A/N: Here's Session 5: Part 2. This is quite a long, but important chapter. Hope you enjoy it :)
February 2017 – Lima, Ohio
"Jesus," Santana muttered to herself as she looked out of the window from her seat in the back of the uber. She hadn't noticed the downpour that started somewhere between baggage claim and the twenty-minute ride to her parents' house until the sound of the rain pelting the roof took her mind away from the last twenty-four hours.
"I think I have an umbrella in the trunk," the driver called out over his shoulder as he pulled up to the curb in front of the house. "I could run around to grab it and walk you up to your door, so you don't get soaked."
She let out a deep breath and shook her head as she looked out the window. "I should just make a run for it. Thanks," she sent a small smile his way. She pulled out her phone and made sure to give him five stars for the offer. She unbuckled her seatbelt, reached down to zip her coat, and pulled her hood over her head. She reached over to where her duffel was seated next to her. She grabbed the strap, lifted it over her head, and readjusted it to cross her body. She took in another deep breath as she grabbed the door handle, steeling herself for the rain and whatever else was waiting inside. "Wish me luck."
She ducked her head as she stepped out of the car, the freezing rain making her regret declining the umbrella. She slammed the car door behind her and splashed her way up the front steps to the door.
"Come on, come on," she said to herself as she rang the doorbell. She rang the bell again a few seconds later as she shuffled in place. She could hear ChaCha yipping and scratching on the other side of the door. She rang the bell a third time. "I drop what I'm doing, hop on a plane and stand outside of my own house in the fucking sleet, and you can't even come to the damn door," she muttered to herself, shaking her head as she twisted to dig through her duffel for her keys. Just as she reached to put her key into the lock, she saw the knob twist through the glass storm door.
"Oh! Sorry mija, we thought you were one of those canvassers," her dad apologized as he opened the door. He pressed his back against the wooden door as he leaned forward to hold the storm door open for his daughter.
"At 7:00 on a Friday night?" She asked, stepping over the threshold into the warmth of the house. "In February?"
"Special election," he shrugged. He watched as she lifted her duffel over her head and tossed it on the ground inside the doorway, unzipped her coat, and shimmied it off, reaching up to hang it on the hook. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He called out as she started off down the hall toward the kitchen.
She stopped in her tracks and exhaled loudly.
"You know better than that," he said.
She turned on her heels to see her dad standing with his arms folded across his chest. She marched back toward the doorway. She rolled her eyes as she plopped down on the hardwood floor to undo her boots.
"Thank you," he said as he looked down at her.
"ChaCha, move!" She shooed away the chihuahua that climbed on her lap as she tried to pull off her boots. "You're still reimbursing my flight, right?" She asked as she raised her hand up for help off the ground.
He reached down and hoisted her up, "I will reimburse your flight," he nodded as he let out a sigh. "Come here," he pulled her for a hug.
"Thanks dad," she said, hugging his waist, his sweater muffling the words she spoke against his chest. "Where's mami?"
"Kitchen," he said, nodding his head toward the light coming from the end of the hall.
Santana noticed something on his face that she'd never seen. She kneeled down and picked up ChaCha before walking toward the light. She heard her dad let out a deep breath from where he followed a few paces behind her as they made their way into the kitchen.
"Hey ma," Santana said, readjusting her hold on ChaCha as she squirmed to leap out of her arms. She bent over to set her down. When she stood up, she caught her mom brushing her hands under her eyes.
"Mi amor!" Maribel said as she placed her glass of wine on the island countertop and walked over to Santana with outstretched arms. "How was your flight?" She asked as she embraced her, her eyes following her husband as he took a seat at the kitchen table.
"Last minute," Santana said, hugging her mom's waist. "What's wrong?" She asked as she loosened her hold.
Her mom cocked her head in confusion.
"Were you just crying?" Santana asked before her mom could speak.
She shook her head, "I had been trying to get a lash out of my eye," she lied.
"Let me see," Santana said as she pulled back to get a better look at her mom's eye. "Look up."
Maribel lifted her eyes toward the recessed lighting on the kitchen ceiling.
"I don't see anything," Santana said as she took a step back from her mom.
"I…must've blinked it out," her mom said. "Oh well," she gave her daughter a small smile. "How's Quinn?"
Santana let out a deep breath as she rounded the island on her way to the refrigerator. "She's…" she hesitated. "She's Quinn. I mean, she's…the same Quinn she's always been, right?" Santana realized she was talking to herself as she stared into the refrigerator. She shook her head and shut the fridge. "Anyway."
"How's class? How's the apartment? Tell me everything!" Maribel said, walking around to sit on one of the island stools.
"Law school's a bitc…it's tough," she caught herself. "The apartment is…wait a minute, I didn't fly all the way here to talk about school. What's going on?"
"We can't catch up with our only child?" Maribel asked as she took a sip from her glass.
"Honey," David said from behind her at his seat at the table, his face buried in his hands.
Maribel drew in a deep breath. "Why don't you," she paused, "Go upstairs and get cleaned up and we'll talk when…"
Santana scoffed, interrupting her. "What's going on?"
"Let me at least get you a glass of…"
"Dad," she cut her off, looking past her and at her father. She saw him try to speak before he gave up. She watched him scoot his chair back as he got up from the table.
Maribel turned around at the sound his chair made. Santana and her mother both watched him as he walked out of the kitchen.
"What's his problem?" She asked her mom as she passed her to follow him.
Maribel lingered at the island. She lifted her glass of wine to her lips and threw her head back. She sat the empty glass on the countertop, got up, and exhaled as she followed them.
October 2024 – New York, New York
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have to know," Dr. Broffman said, leaning back in her chair. "What were you guessing they needed to tell you?"
"That they were separating or already separated," Santana answered. "Or that someone died or was actively dying."
The doctor hummed.
"In hindsight," Santana continued. "I was…righter than I wanted to be."
February 2017
"How long have you known?" Santana asked, her voice barely above a whisper with her eyes studying the rug on the hardwood floor of the living room.
Maribel sighed, "About six weeks now and…"
"Six weeks?" Santana cut her off. "Six weeks?" her voice elevated as she repeated it. "And you didn't think this was something that I mightwanna know about? You didn't think this…"
"I know…" Maribel tried to answer.
"You didn't think I might wanna come home?"
"I know…I…"
"And you!" Santana shifted her body toward her father. "You didn't think she might need her only child to come home? You didn't think she might need someone to be here for her? To actually be here? You didn't…"
"Santana that's enough," her father warned.
"No! I've been in New York, killing myself over school and, and, and…girls…as if any of it even matters when my mom's home alone with fucking canc…"
"Enough!" He raised his voice louder than Santana had ever heard from him. The room went silent as they sat there. Santana watched as her mother leaned forward in her seat on the couch across from her and rested her elbows on her knees. She watched as her father took in a deep breath and placed a hand on her mother's back from where he sat next to her. She could see her mother relax at the touch.
"I…," Maribel paused to clear her throat, and flick away a tear from her watering eyes, "went for my New Year's physical like I always do. I mentioned that I found a small lump a few weeks earlier, he found it, actually," she gestured toward her husband, "but um, I didn't think anything of it. We were right in the middle of Christmas, you know? And I figured it was nothing. Because – as a nurse, I know – most of the time it is nothing. But Dr. Cassidy insisted on a more in-depth mammogram. Then a biopsy. Then she insisted on a second opinion. So, she referred me to Dr. Battini who insisted on another mammogram. Then an MRI, then another biopsy. And…the second opinion matched the original opinion. We just," she took in a deep breath, "we didn't want to speak too soon. We…I…wanted to be sure."
"And you're sure now?" Santana asked.
She watched as her mother nodded.
"Well, what about getting a third opinion…"
"Mija…" Maribel shook her head.
"Getting another opinion would just delay treatment," David cut in. "And to be honest, with these types of cancers, delays can be…" Santana saw him drop his eyes to his lap as he shook his head. "We just don't need to waste any more time."
"How bad is it?"
"Stage 2," Maribel answered. "But, I'm already scheduled for a double mastectomy and…"
"Double?" Santana interrupted her. "It's already that bad in six weeks?"
"The double mastectomy is a preventative measure," her father explained.
"Right, and I'm already set up for a consultation with Dr. Nelson." Maribel added.
"Dr. Nelson? My Dr. Nelson?" Santana asked.
"That's right," Maribel nodded. "My boobs are gonna look younger than yours," she teased.
"Ewwww, ma, gross."
"Come here mija," Maribel scooted further into the arm of the couch to make room for Santana between her and David. "I'll get through this. I believe that. Your dad believes that. My doctors believe that. I need you to believe that too. Can you do that?"
"I think I can do that," Santana said as she got up from her seat and plopped down between her parents. "I need to come home though. To make sure you're okay. To make sure you…"
"No," Maribel cut her off. "Absolutely not. I don't need you to take care of me. I'm a nurse. All of my friends are nurses. He's a," she leaned forward to look at her husband on the other side of Santana, "What do you do again?"
Santana knew his eye roll probably looked exactly like hers.
"I think I'm in good hands," Maribel said. "You're not putting your life on hold for me."
"But…" Santana protested.
"No. End of discussion."
"Dad," she turned in his direction, hoping he'd understand. "Come on."
"You heard her," he said just as a phone started ringing. He shifted to dig in his pocket for his phone. "This is Dr. Lopez," he answered. "What did it show?"
Santana felt him shift his weight again. She looked over and saw him running his hand through his prematurely greyed hair as he huffed and shook his head.
"Go ahead and prep her," he said as he stood up. "I'm on my way." He two-stepped to where his wife sat at the other end of the couch. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear that Santana couldn't hear before kissing the top of her head. He lingered longer than Santana had ever seen him linger before.
"Divorce would've been a much better announcement," Santana said to herself as she watched her dad walk toward the master bedroom to change into scrubs. She scooted to the edge of the couch and turned to her mom. "Do you want another glass of wine, ma?"
"No thank you honey," she yawned. "I'm just gonna go to bed. I'm pretty tired," she said as she eased her way to the edge of the couch, taking her time to stand up.
"Right. Okay," she nodded as she watched her mother make her way to the master behind her dad. Santana stood up and picked up her pace as she decided to follow her mom. She grabbed her arm, turned her around, hugged her neck, and buried her face in her shoulder.
Maribel wrapped her arms around her daughter and rubbed a hand up and down her back, each sob shaking them where they stood in the doorway of their bedroom. "It's okay. I'm going to be okay. I'm going to be okay," she whispered.
Santana calmed as she felt her mom's hands running up and down her arms as she pulled back from the embrace.
"Why don't you…go upstairs, get cleaned up, and get some rest. We'll get breakfast in the morning," she suggested. "How does that sound?"
"Perfect," Santana managed to get out.
"I love you."
"I love you too," she breathed out as she wiped her face. She let out a big sigh as she turned around and headed back through the kitchen and down the hall to where she left her duffel by the front door.
She took the stairs up to her childhood bedroom. She dropped the duffel on the carpet, and headed into her bathroom, reached into the shower and turned it on. She stripped down and stepped into the shower, the steam creating a fog that matched the one in her head as she tried to process everything that'd happened in the last twenty-four hours.
She thought about her mom. About cancer. She thought about that close call with Quinn. She thought about Brittany. Should she call her? After all this time, what would she say? What could she say? Santana didn't know.
Finished and clean, she stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel to dry off, and put on her pjs. She walked back into her bedroom and picked up her phone.
Before she could stop herself, her fingers scrolled until they found her name. She pressed the phone to her ear. Her heart seemed to thump louder and stronger with each ring, unsure of what she'd do if she heard her voice on the other end.
"Hi! You've reached Brittany S. Pierce," is what she heard from her voicemail. "I'm sorry I missed your call, but if you leave your name and number, I'll return it as soon as I can! Thanks!"
The sound of her voice took her breath away. It wasn't until she heard the beep that she realized she wasn't breathing. She cleared her throat.
"Um, hey Britt," she started. "It's me. I, um, I know we haven't really talked since…you know, but um, I'm in Lima, and um, I know you're probably super busy," she rambled, "But I just thought it'd be nice to…just…hear your voice right now. So, um, gimme a call…whenever. Bye."
She wasn't sure how long she stared at her phone where it sat charging on her nightstand before the urge to pee took over. She let out a deep breath as she turned around and walked back into the bathroom.
As she washed her hands, she heard her phone buzz on the nightstand. She rushed back to her bedroom, yanked the phone off the charger, and rolled her eyes when she saw the screen.
"If this is about the dishwasher again, I didn't do it," Santana said as she answered the phone.
"Again?" Her roommate asked. "Really?"
"I didn't do it, whatever it is."
"This is about you breaking rule number five. Whenever one of us is out of town, you touch base with your roommate when your plane touches down, you know that."
"Since when is that a rule?"
"Since now."
"And what are rules one through four?"
"Hmmm. I'll let you know when I figure them out."
"I'm sure you will," she made sure Quinn heard the sarcasm in her voice.
"Anyway. What did your dad want that was so urgent?" She asked. "Did he cheat too? Are they getting divorced?" She guessed.
"Actually, I wish," she said, letting out a deep breath as she climbed into bed. "That would've been much better."
"Better than what?"
"Cancer." The word sounded strange as it lingered over the line. "It's my mom."
She heard Quinn swallow. "Cancer?"
"Cancer," she repeated. "Breast. Stage 2."
"Jesus Christ."
"Yep."
"How…how does your mom feel?"
"She says she feels fine. And, I mean, she looks fine too, but," she paused, "Can you have stage 2 breast cancer and be…'fine?'Like, actually be okay? Can you?"
"I…I don't know."
"How can she be fine when Dad looks at her like she's got an expiration date stamped on her forehead? How can she be fine when…when…no one else is? When nothing else is?" she ranted, trying to control the tears threatening to fall.
The line was quiet other than the sounds of Santana sniffing and Quinn breathing.
"What about you?" Quinn asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I just," she started, her voice wavering more with each word. "I just…don't understand."
"I wish I knew what to say, but…all I can think of that isn't an unhelpful cliché is 'I'm sorry.'"
Santana shrugged a shoulder. "It's fine."
They sat on the line in silence, listening to the other breathe in and out, in and out. Santana could hear the faint laughter coming from the television on the other line.
"When do you think you'll be home?" Quinn asked, trying to change the subject.
"Tomorrow night. My flight should get in around 6. Why?"
"Just curious."
"Ah," she nodded to herself. "It's uh, getting pretty late so…"
"Right," Quinn agreed.
"Yeah."
"Hey Quinn," she said after another few seconds of dead air.
"Hmm?"
"That stuff I said last night…I'm uh, I'm sorry."
"Which part?"
"About you and Beth. It was…not cool."
"Thanks," she said, "And thanks for…all the other stuff you said."
Santana nodded even though Quinn couldn't see her. She coughed and cleared her throat, trying to control her racing heart.
"Well, I'll…see you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow. Oh, and can you do me a favor and keep this to yourself? Pity is not a thing anyone wants or needs right now," Santana added.
"I can do that."
"Cool, goodnight."
"Night."
She ended the call and buried herself underneath her covers, sinking deeper into the memory foam of the mattress. She opened her messages and did what she did most nights. She tapped the icon next to Brittany's name, opened the thread, and scrolled through grey bubbles stacked one on top of the other, no blue bubbles to separate the unanswered attempts to fix whatever was broken.
Sat, Jun 9, 6:41 PM
From Britt: Santana, please talk to me
Sat, Jun 9, 8:15 PM
From Britt: Just told everyone you had a family emergency
Sat, Jun 9, 11:35 PM
From Britt: Can you at least let me know you made it home safe?
Sun, Jun 10, 12:11 AM
From Britt: I love you
Her thumbed kept scrolling.
Tues, Jul 12, 9:17 AM
From Britt: I love you
Sun, Aug 14, 8:20 PM
From Britt: If I knew me taking the job would lead to this…I would've turned it down a million times.
Wed, Sept 17, 7:30 AM
From Britt: I miss you
She scrolled until the thread bounced from the bottom of the screen, letting her know she'd reached the most recent message.
Thurs, Feb 14, 8:18 PM
From Britt: I love you
She scrolled back to the top and reread the messages until the weight of her eyelids forced her eyes shut.
October 2024
"You would read those messages every night?" Dr. Broffman interrupted her story to ask.
"Most nights," she nodded.
"But you didn't respond to them?"
Santana dropped her eyes to her hands. "I…I just…couldn't. I was…," she paused to swallow. "What do you say when you love a person and they say that they love you, but they just…won't choose you?" She shrugged. "What do you say to them?"
"Based on your voicemail, it seems like you had something you wanted to share with her," the doctor said as she took her glasses off. "Is that correct?"
"I mean, I felt like I needed to talk to someone about my mom. Britt was always that person. So I called her. But," she shrugged a shoulder, "she didn't answer. Then…Quinn called."
"And how did that make you feel? The missed call?" she clarified.
"Like I wasn't important enough. Which is crazy because I…I knew she loved me. I knew that but…"
"Do think her unreturned messages made her feel the same way?"
"Probably," Santana nodded to herself.
"Is that how you wanted her to feel? Like you felt? Yes, the missed phone call is the example we're talking about now, but I'm wondering if what we're really talking about is the proposal."
Santana scoffed out a laugh as she shook her head.
"Santana," Dr. Broffman challenged.
She exhaled through her nose. "Can I finish my story?" she evaded.
Dr. Broffman leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs as she studied her client. "Sure. But I'd like for us to revisit this topic later."
Santana gave a slow nod.
"Go on."
"I'm skipping ahead to when I got home the next night."
February 2017 – New York, New York
"Just got back," Santana said into her phone as one hand fished through her coat pocket for her keys. "Mmmhmm," she nodded to herself. "Okay," she said as she went to unlock the door. "Ma," she said, seeing the door was already cracked open. "Ma," she tried to interrupt. "Ma! I gotta go, I think…I think someone's in the apartment!" she whisper-yelled. "Love you," she added quickly before hanging up. She dug through her bag for the thing she hoped she'd never have to use. Once her hand gripped it, she lifted the strap of her duffel over her head and quietly lowered it to the floor just inside the doorway.
She stepped over the threshold but stopped to bend down and take off her boots. "I've had to take off my shoes way too many times in two days," she rolled her eyes at herself. She straightened up and tip-toed her way into the apartment. She pushed Quinn's door open, peaking inside. Empty.
"Quinn?" she called out as she continued down the hall. She peaked into her own bedroom and saw that it was just as she left it two nights ago. She kept tiptoeing down the hall, stopping when she saw the yellow light from the bathroom shining under the closed door. "Quinn, where are you?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the bathroom door.
"In the kitchen," her roommate answered, "What are you…"
Santana took in a deep breath and kicked in the bathroom door. "Welcome to Lima Heights, bitch!" She shouted as she pointed the item at the man sitting on the toilet.
"Oh my God! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he squealed with his hands up.
"Kurt?" She looked down at him sitting on their toilet with his pants around his ankles. She lowered the item. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I was invited," he said as he put his hand over his heaving chest. "Jesus Christ, Santana!"
"Oh. My bad. Well, sorry to interrupt," she apologized as she lingered in the bathroom.
"Get out!"
Santana quickly backed out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She headed to the kitchen to find her roommate and Mercedes sitting at the island, each with a wine glass in front of them.
"You're here too?" she asked in Mercedes' direction. "What's going on?"
"Your friends can't just come over and hangout?" Mercedes asked as she picked up her glass.
Santana turned to her roommate. "Really Quinn? What part of 'keep this to yourself' did you not understand?"
"I know you said to notsay anything," she said as she got up from her seat at the island. "But…I tell Mercedes everything."
"Everything," Mercedes emphasized.
"And Kurt," Quinn added. "Kurt went through this with his dad and…"
"And my mom," Kurt chimed in as he walked into the kitchen.
"Andhis mom," Quinn repeated. "Kurt knowscancer!"
"Unbelievable," Santana shook her head as she looked down at the countertop she'd been leaning on.
"The other day you asked me: why would someone pay a therapist for what friends are supposed to do for free?" She paraphrased. "Well…therapists are for," she paused, looking for the right words, "unloading the heavy stuff that no one else can help lift."
"Friends," Kurt added, "are for talking shit and drinking. And crying. And Steel Magnolias." He seemed to produce the DVD out of nowhere.
"And ice cream," Mercedes said as she pulled out the dairy-free pints from the freezer. "Calories don't count when you're sad, everyone knows that."
"This…," Quinn gestured around the kitchen, "is what friends are for. Come on," she said as she cocked her head toward the living room.
"Fine," Santana huffed. She put the taser on the counter, took the DVD from Kurt, headed to the DVD player, set it up, and plopped down on the suede armchair next to the couch. "As long as I can quote the movie."
"Can Steel Magnolias be watched any other way?" Kurt retorted as he walked over and plopped down on the couch, Quinn and Mercedes following him.
The four friends sat and half-watched, half-talked through the movie, stopping every now and then to quote their favorite parts or argue about blush and bashful not being real colors.
"I am such a Ouiser," Santana shook her head at the screen after the famous funeral scene.
"Very self-aware of you, wow," Kurt nodded. "Speaking of self-awareness…Quiiiinn," he sing-songed her name as he touched a strand of her hair. "My salon just hired a new colorist who I adore. Want me to see if she can squeeze you in for a touch up?"
"Actually…," she ran a hand through her hair before tucking a strand behind her ear. "I'm…growing my roots out," she nodded. "Switching it up some."
"If you insist," he mumbled. "Ow! Geez!"
Santana looked over to catch Quinn nudging him off the couch with her foot. She smirked at Quinn as his butt hit the floor. She dropped it and turned her head back to the screen when she felt Mercedes' eyes on her.
"Santana, what's the plan for your mom?" Mercedes asked her, changing the subject.
"Surgery in two weeks, then more scans, then chemo," she answered as she leaned forward in the chair, her eyes locked on the rug.
Kurt shook his head from his new seat on the floor. "Ugh, I am so sorry Santana. This…," he started, "This just…sucks. Cancer sucks. But they found it early, right?"
"I wish they found it even earlier."
Kurt understood. "If you need anything, anything, Santana, I'm here."
"Me too, girl," Mercedes nodded.
"Me too," Quinn added on softly.
Santana sent a small smile their way. She let out a deep breath as she leaned back in her chair. "Can we talk about anything else? Please?"
"We could talk about how you pulled a gun on Kurt!" Mercedes teased.
"Here we go," Santana rolled her eyes. "It was a taser!"
"Seriously Santana, you scared the shit out of me. Literally. That thing looks like a Glock. Why do you have that anyway?" Kurt asked.
She shrugged. "This city is a lot of things. Safe is not one of them. Don't get me wrong, I love it here, but I'm taking criminal law right now and take it from me: it should be a crime to live in the city and not have a taser or mace or something with you at all times."
"Mmmhmm," Quinn agreed. "If you heard the gunshots we hear almost every night, you'd want something like that too."
"You have one too?" Kurt turned to ask her.
Quinn nodded. "Santana showed me a PowerPoint from class and I was convinced," she shrugged.
"Well now I'm gonna be paranoid the whole walk home. Thanks,Santana," Mercedes said sarcastically as she got up from her seat on the couch next to Quinn.
"Just keepin it real," Santana shrugged.
Kurt lifted his hand up to Mercedes for help up off the floor. "Wanna split an uber?"
"Definitely." She grabbed his hand, helping to hoist him up from the floor.
"You guys are leaving already?" Quinn asked.
"Sam's waiting up for me," Mercedes said as she walked to the kitchen, grabbed her coat from where it hung on the back of one of the island chairs, and pulled it on along with her gloves. "He told me we wouldn't want 'white chocolate to melt' before I got home."
Kurt sighed as he wrapped his scarf around his neck before buttoning his peacoat. "And I promised Rachel I'd show her my nightly skin care routine before bed. Before bed for her means 'before 9:30'," he said with an eye roll.
"Typical Berry," Santana shook her head. "I'll walk you out." She got up from her seat and followed them down the hall to the door.
Quinn got up from the couch, collected empty ice cream bowls, spoons, and wine glasses from the end table before making her way to the kitchen. She placed the dishes in the sink on her way to the bathroom. She overheard Santana and Mercedes talking at the end of the hall while she peed.
"I'm assuming Brittany's gonna send your mom a hand-drawn card about how breast cancer comes from having a heart that's way too big for her ribs," Mercedes guessed.
"Ha!" A laugh escaped Santana's lips before she could stop it. She cleared her throat. "She would 100% do something like that, but um, she doesn't know. I…I called last night, but…voicemail," she shrugged.
"Well, I don't know what happened between you two, but here's what I do know. No one can replace Brittany. But Santana, look around," she said. "There are so many other people in your life who love you, who want to be there for you. Seriously. Look around," she gestured around the apartment. "Goodnight, girl." She reached out for a hug.
Santana nodded, hugging her back. "Night. Be safe." She shut the door and locked the deadbolt.
Quinn flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and decided to go back to the kitchen to do the dishes. She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and stood in front of the sink, her hands on her hips, lips puckered as she stared at the pile of bowls and glasses. "Hmmm," she said to herself. "I need…," she opened a drawer, "a sponge," she said as she grabbed it, "water," she leaned forward and lifted the handle to turn on the faucet, "…aaaand the blue stuff." She opened and shut drawers, stood on her tip-toes, opened and shut the cabinet above the sink, not finding what she was looking for. "Where's the blue stuff?" she asks herself.
Santana checked the deadbolt again to make sure she locked it. She reached down to pick up the duffel she left by the doorway, passing Quinn's room on her way to her own where she dropped her bag inside her doorway and headed back into the kitchen.
She walked in and saw Quinn crouched down under the sink with the cabinet doors hiding her face and the water running from the faucet. Her eyes caught Ryan Seacrest peeking out under Quinn's sweater as it rode up.
"What are you doing?" She asked, confused.
"Where's the blue stuff?" Quinn asked from under the sink.
"The Dawn? Up there." She pointed to the dispenser next to the faucet. "What are you doing?" She repeated.
Quinn huffed as she reached up, grabbing the counter to help herself up. "I'm tryingto be helpful." She pulled on the oversized yellow rubber gloves she found under the sink and reached near the faucet to give the dish soap dispenser the couple of pumps that sent blue liquid jetting out into the water.
"By flooding the apartment?" Santana walked toward the sink and reached across Quinn to turn the water off.
"This is why I don't do dishes," she shook her head.
"Look," Santana said as she pulled up her sleeve and reached her hand into the water to pull the stopper out. She let the water drain about halfway. "A high water level plus bowls and cups equals an even higher water level," she explained.
Quinn nodded. "Duh of course." She sighed. "I just wanted to do...something. Something to...make this less...shitty."
"Unless washing dishes is gonna cure cancer, I don't think there's anything more you can do," she said as she went to sit on an island chair. "But…thank you. For…everything," she added quietly.
Quinn nodded, her back to her roommate as she put the bowls, glasses, and spoons in the water. "I, uh, I heard you talked to Britt!" She said, trying to change the subject. "How'd that go?" She winced to herself as she asked the question.
"It didn't. I called, but it was pretty late, and she was probably busy, so I just left a message."
"Oh. Sorry," she apologized over her shoulder. "Well," she said as she let out a deep breath. "Like we said, we can…talk to each other."
"I know…I just. I'm," she closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'm talked out. I think I'm just gonna…go to bed."
"Understandable." Quinn heard Santana scoot her chair back as she stood from her seat at the island. "Your glass?"
"Oh yeah sorry," she took a deep breath and downed the rest of her drink as she walked toward the sink. She reached in front of her and dropped her empty glass into the water, sending soap suds splashing up to Quinn's face.
"Oh my god!" Quinn gasped.
"My bad."
"Oh my god!" She repeated with her eyes squeezed shut. "It burns! There's something in there!"
"Okay can I…" Santana started.
"Get it!" She cut her off.
"Okay okay!Lemme see."
Quinn turned semi-blindly toward her roommate, her right eye squeezed shut, the other blinking rapidly. She held her gloved hands up as if she were sterile.
"Can you open your eye at all?"
Quinn slowly relaxed her eyelid as she tried to open her eye. She reflexively shut it again when she felt the threat of Santana's finger near it. "Say something before you just stick it in!"
"Wanky."
Quinn scoffed and exhaled through her nose as Santana looked at her eye.
"Hold still. Keep your eyes closed." She leaned over and turned the faucet on, letting the water wet her left thumb. "Alright, I'm gonna do it now," she warned.
Quinn inhaled sharply at the coldness of Santana's wet thumb against her closed eyelid. She let out a slow deep breath through pursed lips when Santana applied a light pressure as she massaged small circles into the thin skin over her eye.
Santana could feel the tension of Quinn's eyelids beneath her thumb as she tried to open them. "Hold on." She leaned over again to run both thumbs under the water.
Quinn sighed as she felt the pressure of Santana's thumbs rubbing circles into both of her eyelids.
"Okay," she said as she ran her thumbs under Quinn's eyes, wiping away the reflexive tears that had fallen. "Now try."
Quinn slowly blinked her eyes open.
"Oh, wait, you have some in your hair too," she noticed. "Hold on."
Quinn's eyes flutter closed again as Santana ran her thumb along where the suds landed on her forehead. Once she got the suds out of her hairline, she traced it as it curved around her ear. Her fingers ran through dark roots until they transitioned to blonde ends as she tucked the wet hair behind her ear.
Santana's hand lingered as her eyes searched the closed ones in front of her. She was just as certain tonight as she was two nights ago that from where they stood, their faces again inches apart, that Quinn could hear her heart pounding in her chest, that she could hear her throat swallow the lump rising in it. She swore Quinn could hear the voice in her head screaming at her not to do this. To not ruin their arrangement, their routine, their friendship. To not inch closer. To not watch as green eyes fluttered open to meet brown ones.
When she saw Quinn's eyes flicker down to her lips, the screaming stopped, resigned to the reality that it didn't stand a chance against the memory of Quinn's lips on hers, the memory of her arms around Quinn's waist, of her mouth on Quinn's skin. The distance between the memories and the moment disappeared just as the distance between their lips had.
She felt Quinn exhale, her lips softening as she settled into the kiss. She felt herself relax as her lips moved against Quinn's, her hands falling from her face to land on her hips. She felt Quinn's arms wrap around her neck, the squeaking rubber gloves made her smile against Quinn's mouth. Quinn took that opportunity to jet her tongue across her lip. Santana opened her mouth and felt Quinn moan as their tongues made contact, the sound making Santana pull her closer, her hands sliding under the hem of her sweater.
Quinn inhaled sharply at the feeling of cool hands on her skin. "What are we doing?" She whispered against her lips, her chest heaving against Santana's.
"I don't know," she breathed out, shaking her head. "Should we…should we stop?" She husked against her lips.
Quinn brought her eyes to Santana's, searching them. She drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she felt Santana's finger trace Ryan Seacrest's face on her lower back. "No," she breathed out as she leaned in and reconnected their lips, sighing as she felt Santana's arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer.
Their kisses grew more frantic as they struggled to keep their balance in the middle of the kitchen. Santana dropped her hands to Quinn's hips and stepped forward, backing her into the sink, the bump sending a gasp to Quinn's lips. Santana nudged her leg between Quinn's and felt her hum into her mouth at the contact. "This okay?" She husked out against her lips.
Quinn grinded herself against Santana's leg, moaning into her mouth as the seam of her own jeans dug into her center.
"Mmmm," Santana hummed at the motion and rolled her hips against Quinn's in response, the motion producing a moan from the other girl.
Quinn kept her arms wrapped tight around Santana's neck as Santana's hands left her hips to grip the sink. She braced them as Quinn lifted a leg and ground herself down on Santana's, her breath picking up with each roll. "Phone?" She breathed out in Santana's ear.
"Huh?" Santana asked breathlessly.
"Your phone," she clarified between breaths. "Where is it?"
Santana freed her hand from its grip on the sink, reached into to her back pocket, pulled out her phone and held it up for Quinn to see it.
Quinn unwrapped an arm from her neck, reached down, grabbed her phone, and tossed it on the island countertop behind Santana. Santana turned around at the sound it made as it slid to a stop at the load bearing column, next to the taser. Quinn straightened herself up, peeled off the rubber gloves, dropped them inside-out on the floor, reached down, and grabbed Santana's hand as she walked backward out of the kitchen. "Come on," she whispered.
As Quinn led them down their narrow hall, Santana remembered that hotel hall they stumbled their way down in what felt like a lifetime ago. A life before long weekends in Cambridge dorms, before Disney, before broken mugs and broken skin, before cancer. A life before everything changed.
But Santana figured this new life wasn't so bad. In this life, they didn't stumble down an unfamiliar hall to a rented room. Quinn's steps were graceful as she padded down the hall to her bedroom, her movements fluid as she grabbed the hem of her sweater and lifted it over her head, her hair falling over her bare shoulders just as effortlessly as their bodies fell onto her bed.
In this life, their hands didn't fumble with difficult zippers embedded on backs of dresses. Santana's fingers were deliberate as they undid the button on Quinn's jeans, her wrist decisive as she dragged the zipper lower, her hand intentional as she slipped it into Quinn's panties. In this life, there was no wondering, no learning, only remembering.
Remembering how Quinn looked at her as she rubbed tight circles onto her center. Remembering how she felt around her fingers as they slipped through her folds, how her breath hitched as she entered her, how every thrust of her wrist sent sounds from Quinn's throat to her ear, sounds that urged her wrist to pump faster, that begged her fingers to push deeper, sounds that let them forget everything.
They didn't hear the distant gunshots from a few blocks over or the sirens that followed them. They didn't hear the water dripping from the faucet in the kitchen or the muffled knocks of Quinn's laundry in the dryer.
And they didn't hear the tone of Fondue for Two ringing out from Santana's phone on the island countertop.