PART 03.
I couldn't get any bigger
With anyone else beside of me
- Justin Timberlake, Mirrors
The music video is for her album, and though Rachel isn't used to collaborations or how they work specifically, she's not surprised that Santana's management has very specific ideas for how Santana should be featured in it. She's most at home at her tables, Rachel's most at home on a stage with a microphone and, after a lot of back and forth between the various representatives, it's now been decided that the shoot is taking place in a dilapidated warehouse that will be transformed into a forties jazz club.
Rachel will be playing the quintessential lounge singer and gangster's moll, trapped and treated as an object, resigned to her fate. She is a caged songbird who begins her song in the midst of all the beautiful models and extras cast as gangsters, decked out in fedoras and pinstripe suits, puffing on cigars. This will all be filmed in black and white.
Little does this trapped and hopeless singer know that one of these gangsters is Santana Lopez herself, who sneaks into the club, past the hired guns and the bodyguards and backstage, where she proceeds to tug off that fedora, unbutton that pinstripe blazer and rip those pants off to reveal modern clothes: a tight bustier paired with skin tight pants and stiletto heels. Santana is meant to be stunning and in HD color.
Santana explodes onstage with her tables, and as her beats start, the music will shift, infect crowd with the crescendo until suddenly that music is what has freed Rachel from her cage. The lounge has become a club and the color explodes, soft gels and beams of fluorescent lights. Hats are tossed, ties are loosened and the cool mobsters, who were just sitting and smoking and watching, will become a mass of dancing bodies so caught up in the music, Santana easily pulls Rachel away to safety.
Or so she thinks.
The lead mobster, the boyfriend and the only person besides Rachel who has failed to change into color, catches up to them. There is a struggle at the edge of at the dock, and then suddenly as the music stills a loud bang rings out. A moment, just a moment, and then he stumbles back, revealing a blood red wound over his heart, gushing over his desaturated body. He hurls over the dock and to a watery grave. Santana turns, and there Rachel stands with the smoking gun, dressed now as modern as Santana, cheeks rosy and blooming and a vision in color.
There's something to be said for the imagery it instills. It tells a story, a romantic one, but her director is quick to point out that while they do expect some subtext, the truth is that they are sisters in music. Santana is determined to free her because she can't handle someone with Rachel's talent being so trapped.
Privately, Rachel thinks that's a load of horseshit. If her collaboration were with a man, she would have been making out with him by the fade out, but arguing for female equality isn't some she feels is in her best interest at the moment. So she just nods and listens and then retreats to her trailer. She's been given a tight, slinky designer dress that does exactly what it's supposed to do: display her cleavage a distracting amount and give one of her best features, her legs, a chance to shine thanks to the long slit that sits right at her thigh.
Her hair has been pinned back in retro fashion; her makeup is flawless. Looking into the mirror, Rachel knows she's stunning.
It helps, honestly. She hasn't seen Santana this morning. Rachel's call time was earlier than hers, and though there isn't a huge budget for this shoot, of course Santana would get her own trailer.
She expects that's where Santana will be until she's ready to film. While the texts they've exchanged have been friendly, Rachel knows that the flavor of them has changed significantly, and it's her own doing. Santana has seemed happy to let Rachel dictate the nature of their interactions and Rachel isn't sure if she's disappointed or relieved by that.
When the trailer door opens and Santana stands in the tiny doorway, Rachel realizes that she's both prepared and completely unprepared at the exact same time.
She expects to see Santana decked out in her typical stylish club wear. Instead, Santana has already been dressed by wardrobe for her initial scenes. She's wearing black fitted pin striped pants and a tailored white button up shirt. Wrapped around her torso is a tight satin vest that makes her already tiny waist looks even tinier.
There is no tie or jacket, Santana's not completely suited up, but God, it doesn't matter because the open collar gives attention to the swell of Santana's breasts that push up nicely against the vest.
Rachel's always had a particular weakness for a well-built man in a fitted suit. It's not the best time to discover that her attraction to that particular look isn't limited to gender.
Santana, of course, notices her gaping. There's an actual smirk plastered on her face when Rachel finally looks up, before her DJ Superstar friend digs her hands casually in her pockets and leans against the side of the door.
"I take it you approve?" she asks, brow arching playfully.
She's so damn smug.
Rachel hates that she flushes. She expected that knot of conflicted emotion to twist inside of her the minute she met up with Santana again. She expected her heart to trip unsteadily. She expected the nerves, because Santana has been occupying her thoughts in a ridiculously monopolizing way.
She didn't expect to be so… happy to see her.
Rachel's head bows and she makes a show of keeping her attention on her own reflection in the mirror. "I thought you were supposed to look like a boy." She goes for flippantly unconcerned. "How are you supposed to sneak into a gangster infested bar looking like that?"
Santana frowns, pushing against the doorway and coming further into the tiny trailer. "You don't think my character has skills?"
Almost against her will, Rachel's eyes skid over once more to the admirable sight of the top of Santana's breasts reflected back at her.
"I think your skills aren't as noticeable as your boobs," she comments as airily as possible.
Santana's mouth quirks; her arms cross in challenge. "My boobs? What about yours?"
Rachel blinks. Her fitted green dress does have a very low neckline, and yes, she had to actually be taped in, but… "I'm in character!"
Santana ventures closer, until her thigh brushes against Rachel's bare shoulder and she leans against the counter. Dark smoky eyes gaze down at her, linger shamelessly on her cleavage.
"Yeah," she breathes out, softer and thicker than before. "Well, I think your character looks gorgeous."
The shiver that travels up Rachel's spine is impossible to hide.
Santana's quiet smile just grows wider.
Rachel finds herself concentrating on that frustrating mouth.
"Ahem." Rachel blinks, and is suddenly horrified when she remembers they aren't exactly alone. Margot, transplanted from Los Angeles to New York for Rachel's own personal use, just smiles tightly and quickly gathers her brushes. "You know what? I'm going to give you two some time to catch up."
"Margot-"
The look Margot shoots her is wide-eyed, knowing glare. "Be back in a bit."
It would be amusing if it wasn't so damn mortifying.
The trailer door closing, shutting out the busy set and leaving behind a thick, quiet tension. Left alone with Santana, Rachel isn't quite sure what to do. She wants to be distant, formal. It's the tone she's set in her texts and she needs to be consistent.
She's angry at Santana. She's HURT by Santana. She's confused by Santana.
She needs to compartmentalize her friendship with Santana.
It's so hard to do that when Santana is less than a foot away, smelling the way she does, and looking the way she does, and it's especially difficult when the other women's smile fades and she exhales, "So I missed you."
The rush of emotion floods Rachel so quickly she feels tears stinging in her eyes. God, this isn't fair.
Rigidly, she blinks them back, turning in her chair back to the mirror so she can only focus on herself. "Did you?" she asks.
"Yeah, Shorty I did." Santana says, laughter coating her light, easy voice. Rachel swallows, feels the heat of Santana staring at her. "Why do you sound so skeptical?"
Is this even Santana's fault? They kissed; Rachel said it was a mistake… that's it. That's what happened.
Rachel lowers the brush. "I don't know," she admits, and shakes her head at her own stupidity. "I'm sorry," she confesses, and turns, offering a smile for her friend. "Thanks for being here."
Santana puffs out air indignantly. "Hell, this is gonna be a hit for me too. I wouldn't miss it." Rachel smiles as she watches the way Santana's hands clasp the end of her vanity, fingers curling around the edge. "So… listen… I um… I heard from Quinn."
Rachel's grin immediately falters. "What?"
A lock of dark hair falls into Santana's face. The other woman quickly pushes it back over her ear. "She… she told me that you might be a little pissed at me."
"She what?"
Faced with the glare that Rachel sends her way, Santana looks genuinely conflicted as to whether or not she should answer that. "Rachel-"
Rachel's brush clatters to the vanity. "I can't believe that she did that." The anger comes quickly, almost too quickly. "I didn't give her your number for her to…"
"Why did you give her my number?"
The question stops Rachel cold. "Why wouldn't I?" she asks, suddenly very unsure.
Santana shrugs. "I mean it's fine but…"
"But what?" Santana's jaw tightens. Her shoulders straighten. Rachel finds she's both annoyed, confused and… a little ashamed. She never considered that Santana wouldn't WANT to hear from Quinn. "Am I supposed to just keep you a secret from your best friends?"
"Rachel, relax," Santana snaps, voice growing firm. "It's fine. I was just surprised."
It's the tone in Santana's voice that makes Rachel realize she's getting upset over… nothing. God, it's like she's turning into the Rachel Berry circa the Finn era. What the hell is happening to her?
"Sorry," she mumbles, and slumps back in her chair. After a moment, she glances up at Santana. "What else did she say?"
"She said she just wanted to reconnect."
Santana is flippant and calm. Rachel discovers that her reaction is most definitely the opposite. She snorts, angry and somehow miserable, "Oh, I bet she did."
And maybe that's the sentence that's too much for Santana, who pushes away from the vanity and glares at her. "Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Rachel gnaws on her lower lip, feeling like a sullen and stupid child. "Nothing, it doesn't mean anything," she says, and because apparently she has reverted into a love-sick teenager, she adds nastily, "Nothing means anything when it comes to you."
That one actually seems to strike Santana speechless. "…What the fuck is your problem?!" she asks, clearly frustrated.
"I don't know!" Rachel snaps. It's almost as if she's outside of herself, staring in horror while this stupid GIRL takes over her body and completely decimates every bit of the mature relationship she has managed to cobble together and build with her old friend. She scrambles for an excuse. "How about my friend completely disregarding my privacy-"
"Then yell at Quinn, don't yell at me."
"-FINE," she grits, because she has no actual comeback for that. She sits in stony silence, and honestly she wonders why Santana is still here. She's pissed, but even she understands that Santana doesn't deserve this kind of attitude.
"Fine." Santana shifts her balance on her heels, before thrusting her hands in her pockets, and the move is so damn sexy it's impossible not to hate her a little for it. "But you're still pissed at me."
"I'm not."
"I'm not stupid, Rachel!"
And yet Rachel can't seem to help herself.
"I don't like how you treat women!" she blurts, and it literally feels like she pull that out of her ass.
Santana looks at her as if she's gone and grown a second head. "You don't like how I treat women?" she repeats, enunciating the words in a perfect Rachel Berry mimic that is ten times more irritating than when it comes out of Rachel herself. "I'm sorry, Rachel have I disrespected you in some way?!"
Someone raps sharply on the door, so loudly and suddenly it makes Rachel jump. The door creaks open, and a curly headed PA sticks his head into the trailer. He's momentarily taken aback at the sight of the two of them, but seems to recover quickly enough to say, "Five minutes, Ms. Berry." He hems for a second, and then offers a quick polite smile to the other occupant. "Ms. Lopez."
Just as quickly as he peeks in, he ducks out, shutting the flimsy trailer door behind him.
They're alone again.
Rachel's eyes close. She's momentarily exhausted. There's the telltale sound of shuffling, and when her eyes open once again, she sees that Santana has settled in a chair beside her own. She's picking at some invisible lint on her knee.
"Is this about those stupid pictures?" Rachel's mouth twitches as her chest constricts. That seems to be answer enough. "I did that for you."
It's the exact opposite of what she expects to hear. "Excuse me?"
It's odd. Santana looks almost… nervous. "Look, I just… I get it, okay?" Rachel presses her lips together, watches intently as Santana keeps her focus on her wringing hands. "I'm not stupid, I know our industry sucks and I know how hard you work and… shit is finally really happening for you." Santana may as well be speaking in code for all the sense she's making. Her friend's dark eyes lift up, lock onto hers briefly. It's just enough to strike her breathless, before Santana looks away. "You can't… there can't be rumors and I get that so…"
And suddenly it comes together.
"… So you made out with an aging pop star on a yacht?" she asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. "That was your big act of chivalry?"
There's a flush that burns so deep on Santana's tan skin, it's frustratingly adorable. "Look, it made sense at the time," she gripes.
Rachel wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. "That's…" she tries to process it. Tries to understand how in Santana logic that would benefit her in any way. God, but it would make sense to Santana. This is the girl who broke up with her high school sweetheart even though they still loved each other for Brittany's own good, not realizing how it destroyed Brittany in the process. Santana could be such an IDIOT in the guise of a White Knight. "- actually stupidly sweet if you think about it," she admits.
Santana snorts. "Yeah, well you seem to bring that out in me."
It's a quiet admission, like Santana can't quite believe it herself. This superstar DJ who had Jessie J. dragging her tongue up and down her neck and a stunning woman like Quinn Fabray aching to relive a long ago fling, is smiling at HER like she's the only one that matters. It's just this muted twitch of her lips that is both shy and awkward, but it's so damn charming Rachel feels herself actually melt.
She's hopeless. This is hopeless.
Rachel swallows and does her best to contain herself and her weakness. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I just… I don't know what's been going on with me," she admits, and feels those dark burning eyes on her as she does it. She flashes a timid, sweet grin. "But you don't deserve this attitude. Especially from me. You're an adult and so are the… women that you're with." Her stomach turns at even the thought. "And for the record? I think whoever is with you at any given time is very lucky."
A puff of air rushes out of Santana's pursed lips. Clearly she's a skeptic. But that gorgeous spark is back in Santana's brilliant dark eyes, and on her features is an impish grin that makes Rachel shiver in response. "Well." Rachel watches as Santana deliberately reaches over, until their fingers slide together and lock in a loose hold. "Right now you're with me," she very correctly observes, fiddling with Rachel's grip. "So I guess that means lucky you."
Rachel's mouth trembles; her throat closes. "I guess so." The fingers smooth against her, a delicate and soft searching touch that seems both tentative and bold.
The door shakes with a sudden thump. "Ms. Berry," comes the muffled voice. "We're ready for you!"
Rachel's tongue sits flat at the roof of her mouth. She glances from the door to Santana, to the clasped hands that link loosely between them.
Santana's smirk widens. "You ready to make some beautiful music together?"
God, she missed her. "Set me free, baby," she whispers, quoting their own lyrics, and it's never felt more right or real than at that moment.
It's a long day. Santana's schedule is crazier than her own, but Rachel knows that hers isn't easy to work with, especially when she's in workshop mode, completely absorbed and doing everything she can to bring something new and refreshing and different to the complex character of the Witch. So they cram as much as they can into a fourteen hour work day. Rachel's throat is raw from singing the same song over and over again (the beginning of the song is sung live on set – the director is in love with idea of an authentic performance). Grips who had begun the day with wide eyes and wicked smiles (apparently two gorgeous women and equally gorgeous extras on set will put a perk in your step) are now slouching with exhaustion on any available surface, including the uncomfortable plastic crates that will brand diamond sized marks into their thighs, shoveling cookies into their mouths for the energy rush.
Rachel's tired too. And yet… there's a certain type of adrenaline that rushes deep into Rachel with the depth of a good performance. It's an inexplicable thrill that keeps her buoyant, because this is a music video for her SINGLE, and she's dressed up and gorgeous, and when she looks up from her mark and waits for the music, it's not a stranger who stands across from her.
Santana's eyes dance with this unexplainable mirth. She holds that cigar in her fingers , and has to refrain from smoking it (because this is something that has to happen on cue), and though the director is talking with wild, eccentric hand motions, it's Rachel that Santana's staring at.
Dark-stained lips purse together, moistening the edge of that damned cigar and still Rachel can catch the way the edges of that plump mouth tilt up.
Santana's beautiful, but the way she's looking at Rachel…
Rachel knows she's beautiful too.
They're in this together, and standing here, in this tight hallway that's lit to make them look like they're alone but in actuality is filled to the brim with the large group of production crew in every corner that isn't seen by the cameras, it still feels like there's no one else that matters.
It's not that late when the wrap is finally called. But Rachel's call time was 5AM, which means she actually woke up at 4, and these long production days do take their toll when she's not actively used to them. The hours of live singing means her voice is hoarse. She's been standing on a wooden stage or dock nearly the entire time, which means her feet pulse (and maybe swell) with the blood that rushes to her toes after she's finally able to remove the painfully high stiletto heels she's been wearing.
Even though it's only 9PM, to say she's exhausted is an understatement.
She has maybe enough energy to pull on a pair of boyfriend jeans, a tank and her ballet flats. One of the PA's offers her a coffee to go, which she gratefully accepts. A long sip gives her the gumption to get up out of her chair and make her way out of the trailer.
As she gingerly heads down the trailer steps, she's well aware that she's walking way too tentatively for her own good, and mentally reminds herself to schedule a pedicure to deal with the blisters that she knows will be emerging after a day in those heels.
"Don't tell me you're limping," says a dry voice from a dark corner just out of reach of the light blaring from the spotlight above her trailer. "You need to toughen up, Berry. Heels are a necessary evil for a pop star."
It's Santana, of course, who walks forward slowly, until she's illuminated and visible.
Rachel straightens, but her mouth quirks at the challenge in her friend's tone. "Maybe I need to start a new trend, then."
"Good luck with that." Like Rachel, Santana hasn't bothered to remove her makeup, but the torn jeans and chunky boots look as casual as Rachel has ever seen her when not in the comfort of her own home. It's always a little flabbergasting, to see the different layers of masks that Santana employs, through her hair and her makeup and her clothes. "I was wondering when you were going to come out."
"Were you waiting for me?" Rachel's stomach tightens; she feels a rush of pleasure at the thought.
Santana shrugs, like this is no big deal. "Too tired for dinner?"
Her feet are killing her and her throat is sore and her mind is exhausted, and two minutes ago, the only thing she really wanted was to head home and soak in Santana's gorgeous spa-style bathtub.
Rachel can't think of one thing she'd rather do than spend time having dinner with Santana Lopez.
Santana has a car and a driver at her disposal, and it's a reminder again of the scope of Santana's success in relation to Rachel's.
It should sting, because who would have guessed that out of their entire Glee Club, it would be Santana that's the paparazzi darling and the filthy rich pop artist?
Even so, Rachel has to admit, it suits her. It's always suited Santana to live just a little larger than life. It was how they connected in New York, and it's what makes her feel quietly close to her now, as Santana directs the driver to an Ethiopian restaurant that they used to frequent in Chelsea all those years ago.
They stay quiet in the car. Rachel wonders if this is actual sexual tension, because even though she's exhausted, she's very AWARE of Santana, and finds she has to actually fight the impulse to keep looking at her, to keep her hands to herself, and not focus on the smooth caramel of Santana's tanned forearms or slender fingers and the way they slide over the seat.
For once, her exhaustion seems to work in her favor. All that angst, all that confusion and paranoia and FEAR that has been bottled up inside her and caused her to act so stupidly when it comes to her roommate has simmered.
Maybe that's all still inside of her, but Rachel finds there's no energy to waste on it. Instead, Rachel can lounge in this car, head leaning back against the comfortably cool leather of the back seat, and just absorb and appreciate this special connection that she shares with Santana Lopez.
Maybe Santana's of the same mind, because she's quiet too, legs crossed, regarding Rachel with this hooded gaze. The smirk that plays on her lips, like she's got some unspoken secret, is devastatingly sexy.
"So…" Rachel finds herself finally saying, foot bobbing as she resettles herself to face Santana. "If you're back in town, where exactly are you staying?"
Santana's secret smile goes deeper still, but she just says with a deadpan droll, "Well, there's a squatter in my apartment…" Rachel rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "So, I booked the Omni."
Normally, a comment like that may have put Rachel in this wicked spiral of self-doubt, because why wouldn't Santana even entertain the offer of staying with her?
Rachel discovers that the magic of the music video hasn't quite faded yet. At least that's what she attributes her self-confidence to, as she sighs and huffs, "Santana, that's stupid. It's your place."
Santana's brow arches. "So you want me to kick you out so you can get a hotel room?"
"Or," Rachel says a moment later, because Santana's being determinedly thick about this. "We could just… stay there together."
She doesn't mean to lick her lips as she says that. She doesn't mean for her eye lids to flutter the way they do or for their eyes to lock so… intensely. She doesn't MEAN for this sexual tension to be so… thick. But it's there, and it's maddening, and maybe it does sound like Rachel's propositioning her.
Rachel isn't sure she cares.
Santana still might. "I only have one bed, Rachel," she points out, but her voice is thicker, lower than it was a second ago, and just noticing that makes Rachel's insides clench.
She takes a deep breath, tries to force the color off her cheeks and keep her beating heart quiet as she adds conversationally, "You also have a couch."
It's an option. Rachel could argue quite validly that her intentions are honorable. And she thinks they are. There's no reason why Santana should feel like she should have to stay somewhere else just because Rachel is subletting her apartment.
She doesn't look at Santana as she waits for her friend to respond.
"You're putting me on the couch in my own apartment? You are a bitch, Rachel."
Rachel snorts before she can stop it. "Shut up," she snaps, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of her voice. "I'm serious." Santana continues to just look at her, indecision painted on her face, along with that scampy half smile that tells Rachel that she won't be able to resist much longer. Deliberately, Rachel reaches across the leather of the backseat and slides her fingers over Santana's, an arguably friendly gesture. "Come on, it'll be like old times!"
Dark eyes flutter slowly away from Rachel's face and down to their entwined hands. Santana's attention stays there for a long minute, before her head lifts and that devastating gaze pins her once again. "You sure?" Rachel presses her lips together, and Santana's fingers squeeze against hers meaningfully. "I mean, we wouldn't want people to think you've caught the gay."
There's a coil that's tightening inside of Rachel. She feels the pressure, the way it twists. It's sensitive to Santana, twitches with the deliberate touch. She's so aware of the way Santana's fingers move between her own, flicking and sensitive.
Just the movement of those searching digits reminds Rachel of a questing tongue, searching for purchase in a deep kiss.
It's… erotic.
"Maybe I'll take my chances," she manages.
Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she's stupid. Maybe she'll regret this in the morning.
But she's already had so many regrets, and in the face of the way of this, of the tingles that erupt when Santana strokes her fingers, of the breathless way she absorbs Santana's smoldering stare, Rachel decides that 'maybe' is not a good enough excuse to deny exploring whatever this is.
Not tonight.
A good excuse finds her when literally two minutes after they decide to forgo the restaurant and head straight back to the flat for 'take out', Rachel and Santana's phones ring at the exact same time.
"It's Kurt," she says with surprise, just as she hears Santana murmur, "Quinn?"
Their fingers untangle, and Rachel pretends not to notice how Santana doesn't seem to care, pressing the answer button on her phone and bringing it to her ear to take their mutual friend's call.
It delays Rachel for two seconds before she realizes she should be doing the same.
She works quickly to keep the call from going to voicemail. "Kurt, it's like… 3AM in Spain," she snips, not in the mood for whatever madness that has Kurt calling at this hour. "Are you drunk again?"
"…Yes," Kurt snaps, with that high pitchy squeal that would have told Rachel he was severely imbibed regardless. "But that's besides the point. Guess where I am, right now!"
Rachel doesn't want to. "Hugh Jackman's penthouse?" she tries, a lame attempt.
"Oh fuck," Santana breathes beside her, and then Rachel doesn't have to guess.
The sedan pulls in front of the very familiar apartment building and standing on the curb, waiting for them with red noses and wide, idiotic smiles, bundled together to protect each other from the cold are Quinn, Kurt, and a gaggle of her old NYADA friends.
Kurt, who should be in Spain and not here in New York, just grins gleefully.
"It's party time, bitches!" he crows, the phone in his hand and his voice reverberating in Rachel's ear.
Rachel is flabbergasted, which is actually kind of stupid considering the company. In her college days, she and Kurt had become famous among their drama-geek crowd for their impromptu soirées. It would annoy Santana terribly at first, especially when she would come home from a late shift at the Coyote Ugly or that divey lesbian bar she cage-danced for only to find future Broadway stars belting out the lyrics and doing choreography to Chicago or A Chorus Line.
She called the cops on them once.
It got significantly better when they managed to convince her to join in. Her rendition of 'Out Tonight' from Rent sent surprised, impressed gasps throughout the room, and, Rachel remembers suddenly with a grimace, got Santana laid that night. Very loudly.
"Oh my GOD!" Kurt breathes, looking dapper, handsome and buff but so very very gay as he squeals over the expensive mahogany wood bar that Santana has added into the space as a corner bar. "Is this cherry wood?!"
Rachel doesn't know and at the moment doesn't care to find out. She's frustrated beyond belief, making her movements shaky as she works the cork off the bottle of wine.
Santana, who after her initial shock, seems to have matured enough to have no issue with the party-crashers, lets out a peal of laughter that carries across the room. The source of this supposed hilarity is Quinn, who, Rachel couldn't help but noticed, has wasted no time in gluing herself to Santana's side as if she were her date.
Quinn wears a wide, gorgeous smile as she places a hand on Santana's bicep, invading her space completely as she whispers something for Santana's ears only.
Santana has no problem with that either.
Rachel's wrists jerks, and the cork breaks off in the stem of bottle. "Fuck!" she snaps, and drops the corkscrew with a flustered pant. "What are you doing here?" she asks, eyes flashing to Kurt.
Kurt pauses in the middle of the rave-y hand-wavey thing that he was doing in time to Santana's hosted music blaring on the speakers to give Rachel an unimpressed glare.
Rachel flushes. She doesn't mean to make it come off so… bitchy.
"Stand down, Rachel Berry," he says solemnly, clearly taking his time to rev up his comeback to her unwarranted little snipe. "I'm here to meet a designer. Originally it was going to be a video conference but then I heard that Santana was going to be in town and I thought, why not surprise two of my best friends who I haven't seen in forever?" He takes a sip of wine and does a little twiddle with his fingers as a flourish.
Rachel's sour mood does not lift at the very sweet and very innocent explanation. "Right," she sighs. "Why not?"
He frowns. "Why are you not happy to see me? Appreciate me, bitch! That flight was no picnic!"
She's being ridiculous of course. Kurt was as important to Santana as Rachel was. They were the three amigos, and despite their tumultuous high school relationships, they managed to find a way to cling and connect to each other in New York, in this very loft.
Why wouldn't he have every right to expect and want to see Santana? Who is Rachel to deny him that?
A selfish bitch who doesn't know her own mind, apparently.
"NO," she sighs, and gives up on the wine bottle completely, coming around the bar with her arms outstretched. "God, Kurt, no, of COURSE I'm happy." She steps into his arms and immediately finds herself comforted by the familiarity of the embrace of Kurt Hummel, her best friend. Just the warmth from him and the smell of his familiar cologne makes her squeeze tighter. It's a relief, to hug him and hold him and know exactly where she stands. "I'm so happy to see you," she admits, and doesn't let go for a full minute.
She lets go when he stops patting her back companionably and starts to squirm. As he pulls back, his expression remains suspicious. "So why are you wearing that face?"
"What face?" she asks, with a straight of an expression she can muster.
It's more difficult than it would be if Santana and Quinn weren't in her direct line of vision, clinking glasses together and futzing over Santana's pile of records by her media center in the corner. It's classic Quinn Fabray, playing the role of the curious ignorant in the face of Santana's passion, and it's annoying that Santana seems to fall for it so easily, excitedly pulling out a vinyl and showing it to Quinn. If Rachel wasn't trying so hard to be ambivalent to it all, she'd cuff Santana on the back of the head just to make a point.
"Your bitchy 'this isn't going my way' face," Kurt clarifies, and Rachel frowns. He just looks exasperated. "Never play poker, Rachel," he advises sagely. "It's kind of ironic that you're an actress considering how bad you are at hiding your emotions."
Augh. "I'm just tired," she mumbles. "It's been a long day."
"Hmm," he says in response, but seems too buzzed to really care much beyond his initial skeptism. "Well, get your shit together," he orders her and takes another long gulp of wine. "You have friends here who want to celebrate your success, including one who flew a LONG way to be with you and Santana. Don't make that face," he warns. "You have been hogging Santana all to yourself for way too long!" He points his finger at Rachel's nose for emphases, and then makes a bemused, almost disgusted face. "God, that felt weird to say. When on earth did I start loving the bitch?"
Rachel's heart thuds unexpectedly, so pronounced that it actually forces her hand to slip off the cork and nearly impale herself with the corkscrew.
As if on cue, Santana laughs again, and this time she's actually got Quinn in close, demonstrating some sort of weird krump move to one of her the other party goers that involves grinding her ass in Quinn's crotch. Someone whoops and Santana breaks the dance move to giggle, straightening back and using Quinn as support as she dissolves into hysterical giggles.
"That's a very good question," Rachel mutters, and stabs at the corkscrew again. "God dammit, why won't this damn thing-"
"Okay, how about you let me do that before we end up in the ER because you cut your hand open," Kurt snaps, swiping the corkscrew from her hand and taking over the bottle. Disgusted with herself, Rachel slumps against the bar. "…Are we going to have to talk about this?"
With a exhalation of breath, Rachel pragmatically steals Kurt's wine, pressing the glass to her lips as she continues to watch the interaction across the room. "About what?"
"Rachel," he snaps because a drunk Kurt is not a patient Kurt. "You told me you talked to her. You said you talked it all out and that everything was fine."
"Everything is fine," she mutters, but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are sparkling with something green-tinted, and when Quinn spreads her palm quite possessively over Santana's hip, leaning in way too obviously as she oohs and aws over the stupid record Santana's showing her, she considers downing the entire glass.
"Oh my GOD," Kurt squeals, so loudly that Rachel nearly topples over the glass.
Dammit, he's right. Rachel can be an absolutely horrible liar.
"Kurt!" she whispers frantically, because he's getting very red-faced and the wordless squeaks he's now dissolved into are increasingly high-pitched, and that means they're getting attention, most notably from Santana and Quinn, who pause in their discussion to glance wonderingly at the bar.
Panicked, Rachel grabs hold of Kurt's wrist and manhandles him away from the bar and toward the only privacy she can find: the space between Santana's studio and her bedroom that used to be Santana's bedroom.
He keeps babbling those words that aren't words, and doesn't stop until Rachel pushes him up forcibly against the wall of Santana's bedroom. "Would you stop!"
"Don't tell me you're on Team Gay now!" he squeaks. At the mention of the G-Word, Rachel clamps both hands over his mouth.
"I'm not," she argues adamantly. Kurt squeaks against her fingers. "I'm NOT!" she insists, because does it really count as Team Gay when they're just thoughts and not yet actions? Technicalities don't seem to matter when Kurt is getting progressively fixated. He's still giving muffled little squeaks that eek out from behind her hands.
Rachel has to think fast. Kurt may be fixated, but he's also drunk which means he's also easily distractible. "But Quinn may be."
The babbling stops. Cautiously, Rachel lifts her hands from his mouth. "Pardon?" he asks, frozen in position.
"She's interested in Santana," she whispers. It's an actual battle not to sound as annoyed about it as she is. Kurt just stares at her, brow cocked. "Did you know they slept together years ago?"
The emphatic brow just buries itself way into his forehead. "How did you NOT know?" he asks, and Rachel's eyes widen. "Rachel," he sighed, like Rachel's gone stupid. "That one time Quinn came to visit they spent nearly the entire visit in Santana's room with all the curtains drawn, and Santana blasted Marvin Gaye the whole time. What did you THINK was going on?"
"I have no idea," she confesses miserably and decides she no longer wants to dwell on that period of her life where she was apparently idiotically obtuse. Her palm slides over her features in frustration as she slumps back next to Kurt, taking a deep breath to compose herself.
"What's going on, Rachel?" she hears him ask, voice quiet and concerned.
"God, I just… Kurt," she begins, and turns to her friend pleadingly. "Just promise me there aren't going to be any more surprises today, okay? I can't take anymore."
His lips press together. He's noticeably silent.
Rachel feels a growing sense of dread. "What?"
"Nothing," he insists, and licks his lips, preparing himself. "Tell me you're still with Troy."
She narrows her eyes, but slowly nods. "Barely," she confesses. "But yes. I'm still with Troy."
"Good." Kurt clamps his hand on her shoulder, making her jump. "Because he just walked in." Rachel heart stops, and Kurt presses a kiss to her cheek. "Toodles!"
Kurt invited Troy, who, in spurt of uncharacteristic sweetness, took the weekend off from filming and flew last minute to surprise his girlfriend and congratulate her on her success with both her upcoming single and being cast in the iconic role of the Witch in the big budget Broadway revival of Into the Woods.
That's what he told her. Loudly in front of everyone. So everyone could hear.
Troy remains unchanged. He showed up looking his dapper, handsome self, with his perfect set of teeth set in a charming smile and a teddy bear under his arm made especially for Rachel that holds a heart with 'Congratulations' written on it. He presented it to her with a dramatic flourish and a sweet kiss on her cheek, and Rachel could hear the 'awws' and 'oohs' from every one of her spectating friends.
He's fawned over by the party goers, straight and gay alike, because Troy is a pretty guy, and plays the role of the supportive boyfriend with a possessive hand over her hip, engaging in easy conversation and asking Rachel more than once if she needs a refill on her wine.
Rachel is both shocked at his consideration and very annoyed at him for showing up.
Neither is a good sign for the future of this relationship.
For some reason, that depresses Rachel more than anything. Rachel's Broadway castmates have arrived and they've all brought guests. This has turned from a small gathering into an actual party. One of Santana's mixes plays through her obviously pristine and expensive sound system, and now the converted loft is full with drinking, dancing and laughing conversation.
His hand that spreads on her hip feels intrusive and heavy, and though she stands it, she finds herself desperately aware of Santana and the way the other woman has kept her distance. Troy isn't the only recognizable star in this crowd. It's almost amusing to see Quinn's strained smile, frustration eeking out because now Santana has a whole crowd of fans gathered around her. Stef, who plays the Baker's Wife, has been 'in love' with Santana for eons (she confessed it to Rachel in a conspirator's whisper the first day of rehearsal), and hasn't been able to resist having Santana sign her abs, and gab gushingly at her. There's also fans of Quinn's novels in attendance, and for a moment Rachel's proud, to see her fellow Lima transplants so gorgeous and successful. Even Kurt, who didn't end up on stage like her, can be seen arguing about the new fall Oscar De la Renta line with an adoring Chorus boy, who looks two seconds away from asking Kurt to whip out his dick so he can suck it in worship.
Rachel's heart is in a curious place. Her jealousy (because yes, that's what it is, she's big enough to admit it), has settled down to a soft simmer. She's not sure what's caused the shift, but she supposes that maybe Troy's presence does have its advantages, because Santana hasn't stopped sneaking lingering unreadable glances since he's walked in.
It makes Rachel, with her never-emptying wine glass and that quiet buzz that's been working her way through her system, want so very badly to look back.
So she does. She meets those quiet, curious stares, and offers some of her own, searching and unafraid, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass with every glance.
No one notices. The character who plays the Baker in her play is a jovial Broadway veteran who wants to be the next Neil Patrick Harris, and he's currently in the middle of one of his animated tales that somehow involve jumping on Santana's coffee table and doing a weird hip thrusting thing.
Beside her, Troy laughs his characteristically loud, reverberating laugh. It distracts Rachel, reminds her that she's here with her boyfriend and there is a definite line she's crossing, leering at her hot brunette female friend when he's got his hands all over her.
She clears her throat and feels her cheeks flush, and forces her attention back to where she knows it belongs.
Rachel's phone, in a trick learned from Santana herself a long, long time ago, buzzes from within the confines of her bra. Carefully, Rachel switches her glass to her other hand and retrieves it to glance at the screen.
You invited Troy the Midget? He's even tinier in person than I thought he would be.
Rachel's lips press together in amusement. She glances up and notices Santana's phone being subtly pushed in the back pocket of her tight jeans. Rachel watches the movement with interest, and with a lick of her lips, begins to type a one-handed response.
Kurt did. I didn't. And you're still shorter.
The message is sent, and her hand is jostled. It's then she notices that the drink one of her castmates is pressing into Troy's hand is a little light-tinted to be just coke.
For Troy, who is going on five years as a recovering alcoholic, it's a problem. "Troy," she says, hand on his bicep as she lifts up on her heels to whisper quietly in his ear. "Are you sure you should be drinking that?"
Drink already tipping into his mouth, the look on his face is one of exasperation. "Come on, it's one drink, Rachel," he says, low and under his breath.
It's unfair to do this right now. They're in public. Troy is smart, and he's used it to his advantage.
"Besides," he says, louder as he tightens his arm around her, squeezing affectionately. "We're celebrating!"
"There's always an excuse, isn't here?" she snits under her breath, face plastered in a practiced smile as one of her friends catches her eye as he continues the conversation.
Her phone buzzes just as his grip tightens. You should look a little happier to see your man, Rachel.
His hold feels claustrophobic. Rachel just eyes Santana's form, noting the way the phone stays in Santana's hand. Their gaze catches, just long enough for Rachel's heartbeat to trip unsteadily, before Santana is drawn back into her conversation.
And she suddenly gets pissed. Had the circumstances had been a bit different, had Kurt decided to wait just one more day, then this loft would have been empty. It would have been her and Santana here, alone, talking and sharing and being together, and maybe, just maybe, that crippling fear that had been slowly ebbing away would have receded completely and they could finally be at a place where it was just the two of them without a single, or a music career, or an agent or publicist or showmance boyfriend getting in the way of remembering how easy it was just to be HONEST with each other.
Okay, maybe it was never easy. But it was real. It was tangible. Santana could look her in the eyes and just SEE her, and it used to scare the crap out of Rachel, but she aches for it now. She aches for that mirror, to see herself reflected in those dark eyes and REMEMBER how special it was to be seen for something other than a marketable image.
For some reason, this flush of anger and resentment emboldens Rachel. Honestly? I would have rather spent the night alone with you.
She presses send, and then watches out of the corner of her eye as Santana reaches for her back pocket, sliding out the phone and casually dialing in her code to unlock her phone.
The smile that's on Santana's face stalls as she reads the reply. Immediately, her eyes lift to catch Rachel's gaze, but her look is hooded, nearly smoldering. Santana's lips press together in a sexy smirk, and then she's typing quickly before reengaging in her conversation with the adoring Stef.
Wanky.
She's giving Rachel an easy, simple response, and left the next move to Rachel. She's done it before, and the last time Santana had given Rachel an out with a simply worded text, Rachel had taken it.
She doesn't want to do that now. Slowly, she exhales and with another sip of wine and an accelerated heartbeat, types out a one-word response. Preferably.
The hand currently squeezing her hip places more pressure than before, demanding her attention. Rachel frowns. Troy's smile has faded slightly. "Seriously?" he asks, eyes flitting from her and the phone. "Come on, Rachel, it's been like a month." She isn't sure what to say to that. He's been gone for months at a time before. The drink in his hand is already half gone.
"Do you want a Coke?" she asks pointedly. He rolls his eyes.
Her phone vibrates in her hand, and Rachel, already tipsy and with far less reserve because of it, lowers her head to read the reply. You're flirting with me in front of your man, Rachel? That's ballsy. How drunk are you?
She sees Santana trying not to look at her. But her posture is stiff. She's waiting for a response; she's waiting for Rachel.
Santana's still hesitant and Rachel doesn't blame her. She's kissed Rachel, she's shared her passion and her music with her, she's pressed her against a wall and dismantled her completely, and still Rachel's managed to run away from that.
Now they're nearly strangers in a room where they've shared countless memories, and the last thing Rachel wants is to run away.
Stone cold sober, Santana.
She's physically unable to look anywhere else but in Santana's direction. Across the room, Santana absorbs the text. Rachel notes the way she sucks in air through her teeth, the way those eyes pin on hers, darker than she's ever seen them.
It causes an actual ache, a twinge that sends a shiver down her chest and between her legs.
So, you ready to tell me you're over this straight girl gay panic thing and actually want to deal with this?
"So that's Santana," she hears, low and closer to her ear.
She shudders at the sensation. Troy's deliberately reminded her of his presence, and worse, he's caught on to the way she's looking at Santana. His hand presses in against her, until he's flush behind her. THEY'RE looking at her now, and it changes the energy, makes this feel lewd.
"Yeah," she breathes out unsteadily, wine raising to her lips, using it to bolster her own resolve. "That's Santana."
For a moment, she sees Santana the way Troy would – a fascinating stranger, thin and toned and beautifully exotic. She sees her as prey. It reminds her of every murmur, every rumor, every single time she would turn a blind eye to Troy and the way women would fall all over him; how he enjoyed the attention; relished it. How easy it was to pretend that it was all okay because he still came home to her.
"She's hot," he mumbles, and her eyes roll up, because that's both idiotic and an understatement. She hates how easily he can reduce a complex being like Santana into just another woman to be objectified. "Think she'd be up for a threesome?"
The warm buzz that up to this moment had been quietly simmering inside of her, warming her and causing a curious, addictive arousal, quickly extinguishes.
"That's disgusting, Troy," she snaps, and goes so far as to push his arm off her waist with a force that a couple of her friends actually notice.
"Why?" he snaps. The amusement is gone from his face. "Why is it disgusting when I do it, but it's perfectly fine for you to practically fuck her with your eyes?" he adds, quiet but pointed.
Rachel's wine glass almost slips from her hands. Her eyes harden, and unable to help herself, she glances at the crowd around them. "Troy," she hisses, because no, she doesn't want to do this here.
"You think I'm an idiot, Rachel?" he continues, pitch rising, and that's how she knows he's well on his way to getting drunk. "You want her, she's obviously looking at you." Rachel's eyes close in quiet frustration. "I'm trying to be cool about this."
Now Troy is looking suddenly like a hurt, petulant puppy, and they're catching attention in a room filled to brim with both her co-workers and her friends. Santana is standing twenty feet away, dark eyes burning into her and Troy, waiting for Rachel to answer the question she's posed.
God… Is she ready?
Rachel doesn't have it in her to be afraid. Not now. Carefully, she takes a deliberate sip, emptying the rest of her wine, before she places the glass on a nearby table and then tangles her fingers with Troy's, leading him away from the crowd and toward the only available area with any sort of privacy. She leads them toward the harsh metal door, exiting the loft.
It's there, in this dingy hallway that still smells and looks like a hovel, no matter how much money Santana's invested in the actual loft, that Rachel drops her boyfriend's hand and realizes exactly what it is she wants and what she's ready for.
"Troy, I think we should break up," she says, without dramatics, without prelude, without warning.
It's callous. She's buzzed, impulsive, and maybe a little in over her head, but does it matter? She knows it's been building to this with them; she's convinced herself it was love for so long because she needed him, but it was selfish of her.
It was selfish of both them. And she should care more, she knows she should, that Troy looks so crestfallen.
"Wow," he says, absorbing this with his same quiet intensity that used to be so appealing to her. He laughs, a morbid, furious chuckle. "You know before I wasn't taking any of this seriously, but I should have, right?" Rachel crosses her arms, presses her lips together. "Holy shit," he breathes, and shakes his head in disbelieve. "This is … you're like… you want to be with her?"
Even now, even in the face of all this, Rachel can't quite commit, and she hates herself for it. "I don't know what I want, Troy," she answers softly. "I only know what I don't want, and I don't want you, not anymore."
Has this ever happened to Troy? He's gorgeous, he's beautiful and he can be sweet. He loved her once; she knows that. But she can also see his pride, the anger that's on his features that makes him look almost savage, before it falls away to that same pitiful hurt.
He whirls and flings his empty drink against the door. It crashes and splinters, and Rachel can't stop herself from jumping, yelping in surprise.
It's an impulsive move, but it seems to rid Troy of his tantrum. Now, he just stares at her with that same wounded, angry look.
"Have you talked to JoAnn about this?!"
"I shouldn't have to!"
"This isn't just us you're fucking with Rachel, you know that, right?" he asks, pleading now. "This is my career. This is your career. This is what we've worked for years for." Rachel's heart beat trips, she sucks in her breath. "You and me, we're a brand. We're Troychel. We were in this." His shoulders slump. Those broad fingers muss through his perfectly coifed hair. "Fuck, Rachel! I was gonna propose tonight!" he adds, shoving his fingers into his jeans pocket and pulling out a blue Tiffany's box. He shakes it at her.
Rachel is so overtaken with shock at the very idea she finds all she can do is stare. "You what?!"
"Fuck, JoAnn already scheduled the fucking engagement shoot!"
The wave of anger that flows through her at that little revelation gives her strength to pull out of her stupor. "Troy… did you honestly think I would have said yes?!" she hisses, wondrous in her disbelief. "After months of not seeing each other? All the times you cheated on me?!" He frowns, and Rachel presses forward, wanting desperately to grab that stupid box and shove it up his large, manly nostrils. "Posing and smiling for the cameras and having to just shut up and take it every time I hear someone laughing at me because you can't keep your dick in your pants when you're on location?"
"I'm a sex addict!" he huffs, and Rachel wants to cry with exasperation. "And you knew what it was like, Rachel. You didn't complain. Not once!"
"That's your excuse?" she snaps, frozen in disbelief. "That's your big justification? That I never seemed to care?!"
"Love and relationships are more than sex, Rachel," he lectures, and God, was he always his patronizing? "Yeah, I cheated, but I never stopped loving you. You were the one I came home to. You were the one I saw my future with!"
It's said so dramatically, so earnest, and truthfully, Rachel does appreciate a good performance. But she's no longer the young, naïve ingénue that once made Santana's breasts 'ache with rage'. She knows that's exactly what it is, a performance, done so well that she's sure even Troy believes in his own crap.
She blinks back the tears. "Save it, Troy!" she whispers. "I'm not your publicist! You can't feed me this bullshit and expect me to believe it. We're not brands! We don't turn on and off when they call 'action'! We're real people. With real feelings!"
"So don't fuck me over," he says hoarsely. "If you care so much about FEELINGS, then think about mine!"
He is flawed and he is trying. Rachel can see it. She would often tell herself that it was okay because Troy was trying, even if he was forever imperfect. But she knows now, she knows how a façade is not enough. She knows, no she's been reminded, how she deserves to have more. How she needs more. A façade isn't good enough; not anymore.
"Troy," she begins, trying very hard to keep her voice even and patient, "For once this has nothing to do with you. This is about me. This is about her," she adds miserably, throwing a hand to the metal door and the woman she knows who is waiting for her on the other side of it. "This is about the fact that I feel more for her that I have in five years with you and I think I deserve to be able to explore that." It's so… final, and she thinks maybe Troy can finally see it. Those beautiful eyes widen. He looks crestfallen. "I'm sorry Troy."
Rachel wonders honestly why she's not as heartbroken as he is; why years of a relationship could end this quickly, dismantle as flimsily as a house of cards.
Is her life that vacuous?
"This is SUCH bullshit." His outburst startles her, but before she can react, Troy is gone, whirling on his heel and stomping away from her, down the hallway and nearly knocking over one Quinn Fabray who has suddenly appeared.
The look on Quinn's face is thunderstruck.
"Uh…." Quinn shifts in the quiet that follows and shifts on her heels, before she haphazardly lifts a package of cigarettes. "I took a smoke break."
"You smoke?" Rachel asks dumbly, latching on to that fact as a distraction. She does remember Quinn catching the habit in high school as a Skank, but as far as she remembered, Quinn had given it up.
"So not the point right now," Quinn snaps, and it coils a reaction in Rachel's spine. Quinn's eyes are dark and wide. "Did you just dump Troy Ross?" she asks, laughing in disbelief.
Suddenly exhausted, Rachel is in no mood. "Don't full name him," she sighs, losing her strength as she slumps back against the wall of the hallway, purposely avoiding the suspicious brown stain two inches away. "Right now he's just my douchey-serial-cheater ex-boyfriend, Troy."
"Oh." Rachel closes her eyes and lets her head tilt back. She takes in a deep, sorrowful breath. After a moment, she feels Quinn settle in beside her.
"Wanna talk about it?" Quinn asks, gentle and sweet, because despite being an unintentional rival for the object of Rachel's very confused affections, she's also quite possibly one of Rachel's best friends.
Rachel clucks her tongue and shakes her head. "It was time to get some balls back," she answers tiredly.
Quinn smirks, and squeezes her thigh gently. "Change that to ovaries and I think you may have your official press statement."
Oh God, the tabloids. Images flash in Rachel's head, and suddenly she can see all of it, the entire shit storm of media that will occur because in her fucked up little industry, this is news.
They're going to murder her. She groans, and slumps into Quinn's shoulder, burying her face in Quinn's nape. "Crap," she whispers. "JoAnn is going to kill me."
"You didn't even talk to her?"
"No," she mumbles, and lets out another heavy breath. "It's was kind of a spur of the moment thing."
Quinn absorbs that quietly. "Rachel," she begins, voice sounding odd enough that Rachel lifts her head to regard her friend. "You dumped him to be with Santana, didn't you?"
The panic that's built abruptly at the thought of the media takes a decidedly different turn. Rachel's eyes snap open.
The dumbstruck expression her face must be all the confirmation that Quinn seems to need.
"Holy shit."
"Quinn…" Rachel's very very close to panicking, and she probably would, if she weren't distracted by the fact that Quinn is laughing, this hysterical little laughter that kind of scares Rachel to hear it.
"Wow," Quinn says, and tips the cigarette pack into her hand, matter-of-factly pulling out another stick. "God… It all makes so much sense now." She pulls out a lighter from another pocket, and Rachel wrinkles her nose as the acrid smell of the smoke invades her nostrils. She considers saying something, but one look at Quinn and the way she so methodically tilts the cigarette into her mouth and inhales deeply stops her. A plume of smoke exhales from her nostrils. "Here I thought you were just being … Rachel but no… " Blonde hair swishes with Pantene-style slow motion beauty as Quinn regards her with disturbing clarity. "You actually want her. How the hell did I not see it before?"
It feels like a betrayal. Quinn has been honest with her about her designs on their mutual friend. She's given Rachel every opportunity to say something, and yet Rachel's said nothing.
"It's not what you think." It's a feeble excuse, and it's stupid because it's exactly what Quinn is thinking.
Quinn just takes another drag from her cigarette. Rachel just watches the way the end burns into ash. After a moment, Quinn reaches forward and tips the ash onto the floor. Rachel doesn't mind. Not like this hallway can get any dirtier.
"Please tell me that when you were listening to me ramble on and on about possibly throwing myself at her you weren't already fucking her."
"I wasn't," she says immediately. "I haven't. It's not like that."
"But you've kissed her," Quinn says shrewdly. Rachel flushes and coils her fingers together. "And you want to sleep with her."
Rachel's heart twists inside of her.
The music from the party plays on. Rachel can feel the vibration at her back, like a rhythmic heartbeat. As her eyes close, she's transported back to Drew's birthday party, and the emotions invade her as they did back then. She feels the music pulse through her, feel the phantom hold of Santana in a moment that was more erotic than any she's ever experienced.
"I don't know what I want, Quinn," she says finally.
Quinn exhales brusquely. "Of course you don't," she says flatly, like she's not surprised at all. "But whatever it is, it's apparently enough to fuck over your showmance for it."
Rachel's eyes flutter in frustration.
"You know what's really messed up?" she hears. "For the first time in my life," Quinn muses, eyeing her cigarette idly as it flits on the edge of her slender fingertips. "I'm at a place in my life where I'm completely aware of who I am, what I want, how to get it. And meanwhile, you, RACHEL FRIGGIN' BERRY, who I hated in high school for knowing exactly who you were and exactly what you wanted and how you were going to get it, has absolutely no idea and is so lost she's sitting here watching me smoke a cigarette and not giving a shit." As if to prove her point, Quinn takes one last drag, sucking up the tainted smoke and blowing it in a perfect ring of circles that would be incredibly sexy in different circumstances. "It's actually really messed up."
"Quinn."
"You get tonight, Rachel," Quinn says matter-of-factly, pushing off the ground with a concentrated grunt. "I'll back off for one night and maybe that'll be enough for you to get your shit together."
Rachel blinks, completely overtaken. Quinn wears no expression. Her hazel eyes are as piercing as she's ever seen them but the cigarette is dropped to the floor and ground onto by the heel of Quinn's boot.
"Why would you do that?" Rachel asks, because even if she herself is Quinn's biggest fan, she knows Quinn is competitive and has a selfish side. She's admired it about her. "I know you want her."
Quinn's brow arches, and with an exasperated sigh, stretches out her hand for Rachel to take. "Because despite the success of love triangles in my novels," she says, just as Rachel grabs hold of her and allows herself to be pulled up. "I'm not exactly amped on getting in another one with you. Finn and Puck were more than enough." Rachel swallows, and remembers quite suddenly, how desperately she wanted Finn for herself in high school and how shameless she was trying to land him.
It seems like so very long ago, but it was Rachel's ambition, Rachel's own competitiveness that triggered it. She wonders if she ever apologized to Quinn over it.
"I'm sorry," she says, just in case.
But Quinn just rolls her eyes, shoving her pack of cigarettes in her pocket and heading for the entrance. "I saw the way she was looking at you, Rachel," she says over her shoulder. "She obviously wants you too. Do me a favor and do something about it, before I convince her you're not worth the effort."
Rachel blinks at the warning, unsure of what to do as Quinn clasps hold of the metal door and prepares to open it. "I'm serious, Rachel," she continues. "You want her? Then take her, but you better be serious about this, because after tonight, all bets are off."
Rachel has to admit, when Quinn has a plan, she seriously commits to it. Minutes after they've entered the loft, the novelist has somehow managed to bring the party to a complete halt.
Rachel isn't sure what excuse she's managed to come up with, but suddenly Rachel is overtaken by departing well-wishers, who give her long hugs and odd phrases such as 'Chin Up, Tiger', and 'It'll get better!' before they're all draping on their various overcoats and scarves and heading out.
Santana, oddly enough, is nowhere to be found.
But that doesn't distract Quinn from kicking out even Kurt, who she finds draped over the couch and half asleep cuddled up next to the hot Chorus guy. "Come on, Kurt," Quinn orders, smacking the side of his head none-too-gently to get him and the cute Chorus guy (Rachel really needs to remember his name soon) up. "Time to go."
"What?" he slurs, and wipes at some drool collected on his chin. "NO!" he blinks, and moves sluggishly anyway. "I was s'posed to stay! It's roommates' night!"
Quinn tosses a glare to Rachel, and sighs loudly. "I don't think roommates' night is going to happen tonight, Kurt."
Kurt looks so crestfallen, that Rachel immediately feels guilty. "How about breakfast tomorrow?" she offers, and then
frowns when Kurt stumbles and flings his hand over the shoulder of her Chorus Gay in an effort to stay upright. "Or brunch?" she amends, because it's obvious Kurt will be doing nothing tomorrow morning except puking and cursing God.
Speaking up, however, just makes Kurt aware of her. His bleary pupils attempt to focus on her, and when they do, he heaves a sigh of surprise. "You!" he says, shoving a finger pointedly like they're in a murder mystery and she's the suspicious butler. "Stop gay panicking! It's stupid and it makes you look stupid!"
Rachel has no actual response but a scathing glare in Quinn's direction when the other woman snorts in amusement. "From Kurt's mouth to God's ears," she says sagely, and then gets Kurt to his feet. "We'll see you tomorrow for brunch Rachel," she adds, in this sweet tone that seems oddly menacing at the same time.
Rachel can only lick her lips and nod slowly, eyes blinking closed at the deliberate kiss Quinn presses on her cheek. "She's in the studio," Quinn adds in a quiet whisper. Rachel blinks, but all Quinn does is duck her head and move around her.
In a few moments, she and Kurt and his Chorus Gay are gone, and Rachel is left alone in a seemingly empty apartment.
Empty, of course, except for the studio.
The loft is a disaster area, very much like her social life.
Rachel is as exhausted as she can ever remember being, but there is a certain quirk inside of her that makes her want to fall back into old habits and begin to collect the bottles and glasses that have been littered on every available countertop. She wants to take a rag and sop up the spilled liquor that she spies dripping on the counter.
The way it is right now, it feels like there was a rapture and she's the only one left behind. Santana's pre-mixed music plays on, thumping loudly from the expensive speakers, unaware that there's no one left to dance to its synthesized bets. Rachel shuts it off.
Maybe it's her nerves. The bedroom door is open, but the studio door is not. If Rachel wants to see Santana, she has to physically move, open the door and once again meet Santana in her own personal haven.
Before, there have been plenty of excuses why to do so would be completely innocent. Rachel could shift the blame of intent on anything other than what she wanted. She had a boyfriend, she had a single, she had a friend who liked Santana, and she had a career to worry about.
Somehow, in the scope of an evening, every single one of those challenges has been removed or seems no longer relevant and all that's left behind in a long walk across a wooden floor and a closed door.
Every single action Rachel has made tonight has been deliberate, and though she's professed over and over to not know what she wants, the reality is that she wants Santana. She wants her desperately. She desires her in a way that definitely very gay, and very primal.
It's exhilarating to understand that. It's also terrifying.
Rachel picks her way through the living room. Her fingers sweep against the sofa, and in the process, she discovers once more the picture that Santana has framed of herself on the wall.
She's in the midst of a movement, eyes closed and hand thrust heavenward. The picture is vibrant and rich and beautifully taken, and still, it seems to pale in comparison to the real thing.
Heart in her throat, Rachel drags her eyes away and heads for the studio.
Rachel doesn't knock. Maybe it's an invasion, but the door is unlocked and when Rachel quietly twists the knob and opens it, she finds that it doesn't matter, because Santana doesn't hear her come in. Instead, the other woman has settled into a comfortable looking leather chair, eyes closed as she sits and absorbs the music that blasts throughout the tiny, sound-proofed room.
A lump sticks in Rachel's throat, as she quietly takes in the scene. It's their single that Santana's listening to.
It's so easy now, to think back to the video shoot that happened only hours before, to think of the story that they told, of Santana in her saturated color, sneaking into Rachel's black and white world and dismantling her completely.
Is that what's actually happened?
Rachel knows she's been lucky. She's had a dream career. Although she hasn't been as successful as she wanted to be by this point, she's been able to make a good living out of doing what she loves. Rachel knows that with time and hard work, she will be a star.
But somehow along this journey, those colors that used to seem so alive and gorgeous became muted, and oddly enough she didn't notice, not until Santana put a pair of headphones on her and lit the match that shifted her entire perspective.
It's almost… God, it sounds silly, but it almost feels like a religious experience.
Even the smallest things seem so different. Throughout high school and their time in New York, Rachel has always aware of Santana's beauty. Santana's looks were impossible not to notice. The girl was a Coyote Ugly bartender, a cage dancer, a stunning specimen. Rachel used to look at her and envy her perfect abs, her sharp-tongued wit, her raspy range.
But now… now… that same Santana… she's gone from black and white into gorgeous full color HD, and that result is nearly overwhelming. Rachel isn't just looking at Santana and envying her beauty or her wit… no, she's astounded by her. She's weak-kneed in her presence. She looks at Santana, and she appreciates. She adores. She wants so badly to worship. She makes Rachel's flesh pebble with goose bumps and makes her knees weak with emotion, and it's both insane and utterly intoxicating that all it takes for that to happen is this image of Santana sitting in a chair, listening to the song they wrote and recorded together.
A burst of primal lust hits Rachel in such a way her breath stutters, because she wonders now, what would it would be like to fuck Santana in that chair, to their own music.
She's unprepared for Santana to open her eyes. When she does, Rachel can only stare dumbly.
Santana seems no better off. Her friend's mouth opens, closes, and then those eyes blink and refocus, as if Santana can't quite believe that it's Rachel she sees standing just inside the studio door.
When the song fades, and the loft falls into silence, Santana lifts quickly out of her chair and pushes a button on her mixing board. Her brown locks fall over her shoulder like a shimmery curtain, obscuring her features. "Party over already?"
Still not quite trusting herself to speak, Rachel just shrugs, giving herself time to catch her breath before she manages a stiff smile. "And here I thought you'd be tired of this song, considering we've sung it at least a hundred times today.
Maybe pointing out the obvious is the wrong way to go, because Santana's posture only stiffens. Rachel's teasing smile fades, and she waits, as Santana fiddles with a couple dials. The opening notes of Norah Jones' 'Turn Me On' begins, a perfectly slow and smooth tune that quietly sets the pace of this.
Rachel doesn't mind.
"Where's your boyfriend?" The sudden question seems so casually dismissive and obviously curious.
Rachel wonders if Santana has always been so openly vulnerable, and decides she's glad that maybe Santana wasn't. Rachel isn't sure she would have stood a chance in the face of this beautiful, quiet women.
"Ex-boyfriend," she says, as clear as she can. She watches carefully as Santana absorbs that with a jerk of her head. Those brown eyes finally LOOK at her, searching for confirmation, and Rachel can't help the slow, wide smile that appears on her face. "And I don't really care where he is. I came looking for you." She's being surprisingly candid and bold, considering that she's Rachel and up until yesterday very determined to sweep this under the rug.
But there's almost no other recourse, not when the way Santana stares at her is so beautifully intense. How could she have ever thought Santana didn't want her? Every muscle in Santana's face seems to twitch with absolute sincerity and quiet hope.
It's addicting, gorgeously erotic. Pulled by the magnetism of it, Rachel moves closer. Santana offers a hard swallow.
"I just assumed that-" her voice drops off when Rachel comes even closer still, until she's just a foot away from invading Santana's space.
"You assumed that you asked me a question, and I freaked out," Rachel gently guesses, because Santana would have no reason to think otherwise. "And ran off with my boyfriend?"
A heavy breath blows out of Santana's nostrils. "Something like that," she answers, half guarded.
Rachel chews on her lower lip, and closes her eyes as Norah Jones's melodic voice serenades her with her raspy, seductive sweetness. "Come here, Santana." She reaches out, slowly, carefully, until she's wrapping fingers around Santana's wrist, pulling her hand off the mixing board and pulling Santana way from her safe place.
The buzz of alcohol has faded away, and in it's place is something much deeper, richer, and intoxicating. Her heart thumps so pronouncedly it's a wonder Santana can't feel it. Rachel's infected by her affection, and it makes it so easy to take Santana's pliant hands and place them deliberately on her hips, keep them there when she begins to sway with the jazzy, bluesy tune.
Santana's eyes are so dark. She smells faintly of cigarettes and liquor, and her olive skin is smooth. Overtaken by her senses, Rachel closes her eyes and tilts her temple against Santana's cheek, sighs against the body that begins to move with her.
Unable to help herself, Rachel feels the lyrics come up inside of her. "My hi-fi is waiting for a new tune," she sings softly, head tilting so her lips brush softly against the sensitive skin of Santana's earlobe. "My glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes…"
It would be fitting, wouldn't it? To confess herself through lyrics? Santana showed her her very soul through her dials and headphones and scratching, but all Rachel has is her voice. She feels Santana's hands press in tighter, until they are flush against each other, and Santana's eyelids flutter against her cheek.
"I'm just sitting here waiting for you…" A warm, wet mouth presses against her neck. Rachel's voice goes ragged; she presses in closer to the strong, firm body that she seems to desire so completely. "To come on home…" That mouth presses another kiss against her jaw, and Rachel's fingers somehow tangle in the nape of Santana's neck, threading through sweaty, dark locks. "-and turn me on…"
Her back hits the wall, and then there is no more singing; no more music. Norah Jones fades away and all that's left is her mouth against Santana's, her fingers in Santana's dark tresses, and the sputtering beat of her heart that tells her that this time, there will be no running.
end chapter.
FYI, this isn't the end. There will be a part four. :)