AN: Thanks everyone for their patience. I know so many people are waiting for updates on the other three in progress fics, and please know I haven't forgotten about them. I've adopted a new strategy of focusing on one fic at a time to get them done, and that means that although the wait may be a bit longer for your fic of choice, once it's got it's turn, the updates will come faster. This may end up being a four parter based on length, but so far my outline still says three chapters. Please enjoy!
PART 02.
I can taste the fake, the shame
I've heard this story before
And while you dig yourself a hole
It's the same shit, different girl
Repeat - David Guetta, featuring Jessie J.
Paralyzed with anxiety, Rachel has to take several deep breaths, filling her lungs to capacity with desperately needed oxygen and pushing them back out again, before she regains the mental and physical serenity to be able to drive.
That meditated calm lasts for about five minutes, enough for Rachel to back out of Santana's driveway and make it past the traffic at Wilshire and Westwood, before her tongue glides against her swollen, tingling chapped lips in distraction and she's suddenly overtaken by the acute physical memory of Santana sucking sweetly on her lower lip.
Rachel doesn't see a light change from yellow to red until the very last minute. Scrambling, she slams down hard on the brake, something that the Lexus behind her does not appreciate, and makes it known with a loud, angry honk. Rachel can only offer a weak wave in the mirror as apology.
She's acutely aware of her right nipple. It feels so achingly SENSITIVE. She's shifting in her seat because the little make out session she has just engaged in has turned her on a distracting amount, and now she's going to die in a horrible car accident or the victim of road rage in West Los Angeles because she can't keep her mind from going Santana-sexual.
"Okay," she breathes, more to her heated body and her furiously beating heart than to anything else. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay. Let's just… call reinforcements." The light goes green, and Rachel steps gingerly on the gas, and instructs the blue tooth to dial the last number that called her.
Her eyes fixate on the road, but her teeth chew hard on her raw lower lip as the phone takes it's time to connect the number.
She taps nervously at the steering wheel until the line connects and she hears a groggy and grumpy, "Rachel, it is 10AM in the morning!"
Kurt sounds furious, tired, hung over, and very displeased.
Rachel doesn't care. "That is a perfectly reasonable time to call someone!"
"Not when you went to bed at 8AM!" Kurt snaps, and Rachel rolls her eyes.
"Well that's not my fault!" she exclaims. "You're the one that embraced the gay club twink stereotype!"
"I'm hanging up now," he grumbles, apparently too hung over to be patient.
"No, Kurt please!" she pleads, because the panic is really starting to set in now and it's making her a little color blind; not the best thing when one is dealing with traffic lights. "I really need to talk to you. I'm kinda freaking out right now."
She reminds herself to breathe, huffing in and out and keeping a wild eye out for the freeway entrance as she waits for Kurt to decide to hear her out. And he better. Distance shouldn't matter with one's best Gay.
He sighs in defeat.
"Is this a freak out like 'I don't know which song to audition with' or a freak out like 'I have another premiere and no one will style me'?"
Rachel swallows painfully against the lump that's lodged itself in her throat and forces herself to speak. "It's a 'I Made Out With Santana' freak out."
The loud thud, flop and squeal that amplifies over the speaker makes her jump in her seat. Rachel's hands stay carefully in the ten and two position on the wheel, but she notes with wild eyes that her knuckles look a little white.
"… Go on."
Rachel sighs raggedly, and finds herself brushing her hands rapidly through her bangs in a nervous tick. "I went to her place tonight to work on our song," she begins, because it seems the easiest place to start. "And … I don't know it just… somehow we ended up kissing in her hallway before I was supposed to leave." The other line remains quiet, but Rachel finds she's lost her ability to care, because now she's just thinking about Santana's tongue swiping against her tingly mouth and that hand against her breast. "Like… heavy kissing," she admits. "With tongue." Again, there's no response. "And she felt up my breast." Rachel presses her lips together. "Kurt?"
"…How does that even happen?" he sputters so loudly into the speaker she actively winces.
"I don't know!" Rachel snaps, frantic. She's thoroughly flabbergasted and bewildered. Her heart is hammering like she's about to have a heart attack and she's legitimately weak-kneed, and… there's this crippling panic that won't go away and insists she go back and reanalyze every bit of interaction that's occurred between her and Santana since Drew's party. "It's just… ever since we met up again we've been texting back and forth…" Rachel trails off as she recalls the late night text sessions, the smiles that everyone would comment on and the way her stomach twisted in delicious pleasure with each increasingly playful reply. She also distinctly remembers referring to this evening as a date. Her stomach twists now in very different fashion. "And I now realize in retrospect that it may have come off like flirting."
"Oh My God, I'm too hung over for this."
"And then we wrote this song," she confesses, and once again the echo of that refrain washes over. Her voice breaks with the emotion, and Rachel sighs, head falling back against her head rest as she considers the music. "- and… Kurt it's just… somehow the music is like a drug and she has this tiny intimate little studio where it was just us and this song and I swear to God, Kurt, it's like she leaks pheromones because she's so beautiful and then we sang together and-"
"Okay stop!" Kurt snaps, ripping into her subconscious just enough to bring her back to her reality and make her realize that somehow she has managed to get herself back to her condo and is now sitting in her assigned parking space with the car running. "You're going screechy and it's rupturing my eardrums."
Rachel's head flops back again. She moans in tortured agony.
"Calm down," Kurt instructs her, and she nods blindly, waiting for her best friend to get his bearings on this and react accordingly. "Just… Okay, you and Santana made out," he says finally, and God, it sounds even more ridiculous when HE says it. "Did you like it?"
Rachel's eyes open. She considers the question, and feels her heart beat erratically in response. "… No?" she says, sounding out the word awkwardly, like she has marbles in her mouth.
"Rachel."
She groans, feeling the lie sink back inside of her with her along with her scruples. "Of course I liked it, Kurt!" she snaps miserably. "She's a fantastic kisser, we all knew that. Brittany wouldn't shut up about it in high school," she adds with more annoyance than what should be appropriate, considering she used to think Brittany and Santana were actually kind of romantic, in a gorgeous slutty lesbian kind of way.
"True," Kurt muses, and Rachel rolls her eyes. "But are you attracted to her?"
Rachel sighs, thumbing against the leather of her steering wheel as she considers the question. "I don't know," she mumbles, and then shakes her head because she knows herself better than that. "Maybe?" she concedes instead. "I mean it's been years, but…" The image of Santana is conjured up easily. She's gorgeous, confident, a little tragic and ridiculously talented. "I've never quite seen her like this and…she's a woman, Kurt! And she's not just any woman she's… she's Santana!"
"… You of all people are having a gay panic right now?" he drawls flatly.
"This isn't a gay panic," she snaps because just the thought is ridiculous.
"Then why are you freaking out?" Kurt is so calm it's infuriating.
"Because the tabloids are already all over us! Because we're friends! Because I have a career to worry about and I don't want to be Anne Heche!" she adds. That's an actual phobia now. Rachel distractedly wonders if it could be a classified condition – death by Anne Heche.
"…Allrighty."
Rachel thinks about that tabloid; that ugly magazine that Santana shook so gleefully in her face. It creates a sour emotion that tastes like nausea on her tongue."Look," she breathes thickly. "Santana has this… reputation okay?" Rachel chapped lips actively hurt now, but she ignores them as she feels the emotion come close to gutting her a little. "She goes through girls the way you go through… belts. And I don't want to be a notch on her belt!"
"Because of your career or because you actually like her?"Kurt asks, and it's annoying, how he's trying to position this.
"… my career, Kurt!" Her voice snaps like flint. "Santana and I are just friends. You know I'm with Troy!" Troy, her , her boyfriend that she just accidentally cheated on. Rachel groans, slumping back in her seat. "Oh shit, Troy!"
"You just now remembered you have a boyfriend?"
"Shut up! I barely see him!" It's not much of a justification, but it's all Rachel has.
"Okay, look calm down. You're freaking out over nothing."
A dry, annoyed laugh blurts out of her. "I'm not-"
"Santana is a bitch but she isn't a predator," Kurt says firmly, and it shuts Rachel up completely. "Just nip it in the bud," he advises. "Your friendship will be fine if this is as far as you take it."
His tone is so even, the sentences so simple and logical, like that's all there is to it. The part of Rachel that likes to be difficult about this sort of thing wants to fight it, but she finds she doesn't have the strength. "… Right," she whispers, and thinks about Santana and that gorgeous song that she wrote just for her.
God, it would be so much less confusing if just the very thought of it didn't leave her breathless.
"Tell her that you were caught up in your music moment and it was a mistake and move on."
Rachel sits quietly in her car, fingers running idly over the knob that has placed the car into Park.
"That sounds… reasonable," she admits.
"I know. God, I'm so hungover," he adds, sounding so completely miserable, it's affecting.
Rachel's suddenly overwhelmed. She misses him. She misses him a lot. She wishes he were here in the car with her, so she could whisper that she wants to be his boyfriend and hold him close.
He's safe and sweet and she knows exactly where she stands with him.
"Thanks, Kurt," she whispers quietly, doing her best to mask the sudden tears that taint her voice.
Kurt takes a moment to respond, and Rachel wonders if he's heard it anyway. "You're welcome, Rachel," he says, softer than before. "And for the record? I'm going to give you SO much crap later once I've actually woken up and processed this."
Rachel laughs, chest rising and falling in weak giggles before she sighs, pressing her palm against her mouth and nodding.
"I guess that's fair."
At 7AM the next morning, Rachel, fresh out of the shower and scrubbed clean, sits with her hair wrapped in a towel and studies her phone.
Rachel's nearly religious moisturizing ritual has been all but forgotten as she considers exactly how she could even begin to bring up what needs to be said.
She has had a sleepless night, and it's convenient to blame THAT for her current bout of anxious indecision, instead of the tight knot of nerves that burns in her stomach.
The little dash on her cellphone just blinks at her mockingly as her thumb hovers over the call button. She's been staring at Santana's name for the past five minutes.
Rachel thinks she knows Santana well. They were roommates for years, and possibly friends before that (though high school was notoriously inconsistent when it comes to their friendship), but Rachel understands that time has changed quite a few things for them both.
Particularly in how they view each other. Rachel can't imagine that Santana would have considered pressing her against a wall and kissing her as seductively as she did, even in her drunkest moments, back in New York.
And now it had happened while they were both sober.
Rachel hadn't known what to expect in the wake of it, especially considering the way she had fled so quickly afterwards. There had been nothing from Santana all night, and Rachel knows at least part of her inability to sleep came from the way she obsessively checked her for phone for confirmation of that.
She knows she needs to take the advice that Kurt gave her, but God, it would be so much easier if she had a cue from Santana on how to respond. She had no idea on what Santana is thinking, and if Rachel takes a gamble and sends her a text that comes off as condescending and stupid… well…
Despite the confusion maelstrom of emotion that is currently coursing through her, Rachel is aware of herself to understand that losing Santana's friendship so quickly after she's found it is something she does not want.
Still, she and Santana have never been anything but honest with each other, and Rachel knows Santana deserves that honesty now. She deserves the truth.
If only Rachel knew what the truth was.
She thought she did. She had an entire text scribbled out, ready to be sent out that was both formal and friendly and polite, making light of the situation and also making it quite clear it wasn't going to happen again.
And then she got Santana's text this morning.
There's a tiny welt on the back of her lower lip, a result of her chewing. It aches like a bruise, and Rachel's tongue runs over it thoughtfully as she studies the message.
Santana's text is devastatingly simple: Had a great time last night.
That's it. That's all.
It's very nearly driven Rachel mad, because she doesn't know what it means. Did Santana have a good time because they wrote a song together, truly connected again as friends and is happy to have her back in her life? Or did Santana have a good time because minutes before Rachel fled her apartment they exchanged deep, hungry kisses and Rachel became intimately familiar with the slightly rough and tempting texture of Santana's tongue?
God, Rachel wants to call her.
She wants to talk this out. She wants to express her fears and hope like hell Santana will listen to her and give her that tough love truth she's so very used to.
But God, what would she even say? 'Santana, this is catastrophic for my career, and I want to forget last night ever happened, but the thing is, I may have touched myself after I came home last night because thinking about you kissing me got me really wet, and now thinking about your hand on my boob keeps getting the nipple hard. It's really annoying and this can't go anywhere anyway because I can't be Anne Heche or hole in a belt.'
She's more than certain Santana would have no idea how to respond to that.
Rachel groans, flinging the towel off her now half-dried, messy hair and letting it drop to the floor, not caring at all about the wetspot it will leave on the floor. She knows she's a coward, but she presses the text option instead.
Carefully, she types out her text: Me too. Listen, Santana. About the kiss... It was a mistake. I hope it doesn't change anything between us.
Rachel reads it out loud, and shakes her head miserably at the tone. It sounds… distant. Polite. Too formal, like Santana is some casual acquaintance and not the woman who held her during her pregnancy scare and promised her everything was going to be okay.
She intends to rewrite it, but suddenly her phone buzzes in her hand. The unexpected vibration causes an already skittish Rachel to jump. She loses her grip on her phone, and with a yelp she scrambles, fumbling for it.
In trying to steady it with her fingers, she accidentally presses the send button, and off the text goes.
"Fuck!" she rasps miserably, and has no time to do more than that, because her phone is actively ringing with another caller.
Rachel's eyes shut tight and she palms her face in despair. "Hi JoAnn," she sighs, holding her phone to her ear.
She regrets that immediately when there's a high pitched squeal on the other end.
"Oh My GOD," JoAnn shouts, and Rachel winces, pulling the phone away from her ear to save her eardrums. "I LOVE it," she says, so oddly vibrant Rachel can actually picture her skipping around her office in those stiletto heels she's so very fond of. "And more importantly, Columbia loves it. I have good news. Get in the office right now!"
"Wait-"
"Now means NOW, Rachel Berry!" JoAnn orders, and then disconnects the call.
Rachel inhales deeply, and though she knows she needs to get moving, she can't help but glance back down on her phone.
A little note says the text has been read, but there's no response.
Santana texts her two hours later, and though Rachel knows she should be focusing on her manager, she immediately swipes at her phone with her finger to open the message.
Of course it won't change anything. Come on, Rachel. You're not the first straight girl who got a little too hot and bothered over me doing my thing. We're good, I promise.
It's friendly and sweet and courteous, and cocky enough to be exactly what Santana would say.
Rachel isn't sure why she isn't more relieved that this is apparently a run of the mill experience for her friend. Maybe it's the fact that despite her paranoia of being perceived as just another straight girl ready to go gay for one night with her lady killer friend, she's become exactly that.
And Santana finds it amusing.
It makes Rachel wonder how far Santana would have allowed that kiss to have gone, had Rachel herself not stopped it.
"You, my dear, are having a VERY good day."
She would beg to disagree.
Still, Rachel shifts her tense body, finding a better fit on the awkward and expensive balance ball seat that fitness-obsessed JoAnn forces her guests to use whenever she comes into her UTA office, and manages to offer a weak smile.
"It's good, isn't it?" she asks, attempting to be enthusiastic about it, because listening to the song in JoAnn's office proves the song is just as amazing even without Santana's expensive sound system, and that's very very reassuring.
"Granted, I'm not a music person," JoAnn admits. "But for a demo, I think it's nearly flawless. Columbia has a few notes," she adds, and Rachel suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Of course they do. "But they want to book a studio right away to record the master. This may be a real hit!" JoAnn claps her hands together like a seal, but her peppy smile fades slightly when Rachel simply purses her lips and recrosses her legs. "So why the hell do you look like someone forced you to eat a puppy? This is huge!"
It is. It's really, really huge. In all the talk about her album and its direction that's occurred in the last few months, there has never been talk about there being an actual genuine potential Billboard hit on it. Rachel's voice is suited to ballads and powerful love songs, but somehow she and Santana have found this magical combination that elevates her strengths and makes it… danceable.
And true, maybe Santana has done this before, maybe Rachel isn't the first woman who's experienced an odd crisis of sexuality after a night of music bonding with her friend, but it shouldn't diminish that the result of that is a reallyreally good thing for her.
"I'm sorry," she says, and straightens her shoulders, grinning as sincerely as she can for the benefit of her tireless manager. "Honestly, that's great. Santana and I worked really hard on this!"
There's something in her tone that seems to catch JoAnn's insanely accurate suspicions. The older woman pauses, peers at her from over her glasses and says quite snappily, "Just as long as you two didn't work TOO hard."
It's an insinuation that would have sounded ten times more ridiculous had last night not happened the way it did. "I told you that we're just friends," she snaps, because it's true. Santana's answering text had assured her of that.
"Just checking," JoAnn says, and drops the matter with the happiness of an ADHD affected executive. "Oh!" She reaches across her desk for a magazine. "Did you see the Star?!"
And she actually shakes that god-damn magazine at her, in an almost perfect mimic of the way Santana did it the night before.
Rachel's stomach turns with distaste, but she swallows down the bile and her angry remark. "I did, actually," she says instead, determined to keep her voice steady and light.
JoAnn's eyes practically gleam with pride. "Troy's manager is a little pissed," she confesses, and shrugs it off. "But who cares! This is a gold mine for us."
Rachel shakes her head, suddenly disgusted. "Yeah, I mean when's the last time I was on the cover of Star?"
"Exactly!" JoAnn says, pointing happily at her, before swiveling in her chair and hollering at her assistant to buy her ten more copies of the tabloid.
Rachel opens her phone, and re-reads Santana's text.
Great, she texts back.Glad to hear it.
She doesn't know what else to say.
The studio that has been booked to record the song is not intimate and it's not tiny. There are no post-its peppered everywhere, and all the equipment is spotless and shiny. There is a faint smell of weed that makes Rachel's nose wrinkle, and instead of a crazy intimate session between two artists collaborating, there are no less than ten men in suits crowded into the booth behind a hapless engineer in a wrinkled t shirt and faded jeans watching her, along with JoAnn, her music agent, and another guy dressed in Designer Douche that introduces himself to Rachel as Santana's producer.
"Let's get started!" he says, and motions to the lonely stool in the wide, open recording space. Rachel feels suddenly like an exhibit at the zoo.
She swallows hard and stares wordlessly at the closed door. After a moment, she carefully leans forward to speakinto the mike. "Shouldn't we wait for Santana?"
Behind the glass, the other suits confer. Muted in the studio, Rachel can only watch, until Santana's producer pushes the button that will allow her to hear what they are saying and says, "Sorry hon, I thought someone told you. Santana's already recorded the music. We're going to get your vocals, and when she gets back into town we'll lay her over you. We don't need you two together for this. We'll see her when we start working on the music video."
Rachel feels silly, because of course that makes sense. It'show these things are done.
Still, she can't shake the feeling of awkwardness when she takes what feels like an intensely intimate song, and sings it with the same emotional and vulnerability that she used to sing for Santana's ears alone. There are no deep dark brown eyes to stare into, no quickening of her breath or flush in her cheeks that reminds her how SPECIAL this moment is, how CONNECTED she feels, not just to the music but to the woman who sits across from her.
She wonders if it affects the quality.
It doesn't seem to, because the execs just drink their coffee and smile happily at her, acting like they don't have a care in the world.
Rachel envies them.
She's relieved, honestly, to have the condo to herself for the night. She never thought she'd be a beach girl, but Rachel finds she appreciates that patio more than she thought she would have when she moved into the Marina Del Rey high rise.
It's evening, and the air is unseasonably crisp for this time of year, but it's still perfect weather to sit on her patio chair and have an evening drink. She's brought a patchwork blanket with her, a gift from Kurt, and wraps it around herself as she continues to sip at her red wine and stares at the horizon.
She's quiet and still, but also very much aware of her furiously beating heart, the way it thumps so tellingly inside of her.
She's thinking about Santana.
Despite their mutual promises that their night together wouldn't affect their friendship, texts betweenshe and Santana have been sporadic. Rachel knows she could be feeling extra sensitive about it all, because Santana never actually ignores her, and she has had legitimate reasons for every single time she's been unresponsive or hard to reach.
For years, Santana's world has been dark clubs, loud music, tiny studios, and sleepless nights. Now that her star has been raised, Rachel knows she doesn't necessarily have to constantly mix new music or DJ concerts or festivals, but it does seem that something Santana likes to do.
Still, things did seem … easier… before the unmentionable kiss, and Rachel wonders if she's perhaps made Santana a little TOO sensitive. Kurt's right: Santana isn't a predator. Not once has the fact that her friend is a lesbian ever been an issue for either of them.
Aside from a few catcalls meant to embarrass her, Santana used to go out of her way to prove that the OPPOSITE was true; that she had NO attraction or designs on Rachel at all.
Maybe all Santana needed was that kiss to reaffirm that stance.
God, just the thought brings up so many old high school insecurities that Rachel has to push the idea out of her mind as quickly as it floats in.
Honestly; simply, Rachel misses Santana.
It's almost cruel that Santana showed up when she did, how she did, at a moment when Rachel was lonely and aching for a taste of something real. Not only has she had a chance to reconnect with one of her best friends in the world, but she's also gotten to know her in a way that is mind-blowingly intimate.
These last few weeks have been HAPPY, and it's all be shot to hell because of a heat of the moment kiss.
Well… maybe not because of the kiss. Maybe it's because of a stupid text. Because of Rachel herself and being so… Rachel about it.
She knows she has to fix this. Her text was the one that set the tone for what this relationship is in danger of becoming, and she knows that Santana is only following suit. She's the one who freaked out at the idea of her 'pussy getting Santana'd', as her friend so indelicately put it.
Yes, her career is important. Rachel's been working for this kind of success her entire life, and it hasn't been easy. There's been a lifetime of 'no's and very few 'yes's.
But Santana's friendship has been her first taste of something REAL in this town, and she knows she'll regret it if she doesn't try to salvage it.
Rachel takes another long drink, letting the taste of the liquid linger on her tongue as she flips through her phone and pulls up Santana's contact information.
Another long gulp, and she finally presses the necessary sequence on her phone to get the phone dialing.
"Hello!" It's Santana, sounding both breathless and distracted, in the middle of a laugh.
"Santana?"
"Rachel!" To hear her friend through the noise surrounding her is a challenge. There's activity that Rachel can make out - fuzzy music, a tremendous bass, the distinct crowded sound of laughter and talking.
Rachel bites her lip; oddly timid. "Is this a bad time!"
"No, God no! I'm just.. Hold on." Santana's voice muffles as she says something quite obviously not directed at Rachel. "Sorry," she says after a moment, crisper and cleaner than before. The music and crowd noise has faded slightly. "I found a room. But fuck, I think it's like… S&M themed or something…"
The excited whisper doesn't sound like Santana at all, and it makes Rachel's brown furrow. "Santana-"
She's cut off by a huge gasp. "Holy shit, Rachel there's like, manacles on the wall!"
Rachel hears distinct clanks, and Santana obnoxiously giggling, treating them like toys.
"Is S&M themed bedrooms a common occurrence in the life of a superstar DJ?" she asked, determinedly casual.
"God, I wish! Can you imagine?" Santana laughs, voice husky with use, signifying that it's been a long day. There's the clanking again, along with some garbled chatter and laughter that isn't from Santana. She still isn't alone. "It'll be on the second floor next to the gym. Do you have one? Is it pink?"
"Why would it be pink?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" It's insane how good it feels, to hear Santana's dry and teasing tone, teasing with affection and intimacy.
It's silly that she's almost choked up and Rachel rubs her fingers together idly in an effort to ground herself, before she admits with a thick, vulnerable voice, "Santana, I miss you."
"Aw, shorty! I miss you too!" is Santana's chipper, immediate response.
Rachel blinks, thrown by the flippant, sweet remark. "Are you drunk?"
"Just a little bit." Rachel's mouth twitches, shoulders slouching in disappointment. "I'm sorry," Santana laughs. "This girl kept making me do body shots off of her."
It doesn't sound like quite the torture ritual Santana's making it out to be. "And this is a problem for you?"
"Saying no would be rude," Santana answers matter-of-factly.
"Since when do you care about being rude?"
"Since I've come to discover that Curious Straight Girls are fucking INSANE!" Santana retorts, and maybe it isn't an actual swipe at Rachel, but it makes her wince anyway. Santana seems to notice, because there's a moment of stalled quiet before she blurts, "And how's the Troy-midget?"
Oh. Rachel rubs at her chest, struggling to find a comfortable position as she breathes in unsteadily.
"He's good. I think," she adds, because aside from a text a day or so ago she realizes she doesn't actually know and hasn't actually cared to find out. "I mean I dunno, he's been on a movie shoot in Montreal for the last few weeks-" She actually expects Santana to question her a little about that, but instead she hears a loud shout and a large crash, before a peal of laughter invades the speaker.
"Santana…" Rachel feels frighteningly inconsequential.
"Hi Rachel," she hears after a moment. Santana's breathless, clearly covering up a laugh. "Sorry! It's just-"
Rachel feels awkward and vulnerable; an outsider who can't even look into the world that she hasn't been invited to - just listen. "I actually called because I had news," she begins, and hates that she sounds almost meek about it. "But if this is a bad time-"
"What?No! No, just gimme a minute."
"Seriously, Santana-"
"Rachel," Santana's tone is firm. "Just give me a minute."
Suppressing a sigh, Rachel does, listening for long minutes as she hears hushed mumbles, and another odd cackle, before the sound is muffled entirely and Santana comes back on the line. "Okay, now I'm really alone." It's a little adorable how breathlessly earnest a drunk Santana is. "What's up?"
Rachel bites her lip, a sudden excitement knotting her stomach."Remember that lead in 'Into the Woods' I was up for?"
"If you didn't get it then I'm going to fucking murder someone," Santana says, so seriously that Rachel can't help but laugh.
The excitement that she's been trying to tap down suddenly explodes, and the grin is impossible to quell as she laughs, "I got it!"
"That's awesome!" Santana nearly shouts, and Rachel shakes her head in bemusement.
"You are so drunk."
"Oh shut up, I'm just happy for you. Rachel, that's like… a big big deal!"
"It is," she admits, because she can't be humble right now. "It's a big deal!"
"Well then we need to celebrate when I'm back in town!" Santana sounds so genuinely HAPPY for her. Rachel's emotions have been a roller coaster of highs and lows lately, but it's still kinda silly how infectious that happiness feels.
"Sounds like a plan!" she agrees, and then finds herself lingering, gnawing lightly on her lower lips as she hesitates. "I was thinking though… how about instead of an LA party, we make it a New York one?" Santana doesn't reply, and so Rachel hurries to continue her explanation. "I have to move there for a few months to start rehearsals and I was thinking…"
"You wanna stay in the loft, don't you?" Santana's voice is flat; resigned.
Rachel shrugs. "For old time's sake."
"Sure, Rachel. That's no problem." Rachel blinks at the easy agreement, and then understands why when Santana says suddenly, "Hey listen, I gotta go, but I'll have my assistant call you and work it out, okay?"
She hears it now, how the noises seem louder now. Wherever Santana managed to hide, she's been discovered. "Oh. Um... Okay." But she hurries on. "Santana."
"Yeah?"
"Did you hear about the song?"
"I heard that they liked it," Santana answers, warm and smug.
"Yeah," she repeats, shaking her head, because that's an understatement. "They liked it a lot. They want to shoot a music video and with the buzz it's getting…" Rachel licks her lips and stares at her glass of wine, watching the way the red liquid appears almost black as the sky darkens around her. "It may have been what got me this part so… I just…"
Once again, Rachel feels that awkwardness, because with that song comes memories of that night, and with that night comes those FEELINGS that remain lodged inside of her. They're addictive, intense… and Rachel remembers so vividly.
"Santana," she begins, because it's driving her crazy. "About that night-"
"Shit, God, I'm coming!" Rachel jumps, nearly topping her chair over and spilling her wine. "Rachel, I'm so sorry," Santana cuts in, soft and quick. "I gotta go. I'll call you later, okay?"
It's crazy how empty that promise seems. Rachel deflates, and finds her courage spilling away with her wine. "Right, okay. Bye, Santana."
"Bye Rach- Hey mother fuckers, I was talking-"
The call disconnects in the middle of Santana's protest.
Rachel receives a call the next day from a surprisingly eloquent young man who introduces himself as Santana's personal assistant. It throws Rachel, who had no idea he even existed before this point. He waits approximately two seconds for her to process this before he's suddenly rattling off a bunch of questions and orders regarding the loft in New York.
His name is Nathan. When he shows up at her condo to drop off the keys to the New York loft, she discovers that he's actually a gorgeous young man of Indian descent, with an athletic build and eyebrows that would be bushy if not for the obvious fact that he keeps them trimmed. He's gay, which means he's infatuated with her and her career, which is never, ever gets old for Rachel Berry. She gladly spends most of her afternoon answering questions like what it's like to work with Patti Lupone, and describing what Eden Espinosa's warm up ritual is.
He finds one of Troy's guitars, an impromptu purchase that Troy once bought on a whim and hardly ever touches, and launches through a complicated chord progression that makes Rachel's eyes widen with surprise. Turns out, he's not just Santana's personal assistant, but an aspiring DJ and musician that Santana has been mentoring.
Their afternoon devolves into an impromptu jam session when he duets with her on an acoustic version of Justin Timberlake's Mirrors.
He likes it so much he asks if he can film it, and the next thing she knows, their earnest little duet has been uploaded onto YouTube on his channel, after he delivers a squealing intro that makes her blush.
He's a sweetheart, and privately it makes her feel better that Santana has someone like him with her. Buzzed on the high of a good performance and a little wine, she tells him so.
"I honestly think the only reason she hired me was because I didn't try and hit on her," he confesses.
"While I'm sure that helped, you're obviously very talented," Rachel says, because that's probably exactly what it was. "I'm glad she sees it and appreciates it."
"Oh she's such a bitch and sometimes she treats me like a dick, which we both know she has no use for," he says, strumming the guitar for emphasis. Rachel bursts out laughing, and decides against commenting. "But she's legit. She gets the music, you know? She once told me people are like songs and that like… stuck with me."
Rachel presses her lips together and nods quietly. "Yeah," she whispers, raspier than she anticipated. "It stuck with me too."
Good going, Berry. Santana texts her later that night. My assistant is in love with you. Now he won't shut up about you and your so-called talent. Like I didn't hear enough of that shit in high school and New York.
Rachel reads the text during drinks with some girlfriends, and finds herself laughing quietly to herself. Tell him I'm in love with him too.
Goddamn, Santana texts back a moment later, And you uploaded a cover to his youtube channel? What the fuck? Why are you encouraging his famewhoring?
Rachel's lips press together. She listens for a moment, as her friend beside her chatters on about her date the night before, before she quietly lowers her head to respond. Because he's talented and you know that. That's why you hired him, isn't it?
Actually, I hired him because he was basically you and Kurt's love child. And the bitch does whatever I want.
It's almost sweet, considering the source. Still, she can't resist the urge to tease. And here I was thinking you were the submissive one.
It's cheeky, almost too cheeky, considering the state of things. Rachel's heart pounds a little unsteadily, until Santana's text pops up.
What the hell? Where did that come from?
She flushes. Nevermind., she types back, losing her nerve completely. She straightens, and reaches for her glass of water, a smile on her face as her friend turns to her. She nods, and does her best to catch up to the conversation.
Her phone buzzes in her hand.
Miss Rachel Berry, are you insinuating that I liked to be dominated in bed?
The flush moves past her cheeks and down her throat. Rachel's quiet smile widens, and once again, she begins to type. You were the ones eyeing those handcuffs, Santana.
She waits, watching those little dots appear before the text pops up. Maybe I was just picturing someone else in them.
Rachel's body unexpectedly throbs. Breathless, she licks her lips. She's not stupid. She knows what they did before they kissed, and she knows what they're doing now.
This is flirting. This is exactly what led up to that kiss… this exchange of energy, innuendo and clever jibes.
But she can't help herself. Buzzed on two glasses of wine and not enough appetizers, Rachel discovers she doesn't want to stop. She wants…
Well, she wants to find out who Santana was picturing in those cuffs. Anyone in particular?
Well apparently I have a type…
Her cheeks flame. Rachel is well aware of her body and it's reaction to Santana's words. She chews lightly on her bottom lip, testing her own resolve. I've always been partial to brunettes, myself.
You know, I used to be into blondes, Santana texts, and Rachel's body stiffens. But her friend is still typing, and so Rachel waits. But I've discovered lately that brunettes do have a certain appeal...
The grin that curves on her mouth is impossible to suppress.. Do they now? she asks.
"Rachel?" She lifts her head and notices three heads turned in her direction.
"What?"
"You do realize that we've asked you the same question like… three times now, right?" Jessica tells her, eyes shining with curiosity. Rachel flushes, well aware of her rudeness.
"Sorry!" She forces herself to put her phone back in her purse.
"Who are you texting?!"
"Troy," she says flippantly,, and immediately feels her muscles clench at the lie. But it's good enough for them. Jessica rolls her eyes, mutters something about 'Young Love' and continues her adventures with the investment banker.
Rachel's phone burns in her purse, but she forces herself to wait until she's excused herself to read what Santana has written.
They tend to be pretty amazing kissers.
Immediately, Rachel is transported to the memory – the texture of Santana's lips, the feel of her breath skating against her skin, the swipe of her tongue against her own.
"Fuck," she breathes, because she's wet now, uncomfortably wet, and it's all Santana's fault.
Her heart pounds, but Rachel's filled with this euphoria that feels so much like a high, because Santana is telling her that she liked her kissing her. That their kiss was amazing, and God, it was.
She hasn't forgotten about her kiss. She's touched herself, made herself come with Santana's name on her lips, because of that kiss.
I definitely don't disagree with that. Kisses like that tend to… linger.
It's honest, at least. She and Santana have always been honest with each other, and Rachel decides she owes her that. But it's terrifying. Rachel's standing in a bathroom with an elevated heart beat and the weird feeling of standing on some sort of precipice, and it's because of Santana.
Yeah, they definitely do.
The heat courses through her again, flooding her with that buzz of temptation. She wants to respond… she wants to take this further… she wants to call Santana and hear that voice and make some sense of this game they're playing.
Someone knocks on the door.
Rachel loses her courage. The phone goes back in her purse, and after a moment to collect herself, Rachel unlocks the private bathroom and smiles at the women waiting, heading back to her friends.
Later on she realizes that Santana has tweeted her assistant's Mirror duet with the comment, "Talent you wish you had."
She favorites the tweet and retweets it, and finds she can't bring herself to care when JoAnn calls her later that night and barks at her for appearing in some random kid's YouTube video without consulting her first.
She's homeward bound to New York, with tingling nerves and actual excitement, when she's distracted by a tabloid that one of her first class companions is happily reading.
"Sex and Music" is the headline, and on it are surprisingly clear pictures of Santana in a bikini on a yacht, hands spread possessively around another equally skimpy gorgeously toned Jessie J. 'Santana Lopez and Jessie J put on a show in Miami', the caption reads.
The bisexual pop star wears bright red lipstick, and for a second, that's all Rachel sees, until the reader folds the magazine over and she's treated to a spread of equally distracting images of Santana and her new companion all over each other on that deck, drinks in hand and hard bodies on full display.
"Do you want to read it?"
Rachel blinks, startled until she realizes the reader is actually offering the magazine to her. "I'm done."
Wordlessly, Rachel nods her thanks.
The images are nothing like hers and Santana's. These aren't friendly moments caught and dissected with grainy mobile pics and over eager paparazzi. In one, Santana is actually looking right at the camera, smiling lazily and pointing her middle finger (Blurred of course) defiantly at them, while Jessie J has her red mouth planting lazy kisses on the slope of Santana's neck.
She is putting on a show, and Rachel feels utterly sick over it.
It's easy now, to see what the public sees, what Santana presents – this gorgeous female Lothario who is only too happy to play for the cameras that she supposedly abhors.
The Santana that's splashed on this page wears her sunglasses and make up like a mask, and another woman like an accessory? It's not the Santana she knows.
Suddenly disgusted, Rachel folds the magazine and shoves it into the compartment beside her that holds her designated barf bag.
She remembers the Star magazine, and the argument that resulted from it. "It'll be old news in like a month," Santana had told her dismissively. Casually.
Rachel's lips quirk in a bitter, pained smile. It's a lesson she should have learned years ago.
Santana was always right.
A blonde woman with chin length dirty blonde hair, designer sunglasses, and a wicked smile holds up a hand written sign that says 'R. Berry' at the end of the terminal.
Rachel's steps slow as she studies her friend, accomplished romance author and New York resident Quinn Fabray. It would be easy to be annoyed at how the years seem to only make Quinn more gorgeous. The ghost of Grace Kelly, Jesse once said.
Rachel finds she can't fault her friend for her breathtaking looks. Quinn has earned her happiness and her beauty.
Quinn's discovered her therapy in writing. She writes historical romance that's both torrid and adventurous, and has been adapted into movies more than once. Privately, she's admitted to Rachel that her novels tend to be a variation of spins on the unhealthiest and worst relationships she can think of, macho men and helpless women just waiting to be rescued. It started as a joke, and then she got published.
As a feminist, Quinn is appalled at the way women lap up these dysfunctional stories as the epitome of romance. Rachel suspects that the money more than makes up for it.
"Well," Quinn drawls, as Rachel drags her carry on behind her. "If it isn't Santana Lopez's newest plaything." The smirk she wears is simultaneously annoying and amusing.
"Shut up," Rachel breathes, rolling her eyes and plucking the sign away from her friend. "You know that's just crap made up by the tabloids."
"Duh," Quinn's chuckles gruffly. "But you have to admit the idea is kinda amusing." She arches a brow playfully, and then opens her arms. "Welcome home, Rachel."
If Rachel were any less vulnerable, she'd try and be a little more difficult about this. She's in a sour mood, and she's not in the mood to be teased.
But Quinn has no idea about Santana, about what's happened. Safe in New York, Quinn's only seen tabloids and internet rumors and unlike Kurt, she hasn't believed a word.
Tears sting in her eyes before she's quite ready for it. Rachel blinks them away, and hugs Quinn back hard, resting her head against the strong shoulder and inhaling Quinn's floral, feminine scent. "Thanks, Quinn."
"So?" Quinn makes sure that the straps in her seat belt are secure before she lets the cab driver pull away from the curb. It's a nervous tick, and it's because years ago, Quinn was nearly paralyzed in an accident while texting and on her way to Rachel's teen bride wedding fiasco. "Now you have to spill."
It's the reason Quinn almost never drives, and why she prefers to fill the time with casual conversation instead of dwelling too much in silence. Rachel always feels a pang of guilt when she notices it. She had been so adamant that Finn was the love of her life and her soul mate, so head strong and so stupid, and Quinn had nearly been killed for it.
"What's up with Pezberry?" Quinn drawls out the word, making it sound as annoying as possible.
She's teasing, but the word settles sourly on Rachel. With a muted shake of her head, she recites a now tired mantra. "Santana and I have always been just friends, Quinn. You know that."
"I know," Quinn says easily. "But you're so easy to annoy. And you didn't exactly fill me in when you ran into her again."
It's a softly accusing tone. Rachel glances up sharply, but Quinn's eyes are on the rapidly changing landscape of buildings and highway around them.
"I know," she admits. "I'm sorry. Things just got a little crazy, and you were on your book tour."
Quinn absorbs that, nodding flippantly before she shifts in her seat and cocks her head curiously. "How is she?"
Those images are still burning in Rachel's mind, and it's left her in a less than charitable mood regarding their mutual friend. "Oh she's great," she sighs peevishly. Quinn's brow cocks, rising above her Kate Spade sunglasses. Rachel rolls her eyes and just shrugs. "She's fantastic. See for yourself." Reaching for her purse, Rachel pulls out the folded magazine that she procured on the plane.
Quinn reaches for it, but her mouth purses in a judgmental smirk that doesn't look like it's directed at Santana or the pictures. "Don't tell me you actually bought this."
"No," Rachel spurts, flushing indignantly. "A guy gave it to me on a plane. And you're one to talk about trashy, Miss Harlequin."
"I write those ironically," Quinn snaps.
"Just shut up and look."
Quinn looks oddly annoyed, but she does what she's told, ever the picture of a graceful lady as she carefully opens the magazine and eyes the spread that features Santana and her bisexual pop star floozy. "Well," she says, shaking her head with mirth. She snorts suddenly, and tilts the magazine to show Rachel that picture of Santana flipping off the camera. "Classy, Santana," she says, but there's a chuckle in her throat.
"She's definitely given herself a reputation," Rachel admits, quiet and still as she waits.
Quinn just laughs, catching Rachel off guard as she folds the magazine and carelessly tosses it between them. "And you're surprised?"
Rachel isn't sure what exactly to say. "It's just not the Santana I know," she answers quietly.
Quinn's brow furrows. "What Santana do YOU know?" she asks, and it would be so much easier if Rachel could actually see her eyes instead of those dark black sunglasses that cover half of Quinn's face. "Come on, Rachel. Don't you remember Santana?"
"Of course I remember," Rachel snaps. "I know you two had your 'Unholy Trinity' with Brittany, but Santana and I were roommates for more than a year. Even when she was cage dancing, she wasn't like this."
The glasses finally come off, and hazel eyes narrow at her quizzically. "Yeah, and what about high school? Remember that boy-crazy attitude she sported? Bragging about boning Puck? Offering to take Finn's virginity? Stealing Sam from me to parade him around like a blonde monkey? Do you think THAT was the real lady-loving Santana?"
Rachel licks her lips. Her arms cross as she pushes her breath out through her nose in aggravation.
"Wearing a mask is what Santana does," Quinn says, with this even and quiet tone.
But it doesn't make any sense. "Why would she have to do that?" she snaps, because that's stupid. To put on act like this? For what? "She's out now. Everyone knows she's a lesbian. What does she have to hide?"
"God Rachel," Quinn drawls, flat and annoyed now. "I don't know. As a straight girl, why the hell do you put up with that farce of a relationship you have with Troy?"
It's hitting nearly below the belt, and it's a good sucker punch that winds Rachel. She swallows hard, unsure how this escalated into actual sniping.
The cabbie keeps driving, and Quinn puts her glasses on.
"It's not the same thing," Rachel finally admits.
"How would you know?" Quinn asks, eyes back on her window.
Exhausted, Rachel's head falls back against the leather of the seat, and closes her eyes.
The loft in Chelsea is almost nothing like she remembers. Santana's obviously put money in to it, and it's less a loft now than it is a modern apartment, but the emotion that courses through Rachel the moment she tugs so familiarly on that heavy metal door and hears the screech as it opens is no less powerful.
THIS… THIS is home. Even though expensive lounge chairs and a modern sofa now face a television in the living room that would have been entirely too expensive for them when they were sharing the rent, even if the kitchen features granite counters and a kitchen island instead of a flea market table and an IKEA knife set, the space itself floods Rachel with nostalgia and sudden memories.
She didn't live here long, in retrospect. Barely more than a couple years, and yet, New York was where she FOUND herself. She remade herself. She had pregnancy scares and break ups and this was where she found the courage to remember that she was good enough by herself, just as she was.
Quinn shuts the loft door behind her with a snap, and it's enough to break her momentarily out of her nostalgia. "Wow," she breathes, a ragged chuckle coming out of her as she comes to stand beside Rachel and check out the remodeled apartment. "There's actual walls now?"
Just a few, it turns out. Santana has left the open floor plan more or less intact, but in the space where she and Kurt had sectioned off curtains there are now painted walls. "One's her studio," Rachel says, remembering what Nathan told her. "The other one is the bedroom."
"I see." Quinn steps forward, fingers running lightly over a coffee table. "It's nice. Does it feel weird?" she asks, hair bouncing over her shoulder as she turns and takes in the fact that Rachel has yet to move. "To be here and see it so different?"
Rachel purses her lips and considers her emotions. "Not really," she decides. "I mean it looks different but … the energy feels the same. Does that make sense?"
"I think so." Rachel smiles, and is in the midst of placing her purse on a nearby hook when Quinn suddenly laughs. "Look at this."
Rachel heads over to Quinn, who is now standing and staring at an area of the wall that is plastered with pictures, some in frames, others simply pinned on. Reaching up, Quinn plucks a printed photo from the wall, and shows it to her.
It's of the three of them: Rachel, Quinn and Santana, taken on one of the few weekends that Quinn actually used the Metro pass she had purchased to come hang out at the loft. They are cuddled together, the picture of cuddly drunkenness, cheeks flushed and hair wild. Santana is the only one actually looking at the camera. Quinn has her eyes closed, head tilted against Santana's cheek. Rachel is looking at Santana, poking at the dimple on her cheeks that she makes when her face goes scrunchy.
"Oh wow." She takes it from Quinn, studying the image and shaking her head in bemusement. "I can't believe she still has that."
"That was a good weekend," Quinn muses, and Rachel laughs breathlessly, nodding as she lets Quinn take the picture back.
"It really was," she agrees, and moves forward to look at the rest of the pictures. Some of them are familiar. There's a few of herself and Kurt, snapshots of loft life. The three of them dancing or singing or just posing together like the oddly fitted three amigos they became. There's a few more of Brittany, selfies and a couple of her in various locales, blow a kiss at the camera. They've clearly kept up their friendship – the pictures look recent.
There's also others that show a glimpse into the life that Santana has now. Quite a few pop, hip hop and R&B stars show up in intimate moments, arms slung around Santana's shoulder or photobombing a picture of her bending over her mixing board.
The most striking photo is one that's been framed. It was obviously taken by a professional, and it features Santana in a club. There are a kaleidoscope of neon lights that illuminate her, and as she mixes, she has a hand thrust high in the air. Her eyes are on her tables, but the smile on her face is breathtaking.
"Is she coming into town?" Quinn asks, and Rachel blinks, remembering once again that she's actually not alone here.
She coughs, stepping back and crossing her arms. "We still have to shoot our music video for the single, and it's on an accelerated timeline so she's supposed to, yes." Rachel nods, and struggles to remember what Nathan has told her about Santana and her schedule. "Right now she's in Hong Kong filming the latest Fast & Furious sequel, I know," she adds, because Quinn makes an absolutely hilarious face at that little tidbit, "but that's supposed to wrap soon and then she'll be here."
Quinn presses her lips together. "Good," she says a moment later, and then nods her head. "That's good to know."
It's the WAY she says it that strikes Rachel's curiosity. Quinn's expression is … odd. She's wearing a smirk, and those hazel eyes that are normally so bright and open with Rachel seem almost… hooded.
It's uncomfortable. Rachel is already on shaky ground with Santana; she's not sure she's ready for Quinn to start acting out of character. "Quinn," she begins, reaching out to catch her friend's elbow before Quinn can turn away. "What's going on?"
Caught in the middle of chewing her lower lip as she regards Santana's picture, Quinn just blinks at her. "What do you mean?"
"It's been years, but it's not like I don't know when you're plotting something."
But Quinn only hums thoughtfully, and then squares her shoulders and offers brightly, "I wonder if she's got any good wine in here."
She heads to the kitchen before Rachel can say anything else.
"Did Santana ever tell you that she and I slept together?" Quinn says, as a Pink Martini album floats from the surround sound speakers that connect to the IPOD dock, and they share a Director's Cut bottle of Coppola Red Wine they've discovered in Santana's kitchen over the island.
Rachel is in the middle of a sip, and immediately chokes, coughing and spitting up the liquid all over Santana's cherry wood table when her heart seizes and her breath catches.
"…I'm guessing by that reaction that the answer is no," Quinn says dryly, putting her own glass of wine down to hand her napkin.
"You slept together?!" She doesn't mean to blurt it out the way she does, and she sure as hell doesn't mean to sound quite so… accusatory, but… this is brand new information. Quinn is looking at her so … smugly, like a cat that ate the canary, the cream, and all the ice cream …
"Mmhmm… " Quinn nods slowly, taking another sip of wine, like this is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
"When?!"
"A long time ago," Quinn answers, but based on the hooded look in Quinn's eyes, she clearly remembers it vividly. "In Lima. Right after she moved to New York at Mr. Schue's wedding on Valentine's Day." Quinn pauses, and a light blush paints her gorgeous cheek bones. "And maybe a couple times after that."
Rachel remembers suddenly one particular instance, during a weekend visit from Quinn. There was a visit to a club, and the sudden disappearance of Quinn and Santana, and coming home half-drunk to Quinn emerging from Santana's bedroom with mussed hair and dressed in only one of Santana's shirts and her teeny tiny booty shorts…
At the time, she had been too drunk to do anything but squeal at Quinn's inability to 'hang' and joke about her freshly cut 'lion' hair, but now… Oh god, how did she not see it before?
"Why did you guys never tell me?!" she hisses. It's… it's not jealousy she's feeling. It can't be. If anything it's… hurt, because Quinn is just staring at her with this infuriating amused look on her face like it's supposed to be funny.
"Because it wasn't any of your business, Rachel," she answers evenly, exhaling as she places her glass of wine on the granite counter, shifting her feet.
Rachel always been a visual person, and she hates that, because now she's picturing it. She's actively imagining what it would look like, to see Quinn and Santana together. Objectively, they'd be gorgeous together. A stunning pair.
Rachel can't… she can't even stomach the idea of it. "Okay, well if that's the case then why are you telling me now?" she asks, because she liked it better, so much better, when she didn't know.
Her glass of wine looks amazing, but Rachel doesn't quite trust herself to reach for it.
"Because I'm wondering if maybe I should do it again."
Her fingers jerk, nearly toppling over both glasses and causing quite a clank. "Are you serious? "
"I'm very serious." One look at Quinn's face tells her that yes, she is. She's actively considering this. She wants to… revisit this … fling with Santana.
The idea is…
Santana said she liked blondes…
Panic is threatening to seize at Rachel. She tries so very hard to breathe through it. "Quinn… " she begins, fingers clenching together as she looks Quinn, beautiful Quinn… so fucking beautiful it makes Rachel ache. "She's our friend."
But Quinn just laughs. "We were friends the last time, and it turned out pretty damn fantastic," she reasons, and reaches for her wine again, heading away from Rachel and towards the living room area.
Oh God, did they do it on the couch?! Rachel shakily reaches for her own glass and follows on trembling legs after her friend.
"Okay," Rachel says when they reach the couches. "But… why now?"
Quinn settles back in the lounge chair, and considers the question. "Why not?" she asks. Rachel swallows hard and forces herself not to speak. Quinn must notice her trepidation, because her expression softens, and suddenly that infuriating glass of wine is put down on the coffee table. "Look," Quinn says, quieter than before. "When it happened with Santana all those years ago, I wasn't ready to be honest with myself about who I was and what I wanted. So… even if it was amazing, I didn't have the courage to really… pursue it. I let her think it was just sex and… we moved on." Rachel presses her lips together. Quinn's right. She's come a long way since she was that scared girl in high school. The woman on the couch now who can freely admit she slept with Santana and liked it is someone who had therapy and time to absorb her old wounds… become comfortable in her own skin. "But it could have been more. I'm pretty sure of that."
Quinn is so … confident. It turns Rachel's stomach. "So why now?"
"Because I have too many regrets in my life, Rachel," Quinn answers, matter-of-fact and to the point. "And this is one of the few I can actually try and mend."
There's a … weight… that settles on Rachel. It keeps her motionless, sedated almost, as she considers what Quinn is telling her in confidence.
And what can Rachel say in response? That she's got her own conflicted feelings about Santana? That she and Santana have shared a kiss and possibly a connection?
Is that even what it is?
Rachel isn't sure, because Santana certainly doesn't seem to think so. Whatever it is they've been doing, it hasn't stopped her from landing in the Tabloids again with another woman sucking on her neck.
The hurt flares deep.
"But Quinn…" she begins, trying hard to keep her voice steady. "The way you're talking… you're talking about a relationship with her." Quinn just looks at her. Rachel's mouth is dry, her voice is raspy, and her chest is tight, but she presses on. "Do.. you… Quinn I showed you the tabloid pictures. Santana isn't exactly the picture of monogamy."
It's a lesson she's learned herself the hard way.
Quinn, however, doesn't seem to share her concern. "That's your argument?" she asks, skeptical. "Santana's tabloid reputation?"
Rachel reminds herself not to take offense. To be quiet and calm. Quinn doesn't know. Quinn doesn't understand. Quinn is an author. She's lived on the fringe of entertainment and her profession lends itself to seclusion. "This is a crazy industry," she says, as kindly as she can. "Relationships are difficult enough in real life, but when you're in that bubble? You don't see the way people throw themselves at her."
"Mmm," Quinn says, mouth full of wine as she mulls the thought over. Her throat bobs, and then her eyes sparkle oddly. "Do you know many internet lesbians threw themselves at Santana in high school, especially after that sex tape got released?" Rachel rolls her eyes, because she doesn't have to know. She remembers that fiasco of a sex tape. "They would follow her to her cheerleading competitions. Brittany almost got into a fight at nationals because some girl actually managed to sneak into their hotel room and tried to have a threesome with them."
"Why is this relevant?" she asks, because this isn't information she needs to know.
But Quinn just regards her. "Do you how many times Santana cheated on Brittany? Even in Kentucky? Zero."
She's telling her that Santana was monogamous.. That Santana was faithful. That no amount of temptation could lead Santana to stray from her true love Brittany.
Rachel used to think the same of her and Finn.
"Fair enough," she allows. "But it's been a long time, Quinn." Her eyes float up to Quinn's, pinning her with her sincerity. "People change."
"Circumstances change." Quinn shakes her head lightly. " Elements change. Beliefs change. People don't."
Pink Martini is crooning their cover of Bitty Boppy Betty. It seems too light and cheery, openly mocking of her suddenly somber mood.
Rachel takes in a long drink of wine. She knows she's upset. She knows she has absolutely no right to be. They're speaking in theory, ruminating on possibilities, and Rachel has no claim on Santana.
There's no reason why she would, regardless. Her career has no place for a lesbian relationship. She has a boyfriend. And whatever connection that resulted from their song and that kiss… Santana obviously doesn't think much of.
There's nothing here for her, not even the rounds of supposedly fantastic sex that Quinn is basing her interest in.
"You don't even know if she's looking for a relationship" she says finally. "I would still be careful."
But Quinn just rolls her eyes. "Well, it's a good thing that it's me that wants to be with her and not you, right?" she asks, and lifts off the couch, taking her empty wine glass with her. "I'm getting a refill."
Rachel remains on the couch. "Right," she breathes.
She's in workshops nearly all day, but Rachel has become a multi-tasker, and there's still a single to promote. It's got a title now 'I Don't Want to Jump In', and a music video concept that's slowly coming together.
The lyrics are haunting, in retrospect. When she and Santana wrote them, they spoke of a jaded woman who had fallen in love almost against her will, who needed and craved that love even if she didn't want to jump into that precipice, and so that women was stuck, caught in a riptide of emotion that was personified by the pulsing beat that Santana added in around her voice.
When Rachel listens to it, she can hear the swell of the emotion, can feel how the words seem to meld and blend and drown within the percussion and the sirens.
Santana texts her sporadically, and Rachel is now distant and calm, determined not to get sucked into that same game. Maybe Santana gets the message, because she never brings up lingering kisses or a preference for blondes or brunettes.
Then the music video is scheduled and Santana sends her one more text that says, I'm coming into town. See you soon.
Her broadway agent gushes over the song. He tells her it speaks of Kpop influences and a deeper manipulation of the BPM and that he's proud of Rachel for taking a chance on something so outside of her comfort zone.
She can only smile and nod her thanks. Truthfully? Rachel just feels like a coward.