I'm so sorry I haven't updated. But I tried to make this one extra long to make up for it. Lesson learned guys. Dont make false promises about updates. Anyways, thanks so much to the awesome reviewers. We broke 100 guys! I love reading your comments. You guys know this story better than I do!

Santana studied the contours of her naked body in the mirror. It had become a habit, stopping to look at herself in a mirror whenever possible, that is. It was almost as innate as her quick wit or her sex appeal. She could see the reflection of her boyfriend (Boyfriend! What a foreign concept!) behind her. He was sitting up in bed, lazily strumming her guitar. It was only until he reached the bridge of whatever song he was composing that she noticed that he was watching her, watch herself.

"What?" she asked. It was a little weird, although she was sure he couldn't have resisted the view even if he tried.

"Nothing, you've just been staring at yourself for the last five minutes. I'm pretty sure all your body parts are still there. What's up?" he asked, setting down the guitar on the left side of the bed, as if the guitar was a proxy for her sleeping body.

"It's just-" she whipped around to face him, "Is my left boob lower than my right?"

He burst out laughing, the reaction she had expected. "Uh, why does it matter?"

"Because it's sagging, then I have to go in and fix it," she explained.

"Why?" Well, wasn't he just full of questions today. He hadn't noticed any disparities between her breasts. If there was a difference, it was so minute that it was insignificant to anything.

"Because I need to look hot. Duh." She thought she had explained this concept to him many times before. Supermodel = hot. Hot = big, perky boobs. It was the way things were. She didn't make the rules, but she sure as hell had to live by them if she wanted to survive in the ugly industry of looking pretty.

"You're already hot. You're sex on a stick. So why do you insist on feeling like a stranger in your own body?" he inquired.

"Wait, what? I don't feel like a stranger in my own body. In fact, I am very comfortable in my own body. Which is why I model practically naked," she countered. He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, what now? I told you, I need nice boobs for work."

"No you don't. You could sell anything if you wanted. You were already a star before you even got this. You were the one that revolutionized modeling for short models. I would know, I Wikipedia'd you. So why can't you do the same for real, but smaller breasts? And don't say it was some stupid thing you did in high school and now you're stuck with it. It's not a permanent thing. You use work as an excused for everything, Santana. You've given up everything for your career, and honestly, I don't think it's worth it."

Okay, what was up with his lecture? It wasn't like she was Heidi fucking Montag. There wasn't an ounce of plastic in her body other than her breasts. She bit her lip.

"I—I-" she started. But then she lost her train of thought. Nonetheless, she had a comeback for him. "If you know everything about me, why haven't you complained before? I thought you wanted a hot girlfriend," she snipped.

"I already have a hot girlfriend, silicone or not. And I'd rather have a real one that loves herself the way she is." She started to deny these self-esteem issues he claimed to have, but she knew he was right. She hated how he knew how she felt before she felt it. She hated how he knew her better than she knew herself. She hated how mature he'd become while she hadn't been looking. She hated how inadequate she felt next to him, as if she was too naïve and lighthearted to be taken seriously as a mate. When did he grow up on her?

Rachel really didn't know how she even knew these people. Thank god they were secluded within the perimeters of Santana's house, in the outskirts of town. If anyone ever found out about the type of people she hung out with and how they really acted in their nature, Rachel would die of shame.

She really didn't know why she was even here. Right, Spanish class.

"Can you focus please, Santana? We have to finish by tonight," Rachel sighed. Why was she the only one working?

"I am," Santana said. It didn't sound too convincing.

"No, on the project," Rachel clarified. Every time she looked over at her partner, Santana had her tongue jammed down Noah's throat.

"Untwist your granny panties, Yentl. I'm the one doing the real work, remember? You're just making the poster pretty," Santana said as she rolled her eyes. That much was true. Santana was doing the actual translating, and Rachel was just doing the planning and organization of everything. But Santana's part would be done in a few minutes, whereas Rachel was already covered in glitter glue and Magic Marker. It was the effort that counted! It wasn't fair that Santana was just naturally gifted at Spanish.

Rachel was being annoying, as usual. Really, her part wasn't even being graded. Rachel should be thankful that she had Santana as a partner. Why would Mr. Shue pair the two of them up? Did he think that just because she joined Glee Club that she was going to be all buddy-buddy with wannabe Barbra here? It wasn't like she wanted to join Glee Club; Coach Sylvester asked her to, and Santana would do anything for the Cheerios. At least she and Man Hands were going to get an A for sure. Now would Rachel please get off her back?

"Noah, why are you even here?" Rachel snapped, looking over at the teenage boy who was teasing the spunky Latina with a bottle of whipped cream he'd swiped from the Lopez kitchen. The two "friends with benefits" (Could she call them that? They were only fifteen…) were hanging out in the corner of the living room, leaving Rachel in the center all alone.

"He's always here," Santana answered for him, "He just can't stay away."

"You know you love it, babe," Puck said as he smudged a dollop of whipped cream on Santana's cheek, before squirting some more directly in his mouth. Gross. Did he know how unhygienic that was?

Santana apparently didn't think so. She squealed and pushed him away, getting some whipped cream on his jeans in the process.

"Ha! It looks like you jizzed in your pants!" Santana shrieked, licking some of the white, fluffy substance off the corner of her lips.

Rachel rolled her eyes, again. Now the two of them were rolling on the ground, wrestling. Santana kept erupting in giggles and screams.

"You guys are so unsophisticated. You're not going to get anywhere in life, much less graduate high school, if you don't take yourselves seriously," Rachel explained, in a last ditch effort.

"Irrelevant" was Puck's reply.

"Come on, when are you guys going to grow up?"

"Never!" shouted Noah. Santana showed her agreement by jumping on top of him. Two things became obvious to Rachel. 1) She was going to end up doing this project all by herself, and 2) These two would never act their age, as long as they had each other.

But what would the fun in that now?

Santana remembered her lost thought. "I need them," she whispered. And not for work. But he knew that already, of course.

"Come here," he gestered. She threw on a robe and crawled into their bed, and buried herself in his side, inhaling his natural scent.

"I need them. I need them for work, because I am nothing without my body, and that scares the fucking shit out of me. I need them for me, or else I feel like I'm disappearing into the wallpaper. And so what if I do? Am I not allowed to feel good about myself?" she asked, still not looking up.

"Yes, you are. And I'm glad you love yourself, even if you do need them. But do you ever think there will be a time when you don't need them?"

"Maybe. Eventually." Good enough.

"Okay. I get it, you know? This, your life as a model, it's the hardest thing you've ever worked for, and you don't want to fuck it up. I get it." He understood. It was a lot like how he would have done anything to be a father to baby Beth, even if it meant being with Quinn and betraying everything about himself.

"It's not," she replied.

"Not what?"

"Not the hardest thing I've ever worked for. Not the hardest thing I've ever worked at."

"It isn't? Well what is then?"

"You."

"Santana, are you sure about this? I'm scared. What if we get in trouble?" Brittany whined.

"We won't, Britt. Do you want to help me or not?" Santana said, as she reached for the sugar. She took a scoop and dropped a hefty amount of sweetness into the batter. All the more convincing.

"I do! But you said we were going to make brownies!"

"Well, what does it look like we're doing?" Santana stuck her wooden spoon into the bowl and started mixing viciously, putting all her effort into her baking, and into her plan.

"Yeah, but what fun is it if we don't get to eat them? Why do we have to give them to Lauren? I thought you hated her because she took Puck from you."

"I do, Brittany," Santana sighed. Being conniving was no fun when your partner in crime just didn't get the plan. "Unless you want to be barfing your guts out, then I highly recommend you stay away from our brownies. I mean it. These are only for the rhino."

"Okay. Wait, why are you making brownies for her if you hate her again?" whimpered Brittany.

"Never mind, Brittany. Just hand me the laxatives," Santana said, gesturing to the little baggie she'd shoplifted from the drugstore last week. Brittany handed it over, and closed her eyes as Santana dumped the powder into the batter. The little white granules sprinkled on to the chocolate mix, and Santana felt a rush of satisfaction come over her. Santana shook her head in shame almost. She'd given up her Friday night for this. Just like she'd given up horseback riding all last year, just to have time to scheme about how she would get Quinn back for the Beth thing. And the time she'd spit in Mercedes' Tater Tots. And the time she got the manager at Breadstix to fire that skanky waitress, the one that was always making fuck eyes at Puck. The things she did for that boy.

But then again, no one got between her and her man.

"Me." Yes, him.

"It's always been you," she said as she tried to press herself even closer to his warm body.

He dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

This was it. It was going to happen, she knew it. He never kissed her on the forehead unless he had some stupid confession.

"You know, I don't care if you're a lesbian," he said, lighting up a cigarette. He flickered his lighter back and forth. He kissed her forehead, wiping away a loose lock of hair that was sticking to her sticky skin.

"Stop saying that," she snapped. She got out of bed and pulled the shades up, letting light into his bedroom. So what if she was giving all his neighbors a free show? Look at that girl, they would think, with a body to kill for, and a lover to die for.

"What?" he said. He could never win with Santana. He was trying to be all sensitive and shit, and she nearly bit his head off.

"I'm not a lesbian!"

"You're not?" Then why was she dating Karofsky? Why else would anyone in their right mind be dating Karofsky?

"If I were, would I be here with you? I'm bicurious or whatever. Just because I'm in love with Brittany doesn't mean I'm a lesbian!"

"Okay then."

Whatever. As long as he was still getting laid.

Whether it was to cushion the blow of a mistake waiting to happen, or a sentimental declaration, a kiss on the forehead was always a harbinger of something important to come. And the way things had been going recently, she was sure he was going to say he loved her. She knew he had been thinking it. How long did you have to live with someone before they honest to fucking God just admit they loved you? Of course, the thought never occurred to Santana to just say she loved him first. She snuggled herself closer, feeling his bicep through her robe.

"Hey, San?"

"Yeah?"

"Not to sound like a chick or anything, but…"

It was about to happen. She could feel it. Yes! Yes! Yes! The ultimate confirmation of his feelings for her. Once he said it, he was hers forever.

"What is this robe made of? It's super soft. Like polyester or something like that?" he asked, stroking the small of her back.

What. The. Fuck.

"I don't know," she hissed (She did though, it was silk…Polyester? Did she look like she shopped at Wal-Mart?), "I have to go to work."

"Okay, then." Her sudden change in mood triggered an epiphany in him. He didn't know if whatever he said soured her mood, but he did know that whenever she mentioned her job, her face was devoid of any emotion and she sounded very listy and mundane, no matter the circumstances. It was then when this fundamental thought dawned on him.

"Do you even like your job?" he asked, point-blank.

"What do you mean 'Do I like my job?'" she asked, as if his question was ambiguous in any way possible. "I make bank, get tons of free shit, and have the dream job of millions of girls worldwide. What do you think?"

"Well, I think you hate it. But that's not what I asked."

"Fine, let me spell it out for you. No model has wanted to model since she was an embryo. All we ever do is get accidentally dragged into this business, but the truth is, no one ever leaves because the perks are too fucking great. Okay?"

"Okay." Why couldn't she just say she didn't like her job?

"Why do you care anyways?" she snapped. She gathered up her clothes, because well, she had to go to work. It wasn't just an excuse for everything, it was actually a contractual obligation.

"Because I want you to be happy."

"Says the depressed army vet."

He shrugged and picked up his guitar again. He'd gotten enough out of Santana today. There was no use in trying now that she was burned out. She'd filled her emotional quota of the day, and her defenses were up. He'd try again later.

When she got to work, she found Katie and Coral sitting around the office door, pretending to look distracted. It wasn't working, because they looked obviously as if they were eavesdropping. Although it was hard not to because Daniel was practically screaming.

"Who's in there?" Santana beckoned.

"Sasha," Coral snickered, "Chick got knocked up. What a stupid cunt."

Oh, no.

But Santana couldn't say anything to help Sasha now. All she could have done was keep Sasha's secret, and she did. So instead, Santana took a seat beside her coworkers, and whipped out her phone to peruse Twitter.

"How could you do this? How could you be so stupid? Do you even give a shit about your career?" Daniel yelled.

"Of course I do, that's why I'm begging you Daniel, I need this," Sasha cried.

"Well, I need a model who won't waddle down the runway looking like she just swallowed a watermelon whole! How could you do this to me? And now of all times? Do you know how much work you've added on to my already huge list of duties?" Wait, how could she do this to him? Him? What the hell did Sasha getting pregnant have to do with Daniel?

"I'm so sorry, Daniel. Please. I need this. I'm nothing with this. Please," Sasha begged. Santana wanted to run in there and ram a rod down Sasha's pathetic back, telling her to stand up straight, and stand up for herself. Stand up for her baby.

"Well too bad. I'm going to have to force you on maternity leave. But I'll be kind. I'll let you pick your replacement. Who should I call in? Maybe Chanel? Or Doutzen?" Of course Daniel was going to force her onto maternity leave. Which meant he was never hiring her back.

"I don't care anymore," Sasha said bitterly.

"Fine. I'll make it easy. Santana will take your place," Daniel snipped, before walking out the door, surprising all three listeners outside.

Wait, what? She would take Sasha's job? She already had a job of her own!

"Santana, I'm sure you heard that. Mama Sasha's giving you're her job. Say thank you," he said finally and sauntered off.

The four girls stared at each other, unsure what to do. Coral looked shocked. Katie looked overwhelmed. Santana looked guilty. And Sasha looked heartbroken.

"I'm so sorry," Santana said, enveloping the shaking Sasha in her arms.

"Don't be. Now you have my job. Now you have everything," Sasha said, wiping her tears. Sasha picked up her stuff and left.

The remaining three girls stood silently, as if having a moment for their fallen angel.

The rest of the day was grueling. Now that she had two jobs, she was going to have to put in the extra hours. More wardrobe fittings, makeup consultations, etc.

In lesser words, torture.

How could Daniel just do that? Abandon a girl he had been working with for four years when she needed it most. Sasha was more than a pretty face that worked for him, but he hadn't seen that. Instead, he berated her and crushed her spirit.

Santana was exhausted and shellshocked. Story of her life.

When she came home, he greeted her with a kiss and a hug. He asked what any dutiful boyfriend did after his girlfriend came from a long day at work.

"How was work?"

He hadn't expected this reaction. The color drained from her face and she collapsed. She deflated. She went back into his arms and sobbed. She heaved until there were no more tears, so she started screaming instead. He had no idea what was happening.

"Santana, baby. What's wrong?" he asked, pulling back to look at her tear-stained face. Whoever thought Santana Madison nee Lopez was an unemotional, stoic bitch was wrong. Santana waved him off and went into the bedroom. He trailed behind her. "Santana, tell me what's wrong."

"Sasha," she gulped.

"What did she do to you?" Puck sighed. So it was a stupid catfight thing.

"Nothing. She's pregnant. And Daniel—Daniel. He just threw her out! He just ripped into her and chewed her out. And then she was gone. Just like that," she cried, "Who does that? What is Sasha going to do now?"

"You know, she got fired from one job, Santana. It's not the end of the world."

"Not for you it isn't. For her, it is. And for me too, if that were to ever happen."

He wasn't sure if she meant getting pregnant or getting fired. Surely there was a difference.

"You don't understand!" she whined again, rebursting into tears. He automatically wished he hadn't tried to be the voice of reason.

"So help me," he said.

"Don't you get it? We need to hold on our careers before they all go to hell. I never graduated high school, Noah. What the fuck am I going to do when I don't have any more good braless years, much less Sasha?"

It was after her little monologue that he finally understood why these girls cared about something as trivial as fashion so much. It was all they had. They had no back-up plan, because this was the back-up plan. How pitiful. He was just an army brat with no direction in the future whatsoever, but at least he wasn't relying on anything other than himself to get through. He was glad though, that Santana was somewhat mature enough to know to start planning for her future.

He cocooned her in his strong arms and let her cry it out. "He just threw her out. Like she meant nothing," she sobbed. It could have been her getting fired, if she was in the same situation. She hiccuped a couple more times before breaking away.

She looked him straight in the eye and said, "I hate my job." It was fucking miserable. She couldn't cut her hair without consulting five different people. She couldn't leave work without paparazzos begging for a picture of her crotch. She couldn't handle the thought that her career could end any second.

But then again, she could change her mind about everything tomorrow.

"You do?" he asked, begging for confirmation.

She stayed silent until he nudged her. She wouldn't say it again.

"Why can't you say it?" he prodded. She still stayed silent. "Santana?"

"Because I feel guilty, okay?" she yelled.

Guilty? For what? He thought it had to do with pride. "What, why?" he asked.

"I have so much. I am so fortunate to have this dream job. I came from nothing, and now I have everything. So why aren't I happy? Why can't I just deal with it and be happy with what I have? Why do I feel guilty for wanting more?" she cried. She looked away.

"Because your dream job isn't a dream job. It's okay to want more. You've always demanded the best, Santana Lopez. Why are you any different now?" he said softly, tilting her head back towards him. Santana had always been the head bitch around. She always got what she wanted. That's how she landed this career, right? She worked hard for it. Although it didn't really make any difference now, now that her priorities and life goals changed.

"You're right. You're so right. I deserve more than that prick Daniel and Victoria's Secret. I am better than this," she declared. He was so fucking right. Who did Daniel think he was, walking all over her like that? Although it was a little hard to sound confident because her voice kept cracking.

"Does this mean you're going to quit your job?"

"Are you a retard? Of course not. I still don't have any other job skills, remember? I'm just going to ask for better hours. Those losers need me. They can't say no." Maybe eventually, she would learn to love her job. She learned to love him, for all his flaws right? She got up to start dinner (It was her turn to cook tonight, and by cook, she meant heat up a Hamburger Helper).

"That's my girl. Now you go out there and work what God gave you," he said, smacking her bottom as she headed for the door.

"But God didn't give me my boobs."

Oh, right.

So there we have it. Here's some questions to think about, answer if you'd like

1) I haven't introduced any other New Directions kids in the story (except for flashbacks) other than Puck and Santana. This is deliberate. Why would I do that? Think about isolation, escape, different worlds, etc.

2) Major theme from the story: the dichotomy of everything vs nothing. How does this apply to Puck? Santana? Anyone else?

Review please! Even if you hate it!