Part II: Santana
"I wish I could have told you this in person, but I don't know when I'll be able to get the next flight out."
"Just spit it out, Quinn," Santana says with a roll of her eyes. She was in the restroom of some bar that her date had brought her to and was just touching up her make-up when Quinn, her long-time best friend and coincidentally, enemy, called.
"Are you ever not a miserable bitch?"
"Are you ever not insufferable?"
"Real mature, how old are you now? Forty?"
She's almost too shocked to reply for a moment, but then a laugh overcomes her.
"You're such a cheeky fucker." She was barely thirty, thank you.
"And yet you still call me your 'bff'." Santana could picture the smug smile on her best friends face. "Do you want to hear my news or do we have to trade a few more cutting barbs before you're able to communicate like the adults we are?"
"I said yes didn't I?"
"Jonathan and I are getting married," Quinn says, a tremor of excitement in her voice.
And Santana is happy for her friend, she really is.
That's why she jokes, "When are you due?" And asks Quinn how he proposed, squeals when she sends her a picture of the massive rock they're passing off as an engagement ring, and promises to be the second hottest bitch at the reception to Quinn's first. Special day privileges and all that.
But when the call ends and she's left looking at her reflection, she can't help but feel a sinking sense of dread that maybe she'll be alone forever. Where's her ring? Her time to be disgustingly in love?
Another woman barging through the door and hurrying into the closest stall served as a stark reminder that she was actually in the middle of something, a very hot something who could, by some stretch, be the answer to all of her problems.
Or not.
Now let's get this straight. Santana had chemistry with everybody. She was just that girl and she knew it. But heavens above, the woman sat across from her was testing her ability. If it wasn't one stilted topic after another, it was an awkward joke or painful laugh. Had she really lost all game? Or had she happened upon the world's most boring person?
Attention waning, Santana began to flip her phone over in her palm, almost willing it to ring so she had an excuse to get up and leave.
"Am I boring you?"
Accidentally dropping the phone on the table, Santana refocused her gaze on her date.
"Yes." Is what she wanted to say, but, "I'm sorry, I'm just really distracted," came out instead, her mind jumping from scenario to scenario to best spin this so she could escape this without being a complete asshole. Leaning forward so her elbows rested on the table, she looked directly into her date's eyes as she said, "My friend, Quinn, just rang me whilst I was in the restroom and well, she had some awful news." Half true. "Just really awful news and I can't get it out of my head."
"I'm sorry to hear that, is she okay?"
Sighing, Santana dropped her palms to the table with a shake to her head, "That's the thing. I couldn't get all the details, because, well," she looked pointedly around the bar.
"Oh," her date says and Santana can tell she's not quite selling it as well as she thought she would.
"Yeah," Santana nods, grimacing for effect. "I think I'm going to go."
Yeah, go to the next bar a block over.
A quieter, more depressing one that fit her sullen mood just right. She felt like wallowing and so what? It was her prerogative as a grown woman who had dealt with too much of life's shit.
But quieter ended up being the worst kind of choice. Too big of an opportunity to think about the inevitability of a lonely existence and to drink the bar dry since there was no point in nursing a drink with nobody to talk to.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but a text from Quinn about dress shopping had her unsuccessfully trying to drown a sob with a tequila sunrise. She's lucky she didn't choke, but it was embarrassing to be caught by a woman at the other end of the bar.
Santana ends up not minding so much when the woman takes her home, and even less so when she's making her come.
It's odd because when she's leaving the next morning to head home to shower for work, she willingly leaves her number behind with the hope that maybe this Rachel will hit her up again if only to fuck, because where she finds herself severely lacking in affection and romantic connection, she is willing to accept good head as a placeholder.
Maybe that's the root of all her problems, but man, what a problem to have.
A week passes without a peep and Santana has a suspicion that she has been well and truly aired. Normally she's doing the airing so it's a humbling experience, to say the least.
Whatever. Life goes on.
"Yo, San, pass me a water pitcher will you?" Puck, her pain in the ass colleague and dear friend, asks as he struts his way behind the bar.
"No," she says as she hands him one anyway. "Who put you on so close to Christmas?"
"Terri, because she's a bitch."
Santana snorts as she returns to checking the balance of the register.
"You should have come to me and I would have swapped you out on the rota."
"You say that now."
She rolls her eyes, standing straight to look him in the eye, "And how long have I been a manager? This is not new to you."
"Too long, the power has gone to your head."
"Get back to work, asshole."
"See what I mean."
"Go."
"Suck it," he tosses over his shoulder as he heads back into the dining room to serve his table.
It's about three hours into her shift when she hears the dreaded words from that same mouth.
"Table six wants to speak to a manager."
"Tell table six to eat my ass," she mumbles as she stacks the last few crates of stock in the backroom.
"Can I actually?" Puck laughs.
"No, hang on."
Customer complaints are the bane of Santana's very existence. The age old saying that the customer is always right has been proven time and time again, in her experience, to be bullshit. She wished she could charge them extra for every minute of her life they wasted complaining about the tables outside being wet because it rained, or that they didn't serve soup in cups, because if she could she'd be rich enough to leave this place in the dust.
She didn't even want the job all that much, but out of college she needed to save up and five years later, she's still here. Sure, she tutors on the side, but this pays the bills and the pay isn't half bad.
Following Puck out into the main dining room, she carries herself with a placating smile, ready to sing along to whatever brain dead tune the customer's about to spout.
Only the smile quickly falls off her face when she sees who is sitting at that table.
"Rachel?"
The woman goes bright red as Santana comes to a stop beside her, eyes as wide as when she'd been caught staring a week ago.
Clearing her throat, Rachel gives her a shy smile, "Santana, hi. I- I didn't know you worked here."
Catching the curious back and forth glances from Puck, she shoos him before saying, "How could you? We barely know each other," Rachel shakes her head to herself, mouth open as though about to say something when Santana continues, "You look good by the way."
"She does, doesn't she?"
It is only then that Santana realises Rachel has company.
A man who looked like he'd been picked straight off the shelf at Toys R Us, all teeth and gelled hair. Alright looking for a mannequin, she eventually concedes.
"And you are?"
"Brody," Rachel answers for him, "we're on a date."
"Right," Santana drawls. "Which one of you wanted me?"
"Me," Rachel responds and despite the context, it makes Santana's insides tingle. God, she really needs to get a grip.
"What's the problem?"
"Oh, nothing."
Santana's brow creases as she regards Rachel, "I'm not sure I understand."
"I," she looks to Brody before meeting Santana's eyes again, "I wanted to thank the chef, for the food. It was really just amazing."
"Oh." Well, that's a welcome surprise. "I can accommodate that, shall I bring her out here or would you like to come with me?"
"I'll come with you," she says, pushing out from her table and eagerly joining Santana as she heads to the kitchen.
Santana juggles with whether or not to bring up the obvious, throw it out casually, light like a joke. Or would it come off passive aggressive? She didn't want to be weird about it. Nobody owes anybody anything here and to give the impression she thinks that would be mortifying.
"I haven't lost your number," Rachel's words break through her spiralling thoughts.
"Oh, I didn't even-" she begins.
"I was just scared."
"Scared?"
"To call you."
"Why?"
"Well," she takes a breath as Santana pauses at the double doors that lead into the kitchen, "you're you and I'm not accustomed to you know."
Pressing a hand flat against the door, but not moving to push it open, Santana wonders, "Not accustomed to what? Hook ups?"
Rachel chews her lip, "That too, but no. I mean," she shifts from foot to foot, "I don't know what I mean."
"That's fine, don't stress," Santana says easily as she finally opens the door to call out for the head chef and lets Rachel give her thanks, smile on her lips throughout. On their way back to the table, she notices that Rachel still seems nervous and bumps shoulders with her, "Let me know if I can get you anything."
It seems to work some as Rachel turns that coy smile on her and asks, "Anything?"
"Anything."
Rachel dips her head and laughs lightly, "Good to know."
She doesn't ask for anything else after that, despite the offer, given that the meal had already been eaten and the sentient test dummy was blustering over a new place down the road, they didn't stay for long after seeing each other again anyway.
Before they left however, Rachel waved to Santana, distracting her from the table she was taking an order from and making Puck smirk. She was sure to throw the wet cloth behind the bar at him when she caught sight of his smarmy face again after changing a barrel.
That wasn't the last she heard of Rachel though. Oh no. Because at nine pm that same night, Santana gets a phone call.
"Hello," she answers, placing her steaming mug down on the small table beside her couch.
"Hey, it's Rachel."
"Rachel," surprise colours her voice, "I didn't expect to hear from you."
"Yeah," it comes at almost a whisper.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she says just as quietly.
"Why are you whispering?"
Santana hears her exhale and she suppresses a smile at the sound.
"I didn't realise I was," a pause. "Are you busy? I'm sorry if it's late for you."
"No, it's okay. Just kicking back and catching up on Below Deck, some real high octane shit." She's sure she hears another soft exhale that could have been a laugh. "What's up?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to call and say," Santana hears rustling on the other end of the line and then a distinct thud, "hi," she ends breathlessly.
"Did you fall out of bed or something?"
"No?"
"You don't sound certain."
"I definitely didn't fall, I just, rolled."
"I see," she drawls, "rolled right onto the floor."
"Fine. My bed's broken."
"I do try my best."
Rachel snorts, "Not by you."
"No? By your date?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Santana hums in thought, "Yeah, actually. Why not?"
Rachel doesn't answer straight away. It makes Santana wonder whether she's scared her off or just set herself up for the debut of a reimagined classic, Toy Story: The (Undoubtedly Excruciating) Tall and Terrible Tale of Woody's Wood, but alas, "No. Not him," follows the short silence.
"Well don't leave me hanging," Santana half-sings, keeping the conversation playful as she flips onto her front to rest her head on her hand.
"It's going to be disappointing."
"C'mon, spill already."
"I was rearranging my room because, despite his ability to hold a tune, I don't want to listen to Kurt shower in the morning, and let's just say I both underestimated the weight of the flat screen and overestimated my strength."
"How big is this flat screen?"
"Big enough," Rachel sounded exasperated and it makes Santana bite back a laugh, "I tried to lift it to mount onto the wall and I fell back onto my bed and broke it. Broke it, Santana! And not only that, I couldn't lift it off of me so I had to wait for Kurt to get back from work to get out from under the thing."
"Sounds stressful."
"Doesn't it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Me?" Santana asks, voice pitched with faux innocence. "Okay, yes. Just a little."
"It was traumatic," Rachel insists through a laugh, "I have bruises."
"Poor baby," she coos with a smile of her own. "Why don't you come around and I'll kiss them better?"
Another silence.
"You're not serious. Right?" Rachel asks.
"And if I am," she says with a deliberate open-endedness.
"If you are," she begins, voice unsure, "if you are, I, I don't know."
"That's okay," Santana replies softly, rolling a loose couch thread between the thumb and forefinger.
"I'm not opposed to the idea," Rachel is quick to add.
"That's also okay," she says through a low laugh, a slow, unfurling heat burning in the pit of her stomach as her thoughts take a detour to the week before. Chewing at her bottom lip for a moment, Santana flips back onto her back and settles into the couch as she follows up with, "I'll text you my address."
"Now?"
"Mmhmm," she hums, as she pictures Rachel between her legs. "If that works for you," she's quick to follow up, not wanting to get too hot and bothered over nothing.
"It does," Rachel's voice vibrates with infectious anticipation, "I'll let you know when I'm almost there."
"Perfect."
Once sent, Santana contemplates getting changed into something other than sweatpants and a raggedy old shirt she's had since college, but decides against anything too drastic and just switches out to a more form fitting t-shirt. Sure, she's braless, but that's the point.
She doesn't expect sex or anything like that, but that doesn't mean she can't remind Rachel just how hot she is. And if that by some chance leads to something more, then who is she to deny them both the pleasure?
A timely half an hour later, Rachel is waiting at her door, a grocery bag in hand. She lifts it in Santana's direction in offering.
"Thought I'd bring snacks," Rachel says as she follows Santana into her living room. "Although I wasn't sure what you liked so I got a bit of everything. Some sweet, some savoury."
Santana lets Rachel continue her run down of the food and drink she has so kindly brought over, but she knows that it's all preamble to the good stuff once she catches the way Rachel watches her bring glasses in from the kitchen, and she knows that Rachel knows that too.
"You're spoiling me," Santana smiles over the rim of her freshly poured wine.
"Hard work deserves its rewards," Rachel replies easily, own drink in hand as she tucks herself into the opposite end of the couch.
"That it does," she says with a click of her tongue, an ooze of confidence brought on by Rachel's unwavering gaze. The satisfaction in dancing around the fact that Rachel wants to fuck her comes as a surprise to Santana, she usually likes to be the one to get things rolling, but this time she's going to see what Rachel will do to be knuckle deep.
Her train of thought makes her squirm in her seat, the throb of anticipation fierce between her thighs.
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Enjoy what?"
"Your work."
"Work is work for me, it's okay but it's not forever."
"Do you have a forever in mind?"
"Jeez," Santana laughs, the sudden depth of the conversation catching her off guard. "I think I might go back to school," she finally decides on, "pursue a passion, do something, anything."
Rachel's eyes have a certain shine to them as she replies with a quiet, "Yeah."
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just thinking about what I'm going to do next too," her teeth worry her bottom lip as her brow settles into a furrow.
"It'll all come together."
"How can you be so sure?"
Santana shrugs, "What's the point in thinking otherwise?" Seeing that Rachel was no less reassured, she edges closer to rest a hand on her thigh, making sure she's looking her in the eye when she says, "You're going to be fine. I promise."
"How can you promise such a thing?"
"I'm magic like that."
That gets the other woman to break into a smile, transforming the stirrings of heat in Santana's abdomen into a pillowy warmth that made her feel more at ease with her own situation. If she could believe as much for Rachel, she could believe as much for herself.
"I somehow believe you," Rachel finally says, hand coming to rest where Santana's still sits on her thigh. It's only a light touch, but it's enough of an invitation to have Santana leaning in to kiss her.
So much for waiting for Rachel to start things.
Nights like this become a common practice between the two of them. One will call under the pretence of wanting to hang out, have a meal, watch a movie, but they both know where it will lead. Neither truly acknowledges their meetings in the night as anything more than friends catching up, with words and tongues. Well, not until months have gone by and Rachel's gamble to pursue her passion pays off and she gets a role in an off-Broadway show.
Santana thinks nothing of Rachel turning up more excited than usual, her whole entire being practically vibrating with energy, their usual wine of choice tucked under her arm and eyes shiny as she bounces on her toes.
Pulling her in by the lapel of her light jacket, the harsh and bitter cold having given in to the less biting spring warmth, Santana greets the other woman with a just as light kiss before releasing her to lead her into her apartment.
"What has you all smiley?" She throws over her shoulder, quick to hop on the couch, two glasses already out and waiting.
"Oh," Rachel tries for casual, "you know that part I went for two weeks ago?"
"Uh-huh," Santana replies distractedly, taking the bottle and pouring them both a glass.
"I got it."
The words stop her in her tracks, and very nearly mid-pour.
"What?"
"I got it," she repeats a little louder, a tremor in her voice as Santana meets her eyes with a look of surprise.
"Rachel," her smile is immediate and so wide it hurts her cheeks, "oh my God!"
Throwing herself across the small space between them, Santana squeezed her tight, knowing full well how disheartening the whole transition from behind the scenes to front and centre had been for Rachel. She couldn't count the number of times she'd had to kiss away frustrated tears after one or two hushed words about their hopes in the middle of the night.
"I know," Rachel laughs, "I couldn't believe it when I got the call."
Leaning back, but not completely disconnecting, Santana beamed, "I'm so proud."
Rachel's cheeks are tinged pink, her eyes glassy with unbridled emotion, "Thank you."
"Have you been out to celebrate yet?"
"I-" Rachel pauses and then swallows, "I haven't."
"What? Why?"
"I wanted to tell you first."
"Oh," she replies, not meaning to sound so put out by the words, but still. Despite their arrangement having developed into something quite intimate, beyond sex, beyond small talk, they hadn't defined it. Perhaps Santana truly was destined for loneliness, the way she's longed for something like this but somehow hadn't had the balls to make it something more. She could blame how busy they both were, but they hadn't even gone on a date. Not a real one anyway.
So, to have Rachel come to her first, of all people, with news this big rattled her.
"Yeah," Rachel sighs as though she can read Santana's mind with the meeting of eyes. But she doesn't dwell on whatever she sees there in deep, dark depths, instead, she seems to harden her resolve, sit straighter as she goes to speak again. "I will celebrate though and I'd like it if you came to celebrate with me."
"Me?"
Rachel laughs at that, "Is there anybody else in the room?"
"I don't know, you could be hallucinating Judy Garland again for all I know."
"That was one time and I was wasted," she argues, indignant at having her moment of drunken misjudgement brought up.
"Rachel," Santana looks at her pointedly, amusement dancing about her eyes, "a coat hanger does not a legend make."
She can only roll her eyes at that, a scoff of a laugh ready in response. "Please, it was dark and I swear I heard her."
Santana can't contain her cackle, "She's dead!"
"Shut up," Rachel tries to admonish, unable to help finding the funny side. "Stop distracting me and tell me if you'll come or not."
A warmth in her chest follows her soft, "Yes, I'll come," half for the smile she gets out of Rachel, half for the knowing that she was somebody's person.