course, but this is crazy, and your fru fru crap will not jive with mine." Sadie gestures at me as if to say can you believe this? which is silly considering how I can only hear half of the conversation.
She stands up, driving a hand through her hair.
"But it's going to be so much work, and I have an audition tomorrow morning," Sadie whines into the mouthpiece.
"I don't know many people who are going to want to help us all night."
All night? What could Kurt possibly need help with that would take all night?
"Fuck. Fine. I'll try to bribe Quinnie here. Your first beggar's call needs to be Santana," she orders, and I flinch at the nickname. My dad is the only one who calls me that. Or did call me that, rather.
"Yeah, I know she isn't the manual labor type but bitch knows how to get shit done," she asserts.
"I'll start clearing the spare room, but you owe me. Call me when you have a plan," she finishes before hanging up.
I don't have to ask for Sadie to enlighten me. She jumps right into it.
"So, Kurt's lease is going to be up at the end of this month, and his landlord is raising the rent for the shoebox he lives in. Another tenant wants to move in tomorrow, and the landlord offered to give him his entire security deposit back, no questions asked, if he's out by noon tomorrow."
I glance back at the clock on the microwave.
"It's already four," I point.
If Kurt just found this out, then that means that he probably isn't packed. This is going to be a complete clusterfuck.
"I know. So what do ya say?"
I haven't seen Santana since last weekend. I was the first one the car dropped off after Brittany's party ended. Santana was quiet the whole ride, probably because Kurt and Sadie were busy arguing about Kurt's phone. Sadie finally admitted that Santana was the one holding it, and she suggested that Kurt try to physically get it from her. He promptly dropped the subject.
I would help even if Santana wasn't going to be around, but I am interested to see exactly how this "truce" is going to play out.
"I already regret this, but sure," I groan. No matter what, this is going to be a long night.
Santana's POV
"We're dropping the first load!" Puck announces our arrival to Sadie's apartment.
I grimace over at him, until I realize that he isn't actually making a disgusting joke for once.
My arms are already sore from carrying Kurt's shit up all of Sadie's steps. I had one hell of a training workout this morning, and then I had to go into work because some fucking congressman couldn't keep his dick in his pants. So, my energy was pretty much at empty when this mess started.
I'm tired, and I know that this endeavor is going to take all night. When Kurt called I was a breath away from offering to just give him the security deposit money myself, so he could move out within the normal time frame. I'm sure he wouldn't have taken it, in any case.
The worst part of the experience so far was being stuck in Puck's truck sitting between Puck and Sebastian. I'm floored that Sebastian volunteered to help, although he's been all about trying to get into Kurt's fancy pants as of late. Sebastian is such an asshole that I was afraid that Puck was going to reach over and clock him during various parts of our commute.
"I don't have it cleared out back here yet, just leave what you have in the living room," Sadie instructs with a yell.
The three of us set our stuff down as coached.
"This is why there are people who can be hired for these matters," Sebastian complains, tugging the fabric of his shirt repeatedly in attempt to cool down.
"I can't believe that you're so hard up for sex that you're doing this," I remark.
"I'm not hard up for anything except for time away from you, Lopez," Sebastian scowls.
Puck is in work mode, and he ignores both of us, fetching packing tape and who knows what else from Sadie's hall closet.
Sebastian can't shield his face for me quickly enough. And just like that, everything makes sense. I can't believe that I didn't see it before.
"Oh my god, you actually like him, don't you?" I accuse, and he literally turns away from me so I can't read his reaction.
"Don't be ridiculous," he growls back weakly.
"You do! Everything makes so much sense now. That's why you've been coming to our shows, that's why you cash in favors he owes you with dinners with him, and that's definitely why you're here tonight," I summarize.
Sebastian doesn't respond. Instead, he walks right out the door like a petulant child. It's all the confirmation I need.
"I called it!" Sadie shouts from the spare room.
I'm so glad that she heard that, because I have to talk to someone about this. It's just too good. Formerly, I wasn't convinced that Sebastian even had feelings, period. To think that he has actual feelings for Kurt Hummel.
I jog back to Sadie's former spare room/Kurt's new room to share in the delicious excitement of this revelation. Before I even cross the path of the door frame, however, I'm greeted by Quinn's ass. She's bending over in a pair of Sadie's tiny shorts with the name of her dance company across the butt. Logically, I'm sure that Quinn was probably in one of her dresses, and Sadie gave her more comfortable clothes to work in. The irrational side of me hates seeing Quinn in Sadie's clothes regardless of why she has them on. Once again logically, I know that Sadie would never so much as kiss Quinn, but that hasn't stopped the images from periodically flashing through my head since Britt's party.
I don't recall exactly how old I was when I first became obsessed with Quinn's derriere, but I remember how painfully difficult it was for me to have to palm that ass during cheerleading stunts when I desperately wanted to dig my nails into it. I definitely did my share of nail digging after we became a couple. Especially when one of us was wearing the strap on, and pretty much every single time she was on top while we 69'd.
Sadie clears her throat and gives me a very pointed look as Quinn straightens her back. It's a kindness that I'm grateful for; I certainly wouldn't want Quinn to catch me staring at her ass. I avert my eyes, and I realize that I have no idea how long I've been standing here.
Kurt had warned me that Quinn was probably going to be helping out as well. And while I have yet to adjust to how entrenched with everyone Quinn is now, I didn't allow that fact to deter me. I realized at Britt's party, that while I wasn't forcing my friends to choose between us, that I was forcing them to choose between time with us. I think Quinn had a similar thought after seeing Brittany's video. I had evidence thrusted directly in my face of a handful of times where I missed out on things specifically because Quinn was there. It only showed a fraction of how many there has been in reality, I'm sure. I may have my issues with Quinn, but I also recognize that it's not fair of me to deprive her of the company of our friends. We did similar things in high school. Sometimes things between us got so bad that we avoided each other entirely. I know now that it had a negative impact on our friends.
In a way, I'm the reason that my friends were without Quinn for so many years. It may not have been my decision, but if Quinn and I had never dated then she probably wouldn't have disappeared like she did. Well, that's a depressing thought.
Anyway, my time is limited these days, and I don't want to waste it. I don't expect for us to be best friends, but I know I can do a better job of being friendly with her than I have been.
"Hey," I greet her while she arcs down to grab something else to place into the trash bag that she's holding. Thankfully, this time she's facing me.
"Hi," she mouths back with a flustered and somewhat suspicious expression.
Okay, that was dorky.
She adjusts one of the bobby pins in her hair, and I fight the compulsion to tell her how much I like the shorter hairstyle. It makes her look sophisticated; well, perhaps when she's not in booty shorts.
"Hello to you, too, Santana. Remember me, over here, on the floor, waiting anxiously for you to explain why you've come running in here as if you've heard through the grapevine that I'm giving away Louboutins," Sadie sarcastically waves to catch my attention. I could kill her sometimes.
She's seated cross-legged on the floor, sorting through who knows what junk. She's so messy, it's borderline gross. I don't know how Kurt is going to tolerate it.
"This room is disgusting, and I live with Puck. Kurt's probably going to insist that you hose it down before his things touch anything in here," I sneer at whatever stain is in front of me on the carpet.
"It does smell a little…off in here, Sadie," Quinn backs me up.
"So I don't clean my spare room? What's the big deal?" Sadie shrugs.
"Do you know how high she's going to jump if she discovers your lost pet mouse under all of this shit?" I gesture to Quinn.
Quinn gasps, dropping the trash bag, and hops away from the pile nearest to her.
"Mouse?!" she exclaims. I hate how cute I find her to be. Sadie and I laugh for a few seconds before Sadie ends Quinn's misery.
"I never had a mouse. She's just a bitch," Sadie illuminates.
Quinn glares at me before forcefully snatching her trash bag from where she threw it. There's a hint of a smile on her face, however.
"Basically," I agree with a shrug.
"Are the guys waiting out there for you or what?" Sadie poses.
Oh, I had completely forgotten why I came in here.
"Shit, yes, but I wanted to talk about Kurt and Sebastian quick. Sebastian has it bad. Kurt's his Reese Witherspoon. Cruel Intentions style," I assert, and Sadie nods in enthusiastic agreement.
"Wasn't that asshole's name also Sebastian?" Sadie adds.
"It was!" I exclaim.
"You can't fight the pretty that is Kurt Hummel." Sadie raises her hands.
Kurt did not look pretty when we stopped for our first load earlier. He looked frantic and disheveled. He claimed that at least a couple of his friends from work were going to show, but so far he has no packing help.
I'm terrible at it myself. If I was ever left to my own packing devices, all my shit would be broken. Sebastian has probably never packed a box in his life. And Puck believes that trash bags are suitable substitutes for boxes.
But Quinn, Quinn was always great with stuff like that. When I moved out to NYC, for example, Quinn managed to fit all of my shit in my not-so-spacious car. She's pretty much a genius in that respect.
We'd probably be done much quicker if Quinn is on the packing team.
"Do you mind if we steal your trash lady? We're dropping Puck off to get a moving truck and we're taking his truck back to Kurt's," I request.
"You have enough movers. Don't take my company," Sadie pouts in my direction and then in Quinn's.
The situation makes me uncomfortable. Sadie has assured me that there isn't anything going on with her and Quinn, but they seem awfully cozy with one another.
Now I'm really determined to have Quinn go with us.
"Kurt needs another packer, and if I remember correctly, you're like the Martha Stewart of packing," I compliment while trying to sound as casual as possible.
Quinn appears torn. I'm sure the idea of traveling with me isn't high on her list of preferred activities. She bites down on her lower lip, and I have to deliberately fixate my eyes on Sadie in order to avoid staring at her mouth.
"Do you need me here?" Quinn inquires in Sadie's direction.
"Need is such a tricky word," Sadie sidesteps the question with a mischievous smile.
"That's a no," I clarify with a roll of my eyes.
"I suppose I'll go with you guys then," Quinn decides, and Sadie makes a pathetically disappointed noise.
She can get over it.
"Alright. Enjoy your mess nest, Sadie," I bid her goodbye, and lead the way into the living room.
There's no sign of either of the guys.
"I'm sure they're already down in the truck. Impatient fuckers," I curse, before pulling the door open to the apartment hallway.
Quinn is silent, although I know she's behind me. God, I hope it's not going to be awkward like this all night.
After we have descended one flight, she finally speaks.
"Are you worried at all about Sebastian and Kurt?" she questions, out of the blue.
Am I? I don't think I am, which is a surprise. Sebastian is cruel, underhanded, and manipulative. But, I've known him for years now, and I've never seen him act like this. Besides, Kurt may want to drunkenly have sex with Sebastian, but that doesn't mean that he'd actually entertain the idea of a relationship with my co-worker. Kurt's a romantic. He believes in commitment and monogamy, and flowers and heart shaped boxes of chocolate. He won't settle for someone who can't give him all of that. He never has.
"No, I'm not," I answer simply.
"Why not?" she inquires at my back as we twist down another flight of stairs.
"Sebastian knows what I'm capable of, better than anyone."
If Sebastian ever fucked Kurt over, there's no telling what I would do.
"Is that how you get what you want these days, with fear?" Quinn poses judgmentally.
I'm not going to be the one to kick this conversation into an argument. I refuse to let her get a rise out of me this time.
"It's not exactly a new trick for me," I shrug nonchalantly, pushing open the front door to the building.
"How far you've come from intimidating the halls of McKinley High." I can practically feel her sarcastic eye roll.
Fuck her. I don't need her judgment; I have more than enough of my own. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my life.
"You won't see me waiting in line for a halo anytime soon. I'll leave that to you," I toss back at her, while we approach the truck.
It doesn't hit me until my hand is almost on the door handle that Puck's truck only seats three. I'm a forward thinker. I've been trained to plan for every possible scenario. And yet, as soon as Quinn Fabray walks in the room, it all goes out the window.
It's a short drive to the U-Haul place, but I'm sure it won't feel that way if I'm playing Santa with Quinn. Fuck.
"Your dog is a loyal one, Lopez. I went so far as to offer to blow him if he would drive us away in this piece of scrap metal, and leave you to your three-way scissoring," Sebastian details as soon as we're within hearing distance.
Puck is leaning against the truck, and Sebastian is very obviously making sure that not an inch of his body is touching Puck's vehicle.
"Call me whatever you want, Princeton, but one day, Santana is going to give me the go ahead to free all of your teeth from that cesspool that you call a mouth," Puck threatens, pushing off the body of the truck.
"I look forward to it. You'll fit right into the penitentiary system. Hey, you can think of it as an opportunity to reconnect with your deadbeat dad," Sebastian warns back, turning to face Puck to punctuate.
I don't need to see Puck's face to know that Sebastian has flipped Puck's self-control switch. I step between them to draw Puck's eye contact, just before Puck can surge forward.
I set my gaze on his until his breathing slows, and eventually he crosses to the driver's side of the truck to get in.
"You pick up a stray?" Sebastian refers to Quinn.
I step a short distance away from the truck, and gesture for Sebastian to follow. I don't need Quinn to hear this. He steps away with me without hesitation.
"What are you going to do, Lopez? Are you going to hurt me? Going to give all of your cute little friends a demonstration of exactly who you really are?" Sebastian taunts.
Usually when I'm around Sebastian I'm in heels, so the height difference isn't so extreme. But, what I lack in height I make up for in tenacity.
"You know that I could hurt you and they would never know. I should leave you here, but Kurt needs all the help he can get right now. Oh, and speaking of Kurt, do you think that I'm going to allow you to get close to him if you continue to put your soullessness on full display?"
"You're no better than me," Sebastian counters. I don't shrink at his words. I don't recoil. But they leave the worst taste imaginable in my mouth. It's one of my deepest fears, and I'm sure he's aware of that.
"We can keep going down this road, and soon enough, I won't hesitate to make sure that everyone at the firm finds out about your indiscretions on the Brauer case," I blackmail.
Sebastian had an affair with the client's son. The client's daughter was kidnapped, and instead of interviewing the son, Sebastian was fucking him. To top it all off, he billed those hours. If I had siblings, and one of them was taken, I can't imagine fucking someone within the 24 hour window. "People deal with tragedy differently," Sebastian claimed. "He doesn't know anything of importance," he contended. I knew that he knew that it was all bullshit. There's nothing unimportant when it comes to cases like that.
I covered for him, because I knew that there would probably be a time in the future where I would need the same in return. I handled the son's interviews since Sebastian's judgment was compromised. I discovered that the son was involved in the kidnapping, which is something we would have known much sooner had Sebastian actually been doing his fucking job rather than fucking the scumbag. Sebastian received the credit for the cracking of that particular case.
People come to us instead of the police because we're far more effective. I used to live for cases like that. Cases where we could help families, cases where we could help bring murderers to justice. Cases that made me feel good, that made me feel like I was doing something right. But it was all just a fantasy. As more of the story was revealed each time, it became more and more apparent of just how fucked everyone in this world is. The Brauer case was just one example of that. I was still green enough to be shocked when we exposed that the brother and sister conspired together to stage her kidnapping with plans of splitting the ransom money.
If I've learned anything at this job it's that people are motivated by sex or money or both 90% of the time.
"Your hands aren't clean either," he raises. No one's hands are clean. Everyone is guilty of their own sins, everyone has their own secrets. I have kept this a secret this whole time, but I'll do what I have to, and Sebastian knows that.
"Your tell is showing," I mock. Sebastian loses his long-windedness when he's genuinely concerned about something. I know that I've won this one.
"You're weak. These people make you weak," he insults, and I turn to walk back to the truck. Without my friends tethering me to the ground, I don't know where I would be. He's probably right. I would be better at my job if I didn't have them to remind me of the good in people, the good in the world. But if I didn't have them what would I have? More money? More clients? More respect in my field? More pats on the back from my mother?
He has me so worked up that I no longer care that there are only three seats in the truck.
"Do you want top or bottom?" I offer to a disturbed looking Quinn, as I open the passenger side door.
"Excuse me?" Her face flushes, and I almost laugh at her shyness. This woman has had me in every position and yet a simple harmless question causes her to blush.
"In the truck. There are only three seats. Would you rather be on my lap or would you rather have me on yours? Unless you'd rather get on Sebastian's-" I elucidate for her.
"Oh. I don't care," Quinn responds, attempting to hide her irritation with my amusement by acting apathetic.
"Okay," I affirm, and I move across the seat of the truck. Bottom for me it is then. I figure that with Quinn's weight on top of me I'll be less likely to fidget.
She waits until Sebastian is headed our way before she crawls into the cab after me. From the instant she hesitantly slides onto my lap, I realize that I've made the wrong choice.
I'm once again overwhelmed with the vanilla and citrus and the quintessentially Quinn scent. She's warm, and her ass is directly against the crotch of my jean shorts. I swallow, suddenly very aware of my hands. I can't decide where to put them. I fumblingly settle for balling them into awkward fists by the side of my legs. I hear the truck door slam, indicating that Sebastian has now joined us. Once again, I've lost complete awareness of my surroundings.
Every time Quinn shifts, or we drive over a bump, her ass rubs against the middle seam of my shorts, providing a friction that I really don't need. What the fuck is going on with me? Since when did I become this horny fucking teenager again? I'm no stranger to having women in my lap. It doesn't impact me like this.
But fuck, the back of Quinn's bare legs are flush with my equally bare skin. It feels hot, too hot. I know my legs are starting to sweat, and not because it's summer, and not because Puck's air conditioning is less than fabulous.
It's torture. And the mood in the truck is fucking tense. No one is talking. There's nothing to distract me from Quinn's soft weight on top of me. I lean back as much as I can. The last thing I need is for Quinn to notice my hard nipples against her back.
"Are you having a heat stroke? Muscles here better be able to carry the bulky items by himself, if you do. I'm not one for heavy lifting," Sebastian comments from beside me.
Fuck. I need to get this under control. Considering Sebastian's training, his observation doesn't necessarily indicate that I'm being obvious. I don't think I am. I don't think Puck has noticed my extreme discomfort.
But, in Sebastian's favor, I know that I am experiencing many of the symptoms that precede a heat stroke, although for reasons unrelated to the heat. Every inch of my skin that is in contact with hers is burning. I'm light headed from the combination of her scent and her body's movement against my shorts. My heartbeat is rapid. As soon as I felt her weight on me, I felt my heart's tempo increase in my chest, but I know that the majority of the speed is due to my panic over how my body is reacting, and the reality that I'm unable to control it. My muscles feel weak from the effort. My breathing is shallow, because I'm fighting to keep quiet, while making sure that I do, in fact, breathe. Without a doubt I'm disoriented, at least for me. Usually I see my environment as a series of complexities and potentially significant details. Without conscious thought, I know how many people are in a room, I know the texture of the floor, and every possible point of entry. It's like a devolution of my mind. My head is fuzzy and unorganized, and my once calculating thoughts have spiraled into profane reactions to bodily sensations.
Quinn takes a deep breath, her back arches, and her perfectly cuppable butt rolls back and against me once again. I clamp my hands down on the side material of my shorts, forcibly restraining any movement of my hips.
Oh my god. I'm going to die.
"If you hurl in this truck while I'm in it, Lopez, I will kill everything that you love." Sebastian has never been good with bodily fluids. Aside from blood and I would wager semen, they all make him quite squeamish.
Mercifully, we pull into the U-Haul parking lot. Puck turns the truck into a parking spot, but he's really not moving out of the vehicle hastily enough for me.
"Is there a reason we're just sitting here?" I mumble impatiently.
"Damn girl, I'm getting out," he whistles. The second that Puck takes his first step out of the truck, I jerk myself so quickly and so roughly out from under Quinn that she almost falls into Sebastian.
"What the hell, Santana?" Quinn curses. The anger in her tone is evident, but she also sounds a shade wounded as well.
"It's hotter than hell in here. I could barely breathe," I lie, ignoring the tingling awareness of Quinn's eyes on my face.
It's been nearly an hour since the truck ride, and this desire, or whatever the fuck it is, that has overwhelmed my body somehow has not become any less prominent. It's unrelenting. My thoughts are still cloudy, and Puck continually has to repeat my name in order to get my attention.
After taking a few loads down to the moving truck, I tried racing back up the apartment steps to release some energy. But it didn't lessen my need at all. It just made me sweaty and grateful that I carry deodorant in my purse. It also caused Kurt to look at me like I was some kind of freak each time I entered his apartment again. I think Sebastian's figured it out by the way he smiles at me in between his flirty banter attempts with Kurt. I just pray that he hasn't discerned the why of it all, or rather the reason for my sexual frustration.
We've been clearing the living room and Quinn has primarily been in Kurt's bedroom. It's a small favor that I don't have to be in close quarters with her. Although we did have that cliché passing moment in the hallway, where I didn't step out of her way swiftly enough to prevent our chests from skimming one another's. Since that encounter, I've been afflicted with visions of taking Quinn against the wall.
I don't remember the last time that I felt like this. I can't recall the last time this pure want inside of me felt so pressing, so urgent, so out of my fucking control. I know I'm acting like even more of an irritable bitch than usual because of it. I'm swarmed with guilt every time I snap at Puck.
I adjust the end of Kurt's mattress at the back of the moving van, and all I can think about is the weekend morning in late summer when Quinn was on her back on Mercedes' floor while I rode her face. Mercedes had left us there while she went to church, and she had made us promise not to have sex on her bed. We took that very literally. My hands were the only parts of me that were on her bed.
"You gonna make it, babe?" Puck questions by the mouth of the door.
"I'm fine. Stop fucking asking, okay?" I snap again, and I watch the hurt flash on his handsome features.
That's it. That's the final straw. I have to do something about this.
"I'm sorry. I think I just feel sticky and gross and I need to wash up a bit. Make a couple trips with some of the small things and then we'll get back to team work?" I propose.
"Sure," he agrees.
I lock the door of Kurt's bathroom the moment I enter it. I'm very careful to avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. I'm afraid that if I do, I'll lose my nerve. I can't believe I'm going to do this, but if I know anything about problems, it's that sometimes they don't go away on their own. Some problems have to be fixed.
I leave the sink water running out of paranoia. I'm confident that I can be quiet. My body may have forgotten that I'm not a fucking adolescent, but I'm not that far gone.
I dry my hands quickly, turning away from the mirror to rest the small of my back against the cool counter. I fervently unbutton my shorts, pushing my hand directly beneath my underwear. I don't need to fucking make love to myself. I just need release. I need to get off so I can get back to feeling like a normal human being again.
It's never been exactly easy for me to come standing up, but I know that it can be achieved; it certainly doesn't hurt that I know precisely how to touch myself.
I'm so ridiculously wet that it's shameful. My clit is throbbing, and overly sensitive. It's difficult for me to achieve the friction I need when my finger slips so easily over it, and when I can't press too hard into the sensitive skin.
I move my hand faster to compensate. Jesus fuck, this feels good.
With each gyration of my hips into my own hand, I'm reassured that this was the right decision. This was necessary to prevent myself from saying something stupid, or doing something-or someone-stupid.
My head falls back, my eyes close, and I allow myself to actually think of her. I haven't permitted Quinn to be a subject of my masturbatory fantasies in years. But, I'm pressed for time, and I'm not sure that I'm capable of thinking of anything else.
I bite down forcefully on my lower lip when I feel the whimper bubbling up in my throat. I'm getting close. So deliciously close to finally uncoiling this pressure in my stomach.
The door bursts open without even the slightest wiggle of a handle to warn me.
I yank my hand out of my shorts immediately, but it's too late.
"Oh my god. Oh my god! Oh my god!" Kurt gasps covering his eyes. He keeps repeating it, and it gets louder every damn time that he does so.
I jerk him further into the bathroom with my clean hand and I kick the door closed.
"Shut up. Seriously, shut up!" I urge in a frantic whisper.
"Were you? Was that? In my bathroom?" He stammers.
"I locked the door for one ya creep, and it's going to be someone else's bathroom in less than 24 hours anyway. Get over it." I'm more frustrated than I am embarassed.
I don't know what's happening with my body, but it sure as hell isn't some conscious choice that I've made. But Kurt's no saint, I remember a giggling Sadie and Puck catching our well-dressed friend blowing one of my law school friends while sitting on Puck and I's toilet.
"The lock doesn't work!" Kurt's voice bounces into his high-pitched range. I'm confident that dogs are only supposed to be able to hear noises at that frequency.
"So I discovered," I respond without mirth.
A soft knock comes at the door.
"Is everything okay?" Fuck. It's Quinn.
"Everything is fine," I call into the door.
"Are you sure? I thought I heard Kurt screaming," she presses.
I direct the nastiest glare I can summon in Kurt's direction.
"Yup. All fine in here. Santana was having trouble turning off the sink faucet, so I'm helping her," Kurt lies, and I swear my eyes almost pop out of my head.
"Okay…" Quinn responds skeptically, but I hear her move away from the door anyway.
"Trouble turning off the sink? That's the best you could come up with?!"
"We aren't all successful deception artists!" Kurt shoots back.
"Well you succeeded in making me sound like a fucking dumbass, that's for damn sure," I whisper intensely.
"Maybe you shouldn't be wanking in other people's bathrooms, Santana."
"You better not tell a fucking soul about this."
"I won't. As long as you agree to clean the bathroom once everything is moved out of it."
"Are you trying blackmail me right now? Did you forget what I do for a living? You're delusional; I'm already helping you move, Lady Lips."
"From where I'm standing it looks like you were helping yourself, not me. You know who would be thoroughly tickled by this? Quinn. I'll call her in. Qu-"
My hand claps over his mouth before he can finish. He knows that he has me; I can feel his smile spreading under my hand.
"Fine, but consider this war, Hummel," I concede, dropping my hand from his mouth.
He glances down to my unbuttoned shorts.
"You may want to fix that before we walk out," he advises.
"Oh hell no. You're walking out, and I'm finishing what I started."
"You can't be serious," he regards me incredulously.
"If I have to clean this bathroom, I'm at least getting a fucking orgasm out of it. So get the fuck out," I demand.
"You're absolutely insane." Kurt rotates towards the door.
"Get," I order with gritted teeth.
Once Kurt shuts the door behind him, I lean my back against it this time to prevent any more ambushes. Despite the intrusion, it doesn't take me long at all to send myself spinning over the edge.
Quinn's POV
Puck starts the engine of his truck, and I buckle my seatbelt before curling up in exhaustion against the passenger door. It'll only be a couple more hours before the sun comes up, but the current state of darkness is making me feel even more fatigued.
"I think it's time for me to crash. Do you want me to take you home?" Puck offers, before he sets the air conditioning to blast.
My bed sounds wonderfully tempting, but I know Kurt is probably alone and struggling to clean everything in his apartment.
"Would you take me back to Kurt's instead?" I request.
Sadie fell asleep on her own couch over an hour ago, claiming that she simply needed to "rest her eyes." Sebastian took his leave about ten minutes before midnight. Kurt's co-workers abandoned ship I don't even know how many hours ago. I know that Santana stayed behind at Kurt's while we made our last trip of the night over to Sadie's, but I'm sure that she's home sleeping soundly by now. From what I overheard her saying to Puck, she was awake before dawn this morning. She swung from exhausted to energized like an unpredictable pendulum all day. I wish I could read her like she reads everyone else.
Then again, I don't think I would like much of what I would see if I did. Whenever I watch her interact with someone like Sebastian, I'm struck by what a dangerous stranger she is. And it's not just that. I'm positive that I would have no interest in knowing what was going through her head during our brief ride to U-Haul earlier. She acted like the prospect of one of us on the other's lap was no sort of ordeal. The most physical contact that I had with Santana until that point consisted of a handshake, and an arm grab when I almost toppled over at Britt's party. Yes, I'm an adult, and I gave my best effort to act as casual as she did about it. But then apparently she looked like she was going to get sick because of it? And then she tossed me off of her lap with such forceful urgency at the first opportunity. How could anyone feel good about themselves after that? I must be repulsive to her.
Before Sebastian's commentary, I must admit that I was enjoying the contact. It was marginally uncomfortable due to the heat and the truck's close quarters. But it was nice to feel her skin on mine again. While her amused tone concerning my original pause at the idea irritated me, I was charmed by how willing she was to put herself in that position with me. Reluctantly, I must say that I did find something erotic about my ex-girlfriend breathing beneath me. I was appreciative for the heat, because I'm sure my flushed cheeks would have given my arousal away otherwise. I could have sworn that she gradually grew hotter between her thighs as the ride progressed. I absently wondered how Rachel would feel if she knew that Santana had me on her lap.
All of those thoughts went out the window, however, when Sebastian made the vomiting comment. The moisture building between our legs must have been from her discomfort and disgust. She couldn't bear to be that close to me. Because of that, I was more than ready to separate from her when we reached the U-Haul store, but apparently, to her, getting away from me was practically emergent.
Puck slaps his cheek to make himself more alert, and I'm drawn out of my thoughts. He smells like someone who has been carrying heavy things all day. I'm sure I do as well, although I did far more packing and organizing than I did carrying.
Sadie isn't as strong as I expected her to be. Kurt's strength surprised me. Sebastian refused to carry anything that weighed more than a small child, whereas Santana and Puck were beasts, just as I had expected.
"You don't have to do all of that. Kurt loves the crap out of you," Puck states as he pulls into the street.
Puck spent the last half an hour putting together Kurt's bed in his new room while I tried to fit all of Kurt's food in Sadie's fridge. We haven't had much interaction over the course of the day, but the interaction that we have had has all been positive. I don't know why he would choose now to ruin our streak.
Santana, I noticed, was really quick-tempered with him for a good portion of the early evening.
"You think I'm trying to suck up to him?" I'm not sure that I really want to know, because I am way too beat to fight.
"Nah, I didn't mean for it to come out like that. I meant he'd understand if you needed to go home to get some rest," he clarifies.
"I don't work tomorrow. I have all day to sleep. I don't want him to be stuck cleaning by himself," I sigh against the window.
It's not as if I want to clean, but I know how terrible it is to have to do everything yourself.
"You're a good friend, Quinn."
Out of my peripheral vision I catch a glimpse of his face. He's being genuine. It's a far cry from how he acted towards me in that alleyway months ago.
"Thank you."
"Forgive me, but I'm going to get sappy here for a minute, because I'm sleep deprived. But I want to say that I did mean my apology at the bachelorette party. I am sorry for what I did. I don't think you're a bad person, and to be real, I missed having you around," Puck confesses.
I had questioned whether Puck would remember apologizing. I think that's part of the reason why I didn't take it too seriously. His words really hurt me that night, but I think I'll be able to forgive him if our relationship continues to progress in this direction.
"I think I missed you too, Puck." I flash him a sly smile that he can't see because his eyes are on the road.
"I wasn't listening to what you said to me in that alleyway. I act without thinking sometimes, and she's my sister, you know? I'm honestly not sure if I'd be alive without her. I know I wouldn't be here," he opens up to me. His voice is laden with fatigue. If talking keeps him awake enough to drive then I'm all for it.
"I'm happy that you two have remained close," I relay honestly.
I think it was junior year when Puck and Santana started to become inseparable. She called him out on his misogynistic bullshit, and he showed her that she could have someone to depend on. I think their bond was truly solidified when he helped her fight off her homophobic attackers at Prom.
Santana is this interesting phenomenon. Entering high school, Santana's friendships were almost entirely superficial and primarily based on fear and intimidation. She transformed, and matured at rapid speed, and her relationships deepened. Now, I have a feeling that Santana won't just be Brittany's Maid of Honor (or best woman as she calls it). She'll probably be Puck's and Sadie's, and who knows how many other people. She was probably Rachel's pick before they became entangled.
"Did Sadie or Kurt tell you about my first year out of high school?" He glances over at me. He appears far more awake now.
"No." There have been a few offhanded comments about Puck that I didn't understand. I figured they were inside jokes of some sort. I never pressed to learn more about Puck's past, and I have no idea how Puck came to live in NYC. Honestly, it doesn't seem like his style of place.
"I hung out here with Santana and her mom temporarily when you two called it quits. And then, like the genius I am, I had this idea come to me, and no one could talk me out of it. I was sure that I could make it in Last Vegas with my guitar and my crooner pipes. I could party and perform, and I'd never have to grow up. It was the perfect plan," he details with obvious self-deprecation.
I could imagine 18-year-old Puck deciding that he was going to make it big with little to no effort on his part.
"It didn't work out. Big surprise. I got caught up with the wrong sort of people instead. I couch and floor surfed, and sometimes I slept in my jeep when I couldn't find a place to bunk for the night. I spent the money that my mom saved for me to go to trade school with on drugs. I sold my jeep for next to nothing when that money ran out. It was like one long one very bad trip." He frowns at the road ahead of him.
Puck can be unpredictable at times, and he makes some dumb choices but I never imagined that he would get involved with drugs. It makes my heart ache to think of the conditions he must have been living in.
"It's fuzzy, but I remember the day when Santana showed up. She was so quiet. I was high enough that I thought that maybe her fancy college had changed her. Maybe they muted that sharp tongue of hers. Or worse, that she fell back down the hole that she was in after the two of you split. But really, I only believed that she was hallucination. She looked so out of place in my hell, you know? Beautiful, and familiar. Like home. She didn't look real standing next to my stained mattress," his voice lifts as if he's in a dark dreamy state.
I grip the handle of the door tightly. I fear for where this is going. And it makes me sick to think about Santana dealing with her out of control best friend so soon after our break up. How panicked and distressed she must have been.
"I was the failure that everyone always told me I would be. Stupid Puck. He'll never amount to anything. I was convincing myself that they were right, while Santana was convincing her mother to track me down. Why Ms. Lopez allowed her daughter to knowingly fly out to walk straight into a drug den I'll never know. She's a complicated lady. But I wasn't hallucinating. Santana really came for me."
Usually I feel a sense of guilt when people share personal stories about Santana's past, but I get the impression that this is definitely more of Puck's story than it is Santana's.
I'm not surprised that Santana came for him. I'm not remotely surprised that she would use every resource she had to find Puck if she thought he was in trouble.
"Do you want to know my least favorite part of this story? It was when Santana tried to help me up from the floor to take me out of there, and the other guys there, well, I owed them some real money. They thought they could take it in trade from her or something, or she looked like someone who had money, or maybe they just didn't want her to take me away without squaring my debt. Whatever the reason, they went at her, and I was too fucking high to do anything to stop them," he spits out the last revelation angrily. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.
I can faintly feel the bile rising in my throat. It was so long ago, and Santana is obviously fine now, but I can't stand the thought of anyone hurting her.
"When I came to, I was sitting inside of a fucking shopping cart that Santana had swiped from those guys. She had put her super sweet girly ass sunglasses over my eyes, and she was just sitting on a bench on the strip, flipping through a magazine, filing her nails, waiting for me to wake up. Not a mark on her."
He laughs, and I echo his action, although my laugh is mostly one of relief. It's a great image, however, to think of Puck's large body squeezed into a grocery cart. Santana is strong, but I still can't imagine how she could have carried a passed out Puck out of that place. Even if she could lift him, I doubt she could have made it far. The cart was probably a necessity.
"She took me back with her to New York. She got me clean. She made me feel like I was worth something. Every so often, I get that image in my head though. Where I know that she's in danger, I know that people are going after her, and I'm paralyzed. You'd think I'd remember how that story turned out. Santana didn't need me to save her; she saved me and herself. But yeah, like I said, how I treated you was wrong." Puck clears his throat.
It's a roundabout way of explaining himself, but I get it. Puck was never especially skilled with his words. He's always been more of the physical type. But I know how much he loves Santana, and it's apparent how heartbreakingly helpless he feels when she's harmed. I don't think that he was right to approach me at the bar like he did, but I think I definitely understand it better now.
"That's why I had to step away, Puck. It's because I needed to know that I was worth it. I needed to know for myself that I deserved to be who I wanted to be rather than the person that everyone else wanted. Being loved by her was such a gift, but it also lured me into this false sense of identity. I didn't need to be myself. I could be the business student with perfect grades, the sorority girl, the dutiful daughter. It was okay to be those things even when they didn't make me happy, because she made me happy. It's complicated because before I fell in love with her I thought happiness was achieved through doing what other people wanted. But through falling for her, and being with her, she made me realize that it wasn't real happiness before that I was feeling." It spills out of me without effort. I think it's the most I've said about it to anyone since coming back. I didn't expect for it to be Puck, but all of the sudden, I feel safe. He shared one of his most personal stories with me, and I'm touched by that.
"But I didn't walk away thinking that I was going to change my life for the better. That came with time. I walked away because I had to do it to survive, to function," I clarify.
We arrive in front of Kurt's building, and Puck shifts his truck into park. He twists in his seat to face me, his shirt stained with sweat.
"I lied to you that night when I told you that Santana is happy. I don't think she is," he discloses.
This is getting into guilt territory. I have no right to hear such things unless she tells me herself, which I highly doubt that will ever happen. However, he looks so lost and concerned, that I can't bring myself to stop the conversation.
"Because of her work?"
"It could be. I don't think I've ever seen her as happy as she was when she was with you, but she's had happy years for sure. The past couple have been different. I know she is conflicted about helping the cheaters, drug dealers, and crooked politicians. But, I don't even recognize her sometimes. It's hard on all of us, because Santana's the person you call when you have a problem. But when it's Santana, who do you call?"
I squash any hope that threatens to rise in my chest at Puck's statement about when Santana was the happiness. It probably has very little to do with the influence I had in her life then compared to the influence that Rachel has now. I'm confident that her work is the factor that explains whatever difference there may be.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you to call, Puck," I apologize.
"I think I understand why you weren't now. My ears are working tonight." He tugs at his right earlobe with a good-natured smile.
"I'm going to hug you even though you smell like a construction worker," I notify him, scooting closer to him in the cab.
"You're cleared for approach." His smile broadens, and he opens his arms to accept me.
I half-hold my breath while we hug. His arms feel just as big around me as I remember them feeling, and I do find a familiar comfort in his embrace.
"You're not going to disappear on us again are you?" he breathes into my hair.
I pull back to make eye contact with him.
"Never," I vow.
I wish Puck a good night, and he wishes me good luck as I crawl out of his truck.
I climb the steps, praying to all that is good that Kurt forgot to pack all of his coffee beans. I'll swallow them whole, I don't care.
The apartment is mostly dark when I enter it, save for the light emanating from the bathroom, and a solitary lamp in the middle of the living room floor. Kurt is snoring softly right next to his eccentric lamp. His head is resting on a pile of, hopefully clean, rags. It appears as though the carpet has been vacuumed, although there are a few scuffs on the walls that need to be scrubbed out.
I head into the bedroom in search of the cleaning supplies, but movement in the bathroom catches my eye. I halt, leaning back to view inside, and sure enough Santana is groggily scouring the wall of the shower, shifting her hips lazily to the music playing from her phone that's resting on the bathroom counter. After my conversation with Puck, there's nothing that I want more than to hug her.
She jumps, startled at the realization of my presence, and it looks as though she's spread her legs instinctively into what I would guess is some sort of fighting pose. And just like that, her back foot slips and she begins to fall backwards.
I move forward immediately despite the fact that I know that I can't reach her in time to do any good. To my relief, she catches herself with her hands on the sides of the tub before her body can hit the bottom.
"That's one way to wake up," she mutters bitterly before popping herself up to a standing position once again.
She's breathtaking. Tendrils of her hair have fallen from her ponytail to frame her face. I'm sure they're bothering her, but she won't fix it because there's no way that she'll risk getting any of those chemicals in her precious hair. She's stripped herself down to her red tank top. It's always been her best color. My eyes are drawn to every flex of muscle in her arms, and the sliver of her stomach and side that is revealed every time she raises them.
And those jeans shorts. Those shouldn't even be legal. Her butt is barely covered and there are seemingly countless inches of leg on display.
I can see how spent she is, and her clothes are spotted with water and various unknown substances, but if anything, the imperfections on exhibit only make her more appealing.
"Good thing you're part ninja," I tease with a smile.
"You should really announce yourself if you're going to make a habit of entering people's apartments in the middle of the night," she blames me without any sign of animosity.
Thoughts of our truck ride threaten to ruin whatever not entirely unpleasant mood I'm in, so I push them aside.
"I'm practicing for my life of crime in case the whole art thing doesn't work out," I jest. I don't think I'd make a very good criminal.
Santana tosses her sponge down onto the side of the tub, facing me, instead of her task.
"Is Puck here too?"
"No. He dropped me off," I inform her.
She brushes the hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.
"You two are getting along," she observes with an unreadable expression.
"I forgot how sweet he can be," I admit.
"Yeah. He's a big softie," she agrees with a slight trace of a smile.
Feeling my nerves climb under her gaze, I glance at the can in her hand.
"Santana?"
"Yeah?"
"When's the last time you cleaned a bathroom?"
"Uh, I use the same maid service as my mom, and she sorta still picks up the bill. We have to clean up at times for work, but I've never been on bathroom duty for it. I'm a kitchen expert." Her vague emphasis on "clean up" rattles me. I'm not sure that I want to know what she's referring to when she says it.
"I figured as much. The bottle you're using is for counter surfaces. This one," I retrieve a taller can from the bucket resting on the floor, "is for bathtubs and showers."
Santana was never without a maid when we were growing up. My parents had them off and on, but my mom fired them every time. She insisted that she could do a better job, and that keeping a clean home was her role and not a task for some stranger. My mother did most of the cleaning, but she had me do chores on occasion. Since leaving the dorms, I've been responsible for any needed bathroom cleaning.
"Shit," she curses, popping the cap on the can to toss back into the bucket. I had predicted that she would argue with me, or make up some sort of excuse. She must be really tired.
"I'll take care of the counters and toilet while you tackle that with the right product," I suggest. There are other things I could busy myself with in the apartment, I'm sure, but she obviously needs help. And selfishly, I want to be near her, and she seems friendly enough now that I'm not on top of her.
"Take yourself to the kitchen first. There's a pitcher of iced coffee that I conned the neighbor out of earlier. You look like you've smoked an entire bag of weed," she dictates referring to my admittedly heavy eyes.
I'm sure she's right, my eyelids threaten to slip close at any moment. I head into the kitchen, and I return with two full cups. Santana's spraying down the floor of the tub with the proper can. I wait patiently for her to finish so I can hand her the cup. I notice that she's wearing rubber flippers on her feet.
"Don't judge. I swiped them from Kurt's snorkeling shit," she defends, catching my amused face.
"You should be wearing gloves, Santana. Those chemicals are horrible for your skin," I educate.
It's familiar, this back and forth of ours. She makes sure that I'm caffeinated, I make sure that she doesn't hurt her skin.
"Great. I just got this manicure yesterday. Kurt passed out before I could ask him a single question," Santana complains.
"I'll grab us some while you wash your hands."
I take a drink from my cup before placing both of them on the bathroom counter. Before I've fully exited the room, Santana's voice stills me.
"You ever feel like when we're together it's one long déjà vu feeling?"
"A little. Something like that." I don't know how to describe the feeling. Déjà vu isn't accurate, but I don't have a better word for it.
"I wonder how much time it'll take for that to go away," Santana mumbles absentmindedly.
I study her face for an extended moment, while her attention is focused on the shower wall. Unable to discern her meaning, I leave in search of the gloves.
"Should we wake him?" I question, peering at the slumbering man in the living room.
For some reason, I feel like giggling. I blame the lack of sleep. With our powers combined (although Santana relied heavily on my guidance), the apartment is acceptably clean.
I've had a peculiarly good night.
"No. Let him sleep for now. I plugged his phone in and turned the volume up full blast. If he's not up in a couple hours, I'll call him." She gestures to the phone resting dangerously close to our sleeping friend's eardrum.
"That'll be pleasant for him," I respond sarcastically. I'm tempted to move the device to a more humane distance away from Kurt's ear.
"He deserves it. Trust me," Santana compels, and I'm far too drowsy to ask questions.
We quietly leave the apartment, well I quietly leave the apartment, Santana doesn't seem to be concerned with interrupting Kurt's dreams.
As we head down the stairs, I release a barely audible laugh. I can barely lift my arms right now, but Santana's shorts are still affecting me. And my squinty eyes are roaming the muscles and curves of her lower back as we descend. It's ridiculous.
I retrieve my phone to search for the nearest subway stop once we hit the sidewalk.
"What are you doing?" Santana nods in the direction of my phone, as I mindlessly follow her down the sidewalk.
"I'm attempting to figure out where I'm going to catch the subway," I answer without looking up.
"It's an unholy hour. You're not taking the subway," Santana asserts, seemingly without leaving any room for argument.
"I'm a big girl, Santana. I've survived years without you and everything," I retort.
I regret the words instantly when they leave my mouth. It was incredibly insensitive, and I brace myself for Santana to bite back, and for her to throw all of her walls back up.
Extraordinarily, the harsh words never come.
"Let me take you home. You'll get to bed much sooner that way," she implores.
"You drove here?" I peer up from my phone.
"Yeah Puck and I drove separate. I knew I would last longer than him," she winks, and abruptly stops walking.
I feel as though I must have fallen asleep at some point in Kurt's apartment, and this is some oddly themed dream. It's one thing for Santana to insist on giving me a ride home, it's another thing entirely for her to make a joke like that and wink at me. It's a joke a friend would make.
She ignores my baffled expression, and hands me a helmet. Now, I'm even more confused. That is until I recognize that we've stopped right beside a red motorcycle. It clicks.
"You drive a motorcycle? Finally gave into the lesbian cliché?" I laugh in disbelief. I know Puck works at a motorcycle shop, but I never expected that Santana would purchase one.
She doesn't seem to take offense.
"Fuck yeah, pantsuits and motorcycles. It's such a shame that it's not safe to ride with my Birkenstocks on. You wouldn't believe how many different pairs of socks I've tried to wear with them to make it work," she feigns disappointment.
I laugh at the imagery she provides, although I can't manage to summon a mental picture of Santana in Birkenstocks.
"First time?" She motions with her head in the direction of the bike.
"Yes." I swallow.
God, what's wrong with me. My mind immediately defaults to how Santana was my first time for so many things.
"Don't worry. I'll be gentle," she assures me with a smirk.
I could strangle something right now.
"Do you always make this many sexual innuendos?"
"Maybe when I haven't slept in almost 24 hours," she shrugs nonchalantly.
She retrieves something from the side of the bike, and tosses the mass in my direction.
"Pants," I stupidly observe as I look down at the crumpled garment in my hand.
And with that, I remember the first night Santana and I spent together after we became an "official" couple.
Being in her room feels different now. It's not suffocating exactly, but it's heavy with expectation.
"Are you worried about sleeping over now that we're together?" Santana inquires with a soft expression.
It's not precisely that. I've slept next to Santana hundreds of times, but she isn't just Santana anymore; she's my girlfriend. My far more experienced than I am girlfriend. Part of me wishes that she had just initiated sex when we were kissing for hours downstairs. I wanted it. I know that I did. I still do, but now my head is in the way.
"Kinda," I whisper loud enough for Santana to hear.
"Are your parents okay with you coming home this late? I can walk you down to your car," she offers. She's being really patient, and I can tell that she's doing her best to hide her disappointment.
"I've only had sex three times and it was just with Finn," I blurt. Okay, so I'm nervous. The experience with sex that I do have is pathetic, and I have zero experience with women. Whereas Santana oozes sexual confidence, and from what I hear, she has every reason to do so.
"Okay…I'm sorry you had to go through that?" she forces a humorous smile; I know that Finn isn't her favorite conversation topic.
The ache of my lips distract me momentarily, and I reach up to touch them with my fingertips. From what I saw in the mirror, they're red, and probably swollen as well. I can't get enough of kissing Santana now that she is mine.
I trust that sex with Santana will be even better, I'm just not sure if I'll be able to make it an enjoyable experience for her.
I smile shyly, as she studies my face.
"Wait, do you think I'm going to try to have sex with you tonight?" she asks with a tone colored with indignation.
I'm on the defense immediately. What the hell is she trying to say?
"Is that such a ridiculous assumption for me to make?" I throw my hands on my hips.
"Yes, it actually is," she confirms.
My stomach drops in that decidedly unpleasant way.
"Do you not want to…?" My face falls in rejection and I glance away.
Apparently, my lack of experience is quite the sex deterrent.
"Are you kidding me? Of course I want to, Quinn, more than I have ever wanted to, but I want to take my time with you," her voice drips with obvious sincerity.
It's sweet. She's kind in a way that mere months ago, I would have never expected that she could be. I love the romantic idea of 'taking our time', although in reality when she kisses me, when she touches me, there's nothing that I would love more than to feel her naked skin against mine.
And when she's wearing shorts like those, waiting seems like an impossibility.
"Would you put on pants then?" I ask quietly, my smile returning to my face.
Santana cocks an eyebrow at me. I truly cannot believe how she doesn't recognize how sexy her long, toned legs are.
"Please, Santana. I've never wanted anyone like this before, and your legs are just…they're too much for me if you want to wait."
She laughs throatily, tugging open one of her draws to grab a pair of pajama pants. She steps into them without argument, but without notice, I'm hit in the chest with a flying pair of pants. I catch them before they fall, and I glance up at Santana in confusion.
"I'm not the only one with legs here, Blondie."
"You don't want to get burned. Hurts like a bitch," Santana explains, transporting my thoughts back into the present.
She pulls hers on, while I step into mine. I squish my head into the helmet, feeling absolutely ridiculous as I do so.
I'd probably be significantly more nervous if I wasn't completely tuckered out.
She swings her leg over to straddle the machine, and gestures me forward, assisting me in doing the same.
Before we take off, she guides my arms around her middle, wordlessly telling me to hold on.
I don't squeal, yelp, or scream as we seem to lurch powerfully into the street.
I'm focused on how Santana's toned stomach tenses and shifts under my hands. Eventually, I begin to enjoy how the wind feels against my clothes and skin. I flip the face guard visor thingy on my helmet, just in case Santana is saying something to me that I can't hear.
She's not. But now I'm inhaling the chlorine and tropical fruit mixture from Santana that's blowing directly into my face.
The sun begins to rise in front of us, shading the street and buildings in soft hues of orange and red light.
I memorize every passing detail that I can. I'm determined to paint this scene tomorrow (technically today) at whichever comical hour that I eventually wake up.
My mouth cracks into unrestrained smile, and I bow down to rest the cheek of my helmet against Santana's back. Santana offered me a ride, on her motorcycle, knowing that my arms were going to be wrapped around her, and she isn't showing any signs of nausea or disgust.
Maybe it really was the heat in the truck earlier, just like she said.
She slows the motorcycle to a stop in front of my building before I have even recognized that we're in my neighborhood.
I use her shoulders to leverage my awkward dismount, and she flashes me an encouraging smile.
Now what?
Do I try to give her a hug goodbye?
"Thanks for taking me home." I feel 16-years-old again, only even less sure of myself somehow. I've never been one to shy away from making moves. Often, I haven't had to be the initiator of contact, but I don't mind doing so when the other person seems hesitant.
Santana doesn't appear hesitant or unsure of herself, however. She looks like a person who is simply waiting to make sure that her passenger makes it safely inside of her apartment.
"It's nothing. It isn't that far out of my way," she minimizes.
"Okay, well, goodnight Santana," I bid her. Internally cursing myself for my uncharacteristic conversation ineptness.
"More like good morning," she gently corrects.
I nod, as if it's the appropriate thing to do, before I take a couple steps back, and in the direction of my building.
"Yeah, I suppose so," I agree.
What the hell am I saying? What the hell am I doing? This isn't like me. I'm confident, and self-assured. I don't flounder like this in social situations.
"Okay, night!" I call back to her as I turn to enter my building before I can make a bigger fool of myself.
"You already said that." I hear her chuckle from behind me, and I dismiss her commentary with a wave of my hand.
Jesus Christ, I need some sleep.