Notes:
Hi guys! Once again, I'm really sorry for the delay. Work is always my priority and that often means that I don't get as much time to write as much as I should. Also, this was meant to be the last chapter, but as it quickly went over forty pages, I figured breaking it up into two chapters was a better way to go. So expect one more after this and an epilogue.
Also, as a reminder, after this one if finished I'm going back to finish 'Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)', then 'We Really Shouldn't Be Doing This' and after that 'A Little Drop of Poison'. I know that I don't update as much as people would like, and I can only ask for your patience. Believe me when I say I'm trying to go as quickly as I can. Thank you again for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy. Also, if you do get curious or you have any questions for me, I'm always reachable on my tumblr as 'nuthintasee'. Thank you!
PART 04.
Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missin' home
Only know you love her when you let her go
And you let her go
- Passenger, Let Her Go
Kissing Santana Lopez, REALLY kissing her, is both a revelation and a relief. Rachel's body hums with the same adrenaline that coursed through her that fateful night they were reunited, when the music flowed from her with Santana's guidance, leading them both to a rocketing crescendo that had the crowd moving in one single mass, and Rachel's euphoria blasting skyward with the world's most intense high.
Or so she thought. But compared to this…
It's addicting. It's erotic. And God, Santana can kiss.
Her lips move against Rachel's, open and eager, with a soft whimper that exhales as Rachel sucks greedily on the other woman's lower lip. In response, Santana drags her tongue against her mouth and Rachel's world spins on its axis.
She's so involved, so ABSORBED, that when a palm reaches between them and softly drifts across her breast, skimming a hardening nipple, she nearly collapses back against the wall. The hard foam triangles that protrude from it push her back directly into Santana's wandering hand.
The gasp that comes in time with her suddenly weakening knees causes a moment's pause. Rachel utters an agonized moan as Santana's lips abruptly pull away from hers. Rachel's eyes open dizzily to rediscover Santana staring at her with an expression that is once both familiar and strange. Her lips are red and swollen, glistening with Rachel's own saliva.
Rachel is so drugged with want that it takes a moment of searching into Santana's nearly blown brown eyes to absorb her almost tentative hold around her waist and make actual sense of it.
"Santana…"
"Isn't this your cue to bail?" It's a throaty, soft whisper laced with a razor-sharp edge as Santana palms her breast so very gently. Rachel sucks in a noisy breath through her nose as she keens against the soft, rhythmic movement of Santana's thumb gently circles around her nipple.
"Santana," she rasps, as her eyes flutter and her insides boil.
Santana just looks at her. The expression she wears is familiar. It's the same one that seemed so unreadable the night of their first kiss and is now completely open and easy to understand. This woman's bitchy, uncaring mask has cracked away, and the result is absolutely haunting.
Santana's giving her an opportunity to leave. She's testing her. Fleeing is what Rachel's done before, in this same exact position.
It's ridiculous. Rachel has no idea how she would even begin to try to flee when every impulse inside her is telling her to stay, to love, to submit and to dominate.
Slender fingers drag across Santana's shoulders and curve over her back, until she runs into those long, dark curls that frame Santana's face so well and tangles them deliberately in her hands.
She makes no attempt to hide her hungry gaze, the way her tongue darts across her lips, or the way she pulls in ever so lightly, inching Santana closer against her until they're chest to heaving chest.
There's no room for escape. The spongy wall at her back, put in place to absorb sound, does its part to push her even further into Santana's firm, taut body. It's how Rachel wants it.
For all her high-school quips about Rachel's height, Santana is only a few inches taller than Rachel. She's smaller, decidedly feminine, such a contrast to every lover Rachel has ever had. The sinewy leanness of Santana's muscles contrasts with the softness of her full breasts, and Rachel has never been so aware of her attraction to them until they press up against her own.
"Kiss me," she whispers, grateful that for once it comes off as a demand and not a desperate plea. It might have become one if Santana had chosen that time to be difficult or resistant, but thankfully her gorgeous friend wastes no time. Hot lips slant over hers, and Rachel shudders, smile curving as those lips slide over hers again and again.
She offers her tongue, kissing Santana wetly.
"Fuck, Rachel," Santana groans, and Rachel hums at the way Santana says her name. Fingernails drag lightly against the sensitive skin at the base of Santana's sweaty neck. A growl erupts as Santana surges forward, open hands gripping fistfuls of fabric of Rachel's dress at her hips.
Santana, one of her best friends, the girl who once pressed her crotch to her ass in a drunken exasperated attempt to teach Rachel how to twerk, now rocks with her to a clumsy unheard beat, grinding into her body as their kisses grow deeper, hotter.
Somehow, Rachel's legs splay open and Santana, genius that she is, uses that opportunity to slide her thigh up against her core.
"GOD!" The pressure is relentless. Rachel groans, head falling back against the wall as she claws at Santana's neck. A dry chuckle vibrates against her. Rachel is not amused. "What?" she asks breathlessly. There is nothing funny about the way Santana's grinding so perfectly against her. Fuck. Nothing at all.
"It's just… I just… " Santana's labored words muffle against her skin. Hands spread broadly against her waist, and Rachel cradles the brunette head in her hands as Santana's forehead falls against her shoulder. The rhythm they fall into quickens, and Rachel can't stop her hips as they shift wantonly against the toned muscle of Santana's thigh. A heavy chuckle flutters across the skin of her chest, "I can't believe this is happening."
Teeth graze against her collarbone; a tongue drags against her skin. Rachel suppresses a shudder. "Oh yeah?"
Another harsh, throaty laugh is let loose, so drowned in lust Rachel can't help but drags her fingers pleadingly through that heavy, dark hair. "I've wanted you since-"
Her body arches. Rachel catches hold of Santana's chin, lifting up until she's smiling breathlessly into dark, riveting eyes. "Drew's party?" she asks knowingly.
Santana's lips press together, and her attention focuses instead on Rachel's cleavage, smoothing a finger across the sensitive skin, following the line of the dress as she skims across one pert bauble. "Maybe before then," she admits quietly.
It's a quiet revelation, but to Rachel, it feels like her very world has been shaken. In her arms is an amazingly fragile woman, with words that usually spark like flint, who has taken everything she's thought she's known and utterly dismantled it, dismantled her.
An open, wet mouth paints soft kisses along her collarbone, leaving moist skin that tingles in her wake. Rachel's eyes flutter as she struggles to maintain her focus.
"Santana…" she breathes, and listens with bated breath as Santana hums against her, teeth dragging over the top of her breast, as open hands press possessively to her waist, keeping her still. Rachel's fingers, still buried in that sweaty, beautiful hair, pull until Santana's mouth lifts off her skin.
Sparkling, hooded eyes just stare at her. Rachel confesses the only truth she knows. "I want you too."
It's not meant to be a trigger, just an admission. But her eyes water with her sincerity, because it's NOT just lust that she means, and she thinks Santana knows that.
She surges forward just as Santana's lips meet her halfway, moan buried in Santana's mouth. Her body reacts, hips shifting, bucking against the lean form. Her hands hold Santana's face, cradle it carefully as Santana's deep, intoxicating kisses grow possessive and more intense. Fingernails skim across her thighs, and suddenly hands are dragging up her body, taking the fabric of her dress with them.
Rachel has no complaints, and voices no displeasure at the way Santana's pulling her dress up over her until their kiss breaks, long enough for Rachel's dress to be dragged up over her head and tossed to the floor.
Rachel leans forward immediately; eager to recapture Santana's mouth with her own, but now Santana is distracted. "Fuck," she hears, and watches as Santana's eyes widen, gaze blanketing Rachel's exposed body with sheer want. "God, how the hell…"
"What?" she asks, breathless, but the curiosity flees as Santana's head lowers and suddenly the cup of her left breast is lifted and her nipple is covered by Santana's warm mouth. She feels the pressure of a tongue dragging flatly across it and her arms flail, before they land heavily on Santana's shoulders as her head reels back. "Santana-"
"Yes, Rachel?" she hears, and looks down dizzily to see that damn SMIRK that curls on Santana's mouth, just as her tongue swirls around the colored tip of her breast. "Something I can help you with?"
There's plenty. Rachel's body is throbbing. Her hips are now bucking desperately of their own accord, and the spongy triangles that cover the wall behind her dig into her bare back, causing an uncomfortable friction that would be distracting were it not for the rapt attention Santana's paying to her nipple.
Fingers slide teasingly behind her, until they reach around and work quickly at her bra clasp. Immediately, the straps loosen from around her shoulders, letting her breasts spill free.
It seems, the more naked Rachel is becoming, the lazier Santana is getting. Her bra dangles on her forearms, trapping her from doing anything but threading her fingers through Santana's already messy hair, eyes fluttering, pressing kisses against the top of Santana's head as Santana takes her time with her breasts, keeping her pressed against that fucking spongy wall.
She's not ready for the way Santana's hands press and massage their way down to her hips, until digits tuck under the waistband of her thong and with a sudden force, shoves them off her waist and down her thighs.
She's exposed, literally and figuratively, and drugged with lust and want and that emotion that comes from being mauled with affection, Rachel can't bring herself to care. Not when Santana's mouth lifts off her breast and begins to kiss and suckle at the skin underneath, dragging teeth along her sensitive stomach.
Strong hands push at her thighs. Rachel teeters dizzily on her heels as she rebalances herself, looks down her naked body to see the way Santana inhales against the sensitive indention of her hip. "God, Rachel."
"What?" she asks, oddly tender. She scratches lightly at Santana's hair, careful and gentle.
Santana shudders underneath her touch. That low moan escapes her again, and Rachel swallows hard as her hips buck in reaction.
"You smell amazing."
God. Rachel licks her lips, because she knows how wet she is… she can feel it… "Do I?" she asks. "Can you smell how wet I am for you?" There's no denying it, and there's no care to, not when Santana's fingers travel from her thigh to between her lips, dragging against her slit with such delicate exploration Rachel's knees buckle from it.
"I can feel it, too," Santana says, only barely audible above the blood that rushes in Rachel's ears. Rachel's teeth dig on her lip, her thighs quiver, and she wants so badly to let her head fall back and just FEEL the way Santana touches her.
She holds on, fingers slipping out of Santana's hair to brace herself on those strong shoulders, because she wants to look. Santana's dark eyes stare up at her with something like wonder, as if she can't quite believe – GOD –
Two fingers swirl around her clit easily; Rachel knows she's practically coating Santana's fingers. Her insides clench, because Santana's being SO DAMN DELICATE and…
She loses the battle. Her head falls back, all awareness lost but for the way Santana is exploring her.
"Santana," she manages, as those maddeningly light fingers press down firmly, slipping down until they're circling against her, pressed up just inside. "Please."
"Fuck, Rachel." Santana's voice is low… thick. "You want me this much?"
Any other time, Rachel may have laughed, because she's practically dripping on Santana's fingers, and quite close to teetering and breaking her ankle thanks to trying to balance on her heels with shaking legs. She's also reasonably sure she's never been this close to a heart attack.
But Santana's fingers linger, and the look on her face…
She's astounded.
Affection rushes through Rachel like a cascading wave. It stills her, quiets her need and makes her achingly aware of her beating heart, thumping almost painfully against her chest. Sucking in a deep, harsh breath, Rachel answers quietly, "Yeah baby, I want you…" She feels her body move, eyes fluttering as those fingers sink further inside her. "God, I want you so much."
And Santana stills, just short of filling her completely. "How much, Rachel?" she asks, full lips pressing lightly against her, teasing her sensitive skin and … fuck, Rachel wants her mouth. She wants her mouth…
But the image that Santana's presenting… it makes her want something else more. "How about I show you?" she asks, voice shaking only slightly before she gathers as much strength as she can and pulls Santana up. There's a mild protest, both from her own aching groin and Santana herself. She quiets both with a questing kiss that explores Santana's mouth with hunger and passion. The arguments die into groans, before Santana's kissing her back just as intimately, tongue rubbing eagerly against her as Rachel fumbles for the fabric at Santana's thighs.
The bouncy wall helps her now, as she pushes back against it and uses the adrenaline to send Santana sprawling back into her chair, her dress bunched up at her waist. Santana's flailing fingers hit something on her mixing board, and the music comes roaring back.
It's a synthesized techno beat that fills the room, and though it's not the sexy, haunting sweetness of Norah Jones, Rachel doesn't mind. It seems to fit, honestly. This music IS Santana now, a perfect storm of synthesized notes and pulses, creating a beautiful harmony that's unique. The beat courses through her in her veins, gives her a rhythm to move to as she straddles Santana and takes her mouth again. As they kiss, her fingers slide between them, a wide open palm skimming past the bunched up fabric and underneath silk, until she's dipping into Santana's wet, sensitive folds, and feeling the whimper that Santana moans against her mouth.
Two fingers slide into Santana, and that's how it begins: her first time with Santana happens in a studio, with music blaring so loudly it jars her ears, thumping time with her own heartbeat. The cacophony of sensation is like an orchestrated masterpiece, and she loves it.
She loves the burn in her forearm, the way Santana's nails scratch against her bicep and her shoulders, stinging welts that only make the moment that much more real and intense. She loves the harsh breathing that overtakes their kisses when the sensations prove too much. The mewl she lets out when Santana feverishly slides her own hand between Rachel's legs, and fucks her to Rachel's own rhythm.
There's nothing that exists but the music, the beat, and the intimacy of being buried in Santana at the exact moment Santana pushes inside of her. It's sex, but it's more. Sweat beads on Rachel's upper lip, and her eyes grow wet with moisture, because Santana is inside of her and around her, and sliding slick skin against her, and she can FEEL it in a way she's never felt anything before.
Her orgasm hits her with the high of a perfect performance, but there is no spotlight and Rachel isn't alone on a stage. She collapses with fingers surrounded with twitching muscles and the ache of Santana's fingers inside of her, naked in a chair, wrapped around her best friend and engulfed in the music.
Her heart races, her eyes flutter, and Rachel's lips press breathlessly against a salty, sweaty neck.
It feels like home.
When Rachel closes her eyes, she imagines herself transported through time. She hears the soft growl of the engines as cars sweep by on the streets below and imagines lying alone on soft sheets, curtains surrounding her instead of walls. She imagines the soft coughs and low whispers of sounds that float through fabric, and struggles to imagine the scent and the coolness of these sheets had another body not been sharing them with her.
But then she registers the soft skin of Santana blanketing her naked body with a delicious heat that leaves her both oddly sated and curiously wanting more. Rachel wonders, for perhaps the tenth time since this evening took a lustful turn, if this was in any way possible all that time ago, when they were nobodies and aspiring stars and roommates.
Maybe it was, way back then.
Her eyes flutter as Santana presses soft, suckling kisses on the curve of her neck, hands possessive as fingertips calloused from mixing board buttons and keyboards skim tender along the sensitive underside of her breast. She lets out a low, soft moan. Rachel decides it doesn't matter if it could have happened. Because it has happened right now.
She turns into Santana's slender arms and opens her lips hungrily against her lover's (is that odd? To consider Santana that already?). She thought it would be odd, to bury herself closer and feel soft skin instead of the maleness of body hair, to feel the drag of breasts smashing softly against her own and the wetness of a woman's arousal painting against her lower thigh as she shifts in Santana's arms.
It doesn't. Rachel feels… safe. Relieved. Enchanted.
Maybe there are no curtains, but the walls are stronger and do their part to block out the world. Rachel wants nothing more than to exist in this vacuum for as long as possible.
The buzzing of her cellphone, however, seems determined to provide the intrusion. "Augh," she groans, huffing against Santana's addictive mouth when it again begins to vibrate insistently against Santana's wooden night stand.
Santana's lips pull back only slightly, ghost against hers as she asks in a low, rough tone, "Who is it?"
Rachel doesn't know and doesn't want to care. She sighs, forehead tilting against Santana's brow as she reaches up and presses her palm flat against Santana's cheek. "Probably JoAnn," she surmises softly and doesn't bother to check. "Calling to yell at me about how I ended things with Troy."
The name of her very recent ex causes the woman in her arms to stiffen slightly. Addicted, Rachel only shifts in closer against Santana's naked form, hooking her calf over Santana's to keep her intimately close. Santana's fingers skim against her forehead, dragging a lock of hair away that covers her eye. "Don't tell me you regret it."
That Santana would even begin to think that after the last couple of hours is almost amusing. "Are you kidding?" she asks. The sheets are rumpled, but she's beginning to feel the chill of the night, and finds herself burrowing further into Santana's arms, unable to resist planting a couple tender kisses along the crest of Santana's brow, the bridge of her nose, and finally into the soft pillow of her lips before she readjust herself to settle against the other woman's collarbone. From here, she can feel the low thump of Santana's heartbeat, bumping up at her from underneath Santana's skin. "The only thing I regret is not doing it sooner." It's slightly sobering to realize that she's utterly sincere.
The phone buzzes, and Rachel's jaw hardens.
Fingers thread through her wild, sweaty hair, before skimming along the raised skin of her naked back. "Why didn't you do it sooner?"
It's a valid question. Rachel isn't sure why it causes her throat to close up the way it does. "I guess I was afraid."
The fingers that were only touching lightly now settle flat against the small of her back, keeping her closely curled into Santana. Rachel has no complaints. "I guess I know something about that," she hears in a heavy sigh.
It's must be just before dawn. She and Santana have slept together after weeks of both denial and dancing around their flirtation and attraction. Now, she's sticky and sweaty and the room smells like sex. Her body is plastered against Santana's, the taste of her lingers on her mouth. Her muscles ache with the best kind of satisfaction, and her lips are swollen with Santana's kisses.
There still has been no actual conversation, and it bothers Rachel. Isn't that what she would do normally? Discuss what's happened? What's changed? Process and absorb it?
God, is that a really lesbian thing to want to do?
She can't help herself. Feeling oddly shaken, Rachel swallows hard, breathes deep through her nose and reaches for Santana's hand, playing idly with her fingers, locking and detaching in distraction. "Do you want to talk about this?"
The body beneath her shifts, letting the sheet that only half covers them fall until Santana's entire torso is bared. She's beautiful in this moonlight, absolutely gorgeous, ravished and sated. Rachel presses a soft, suckling kiss against Santana's dark nipple, teasing around it with her tongue. Santana's body slowly arches underneath her mouth, exhaling raggedly. "Doesn't feel like you want to," she breathes.
Rachel's next kiss lingers, seemingly proving Santana's point as she opens her mouth over the full breast and tastes the salty skin, feeling the nipple harden in her mouth. She shudders, feels her heart pound, and she lifts her head. Dark, hooded eyes study her intently. "Only about the way you make me feel," she whispers quietly.
Santana absorbs that, and seems to accept it. Fingers play against her nape, keeping her close, reverent of the moment. "How do I make you feel, Rachel?" Santana asks, as if this isn't the question that Rachel has been avoiding forever.
Rachel wonders how she can be so sure of Santana's feelings when she's never had to use words at all. Santana's always used words but they've never been what she's actually meant. They felt like code, told beneath the icy insults and warm warms.
Sometimes Rachel still gets so stuck in the Santana she remembers from high school, who was so terrified and in the closet, denying anything and everything that would show even a glimmer into her true self.
Rachel remembers once, after Brittany and Santana officially came out as a couple and were nominated for Prom King and Queen respectively, Brittany bragging to Quinn that she had always known that once Santana stopped hiding and showed who she really was, everyone would love her like Brittany did.
Rachel was amused at the time when Brittany also said that had she known how much the online lesbians would love Santana, she would have been a little less enthusiastic about releasing that sex tape.
She's not laughing now. Not a tiny bit. Santana, who expresses herself with music and emotions shown in those deep, brown eyes, seems impossible not to love. It makes Rachel ache, how impossible it all is.
She presses against Santana's ribs, lingering as she lifts up and resettles herself on top of Santana, chin resting delicately against her friend's chest to regard her and her haunting beauty. "You make me feel like a song, Santana," she admits quietly, and she feels more than naked. "Like a delicious harmony."
She deserves a kiss after that, she knows she does, but even as she reaches up, Santana avoids her mouth. She offers instead a smirk and a press of her index finger against Rachel's lips, halting her progress. "If this is your way of getting another song out of me then I'mma need to refer you to my agents."
"Shut up," she whispers, laughing as she says it, "You know what I'm talking about." She determinedly swats Santana's hand away and gets her kiss, deep and wet and so hungry she feels the arousal that has been simmering in the background of her mind come full force with an ache between her legs and a stammering beat of her heart.
Her hips thrust instinctively. Santana follows suit, and Rachel groans at the sensation. There's temptation to let her hands wander to the distracting wetness that she can feel against her thigh. Santana's moans are like tinder to her lustful spark.
But Rachel's insecurities resurface like a bad habit, and it causes her to grab hold of the hands that are now wandering down her chest and tangle them in her own, pinning them on either side of Santana's body. Santana allows it, eyes glittering up at her as Rachel straddles her, letting her brown locks sweep down around them like a curtain, providing yet one more measure of privacy from the outside world. "Don't you?" she asks softly.
Santana's head falls back to the pillow. She looks contemplative in the quiet. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't." Rachel's smile twitches with a bittersweet smile, but Santana just continues, "I mean, don't get me wrong, there's a part of me that keeps wanting to scream internally because it's Rachel Berry that's doing this to me…" she punctuates that with a slight buck of her hips, and it's very clear what 'this' is. Rachel bites down on her lip and forces her hips to keep from responding in kind. "But… it's been a long time since I was that scared little girl in high school, Rachel."
That's true. It was both surprising and yet not to realize that Santana's meanness stemmed from all that fear she was living in. The woman she has become, with her tattoos and her wild dark hair and her music, is poised and … not quite sweet but… human. Deliciously brave.
It makes Rachel feel silly, inconsequential in comparison. "I'm still scared, I guess."
Santana's lips press together, her expression unreadable. Her fingers tighten on Rachel's keeping her still. "Of course you are, Rachel," she whispers, kinder than Rachel might expect. "As an adult, there's lot more to be scared of. Especially in this fucked up industry."
It's ridiculously wise, considering the source.
"And how do you handle it?" Rachel asks, eyes on their fingers as they skim and swirl against each other's, tiny intimate touches that seems so powerful and sweet.
Santana shrugs, content, it seems, to let Rachel play as she settles back against the bed, chest lifting up and down with her even breaths. "I just lock myself in that room, and I get lost in the music, and that big scary world seems … I dunno… a little smaller."
Rachel's reminded vividly of earlier this evening, and the way she found Santana, locked in her studio with the blasting speakers, listening to their song, lost in the thought that once again Rachel flew away from this.
It seems too ridiculous now to consider in the wake of what's happened since then, but Rachel knows herself. There's a phone buzzing on a dresser and there's Troy to consider and a single that's about to be released and a career she's put aside for the pleasure of Santana.
The fear isn't as far away as she wishes it would be. Rachel's fingers clench, tug lightly until she brings their entwined hands between them, locked together at Santana's chest.
"Can it be just me and you for a little while longer?" she asks, soft and scared.
Santana's breath exhales, floating lightly across her fingertips. "Is that what you want?" she asks, and Rachel knows Santana understands what she's asking.
"Just for now," she promises, and opens their arms, providing space for her to lean down, press a long, gentle kiss against Santana's jaw, her collarbone, her cheek. "Just me and you," she whispers, nearly begging, because she can't take not having this.
Santana's mouth opens under hers. Rachel's tongue sweeps against her mouth, dipping in to rub against Santana's, licking at her teeth and sucking hard. Her heart trembles.
Long seconds later, she breaks the hungry kiss to press her mouth to Santana's beating pulse. "Okay," she hears, and the blood rushes in her ears as her fingers boldly spread against Santana's chest, journeying south. "Just me and you," Santana agrees, and sighs as Rachel's fingers slide easily inside of her. "Just for now."
It's a promise. Rachel bites down on Santana's tender skin, thankful for walls instead of curtains, and a buzzing phone instead of a ringing one.
She's awoken from deep sleep by the shift of Santana beside her. Rachel's focus is bleary, awareness almost painful. Light streams through Santana's curtains and it makes her wince and groan unintentionally.
The movement against her pauses. Rachel takes the opportunity to snuggle into Santana's shoulder blades, scrunching her eyes shut. Her arms wrap tight around the warm torso, tangling fingers at Santana's flat tummy.
She feels the rumble of a chuckle underneath her touch. "Good morning."
It's morning.
"Augh no," she growls, pityingly pathetic. "No good morning."
"No?"
"Mmm-mmm," she says, and tangles her legs with Santana, holding her lover hostage. Santana seems to offer no complaint, bringing her palms to rest over Rachel's, allowing her to have her childish moment.
"Since when are you not a morning person, Berry?" comes the low, husky observation.
It's more than that, really, but still caught in a half dizzy sleepy haze, Rachel has no capacity to offer more than, "Mornings suck."
Of course she doesn't always feel that way. Rachel has always been quite disciplined about getting up for her morning workouts. Maybe if they were in some far off cabin in the wilderness, with beautiful sparrows tweeting their morning songs and the rush of the nearby river providing a sweet harmony along with the strong and bitter smell of coffee tingling her nostrils, she may feel differently, but…
But no. They are in New York, and though Rachel loves New York and knows that it is home to her, the only cooing birds are pigeons (she hates pigeons), and the only rush she hears is that of the morning traffic on the streets below. Coffee? Well that's more reasonable, but Rachel finds her addiction is tempered in the face of her more pressing need to stay in bed with Santana.
Years ago, she and Santana's friendship had involved physical affection, but it was platonic. Touching became sweet and comfortable, and more than once Rachel found herself thoughtlessly reaching for Santana's fingers to pull her with her or to find a special sort of comfort. In the strange city of New York, Rachel knew that the affectionate nudges of Santana and even Kurt could mean the world.
It was something she realized she had sorely come to miss.
To remember where she has come from, and realize where she is now, is sobering. Rachel presses her cheek against the back of Santana's shoulder and rubs her face against the soft skin. She's warm and safe, and for the first time in months, utterly sure of her place and her feelings.
It's an overwhelming realization, made even sweeter when Santana reaches back with her hand and lifts her chin, until their mouths are meeting in a lingering kiss.
Rachel's heart jumpstarts into an excited pattering. She shifts her position, leaning up until she can deepen the kiss, press Santana back further into her pillows.
"Rachel…"
Rachel's mouth lingers, pressing tiny bits of pressure against Santana's upper lip. "What?" she asks, tone lower than she expects it, stirrings of arousal guiding her as she feels the way Santana responds to her, uttering soft huffs of sweet lust, arching delicately into her.
"I need to pee."
It takes a moment to register the clearly pained and conflicted comment. Rachel blinks for a moment, and releases a mixture of a groan and a chuckle that works its way out of her throat. With a bitten in sigh, Rachel presses another open-mouthed kiss to Santana's neck, and then grudgingly untangles herself, setting her hostage free.
The impromptu make out session has given her back her alertness, at least. But the laziness is slower to dissipate. The bed still holds Santana's warmth, and Rachel is in no mood to do anything but settle back, head resting on her palm as her eyes linger appreciatively on the view she's presented. It's a thrill to have this permission to stare unabashedly. Even as roommates, Santana was never shy with her body, but Rachel, unused to Cheerios locker rooms or Santana's own body confidence, never allowed herself to really look.
She's determined to make up for lost time, because honestly, it's a shame that she didn't. Her lover slips out of the bed and pads across the wooden floor like it's a sexy sort of runway. Santana's nude body is all tan skin and lean muscle.
It's a sight to behold. The petty part of Rachel feels oddly primal: there are bruises that mar Santana's back, throat and chest, dark spots on the tan skin that are reminders of the passionate night between them.
Rachel's fingers tighten against the sheets, teeth pressing achingly against her lip as Santana turns and catches her staring. In the midst of pulling on a tiny, silk robe, Santana runs her fingers through her wild dark hair, doing very little to tame it, and offers her a raised brow that shouldn't be nearly as sexy as it is. "You're drooling, Rachel."
Unashamed, Rachel just offers a self-satisfied hum. "Can you blame me? Look at you."
"I prefer my view, thanks."
Language is a funny thing. It's just a sentence, but coupled with the hooded lust that darkens Santana's gaze, the way Rachel allows her to look, and hungrily looks back…
All night wasn't enough.
And then comes the buzzing. Rachel blinks away her haze, unable to comprehend at first that it is in fact her phone, and that the damn thing has a battery that's seemingly never running out.
"Okay, you have to deal with that shit because it's annoying," she hears, and grumbles her agreement. She's cut off when Santana suddenly leans forward on the bed, shifting the balance and letting Rachel settle into her lips with a soft, lingering kiss.
It's electrifying. Rachel hums in pleasure, eyes floating shut as she opens her mouth enthusiastically and reaches up to slide her hand against Santana's nape, extending the kiss. "One more," she bargains the moment Santana tries to pull away, and smirks at the playful roll of Santana's eyes. It works though, and she's given another deeper, longer kiss that's somehow sweeter in comparison.
"Answer your phone," Santana mumbles against her mouth. "And then you can join me in the shower."
Another playful swat and Santana's on her way, rounding the bed and stopping by the dresser to grab hold of the offending phone, tossing it pointedly on the bed.
Rachel is left alone, naked on the sheets with a phone that looks like a stain on the white sheets, black and blotchy with its arrogance. It's the outside world, insisting to be let back in.
It's easier to feel petulant and stubborn right now than be an adult.
When she answers that phone, there will be conversation, decisions, anger and accusations. There will be press statements and strategy, and unsolicited advice that Rachel is very sure will lead to her publicist and her manager advising her quite strongly that the closet is a very attractive place to be in for a celebrity on the rise.
Then will come the part where she has to explain all of that to Santana, who has already burst open her closet door, is out and proud and can't even walk next to a gorgeous woman without the tabloids talking about it.
How can she even begin to have that discussion with her team when she hasn't really talked to Santana about what this night even means?
And Troy. God. At some point she'll have to work out how to even begin moving Troy out of her condo and out of her life. Because they've been together for years and the shit storm that will hit now that they've broken up…
Rachel's heartbeat thuds painfully in her chest, and she casts another longing look to the closed bedroom door.
The phone goes still. Rachel curls her knees up against her body and waits. On cue, it immediately begins to buzz again.
God, okay.
Her fingers close around the cell phone, and with a soldiering, steadying breath, Rachel licks her lips, curls the sheets around her naked waist, and takes the call.
"Hi, JoAnn," she begins, as polite as she can. The sinking optimist in Rachel hopes that JoAnn will be amused by this whole thing. It's a long shot but-
"Where the FUCK have you been?" she hears, and winces in reaction. Definitely not amused. "Do you have any idea how many times I've called you?"
Rachel runs her tongue over her bottom lip and resists the urge to fine out. "I haven't actually checked," Rachel admits, "But a fair amount, I imagine."
There's a pause, like JoAnn isn't quite sure what to do with her dry reply. "God-dammit, Rachel."
And that's how Rachel knows it's bad. JoAnn has never sounded this actively disappointed. Rachel's stomach turns. Her fingers twist over each other. "Look, I know I should have talked to you about dumping Troy, but honestly, it was my decision and –"
"And what?" JoAnn snaps, cutting into her decidedly firm statement. "You couldn't wait a fucking day to talk to me about it?"
She feels a twinge of annoyance, and is grateful for it. "You're not my life coach, JoAnn," she responds, voice raising. "You're my publicist!"
"No fucking shit, Rachel," JoAnn sneers. "And you're my client," she continues, sounding out the hard C like a curse word. "Which means you pay me to guide your career, find you work, and raise your profile. All of which I'm more than happy to do, unless you FUCK IT!"
A knot of emotion works its way into a lump in Rachel's throat, making it physically painful to swallow. Rachel pushes off the bed. "It's just a break up!" she insists. Agitation is beginning to take hold. Suddenly, Rachel is no longer comfortable with her nakedness. She searches for her clothing. "And I'd like to think I have more going for me right now than just my relationship with an alcoholic serial cheater."
"Well thanks to the shit you've pulled, Rachel, right now your relationship is all anyone cares about," JoAnn spits, and doesn't wait for Rachel to even begin to process that before she continues, "You haven't checked TMZ or the Blogs or Google News or Buzzfeed, have you? Of course you haven't," she rambles on, before Rachel can get a word in, "How about you check your email, Super Star?"
And no, that's not good. That's never good.
Rachel forgets about her clothes. She forgets to even breathe. Sinking down on the edge of Santana's bed in a room that still smells like sweat and sex and perfume, Rachel puts her phone on speaker and turns the device in her hands. Her fingers shake despite her determination when she sees at a least a dozen emails from JoAnn, her agents, and various friends that are bold and unread. Rachel opens the latest one, and sees the Google Alerts headline:
'TROY ROSS ARRESTED FOR DRUNK DRIVING', it says. Rachel's jaw tightens. She forces herself to keep reading. 'TROY ROSS BLAMES RACHEL BERRY'S LESBIAN FLING FOR RELAPSE.'
With an unsteady sigh and blurry vision, Rachel pushes out a hot breath and clicks on the link to bring up a TMZ video link that begins to load and play. Rachel's ears pound, but she manages to hear the story, told gleefully by the reporter, of Troy being caught in a speed trap and being arrested for driving under the influence. And yes, of course, paparazzi are there, because they're the ones that followed him from the party at Santana Lopez's known flat. They keep the camera on him as the police try and push them away, and Troy states in a bold, angry, drunken slur that Rachel's his fucking problem because she fucked him over by leaving him for that 'fucking dyke DJ'.
The phone falls from her fingers, cushioned when it lands on Santana's expensive comforter. "Oh my God," she whispers, because it's bad. She knows it's terrible.
"Yeah, Rachel, let that sink in." JoAnn's voice is tinny and muffled as it blasts from the speaker. "Your alcoholic ex-boyfriend has basically told the entire world that you dumped him for a famous slutty lesbian and broke his heart, forcing him into a relapse."
Rachel has no words. The bed, previously so warm and comfortable, feels suddenly awkward and stifling. Rachel pushes unsteadily to her feet, and forces herself to breathe, push back against the nauseous feeling that paralyzes her.
"Rachel…" JoAnn's voice continues to bleat at her, and Rachel's eyes shut tight as her fingers dig into her hair, pulling tight as she struggles to get her screaming mind to stop for even just a moment. "Tell me that that isn't what actually happened."
She takes comfort in habit, and shifts her cellphone off speaker to bring it up to her ear, doing her best to just breathe. "It's…" Rachel finds the large mirror that stands in Santana's room, offering her a blatant view of her naked, thoroughly fucked body; the visible marks on her neck and her thigh, the rumpled bed behind her. "It's not what it sounds like," she manages wildly, unsure if she's trying to convince JoAnn or herself. "It's not like that. Santana and I care about each other-"
A loud rush of breath crackles noise through her phone, pounding her eardrums painfully. "God-dammit, Rachel, you're fucking smarter than this. Do you think the press is gonna give a shit about whether or not you're in LOVE?" Rachel's chest constricts, and she tries to force herself to breathe as she tears her eyes away from the mirror. "Do you think you and Troy's fans will? As far as anyone is concerned, you're the bitch who broke his heart and ruined his career."
"That's not fair!" she snaps heatedly. "I didn't put the drink in his hand, JoAnn. I didn't ASK him to show up last night. I'm the idiot who stood by him every time he cheated-"
"Uh-huh, and when that married director got caught with his tongue down Kristin Stewart's throat or Robin Thicke practically got his dick sucked on stage by Miley Cyrus while his wife and kid watched, who did the media blame? Here's a hint, Rachel – it wasn't the guy."
Rachel feels the sudden urge to sob. Her anger is real. Her desperation is real, and it's all coming at her in a place where she thought, for once, she was safe.
"This is so stupid," she manages. An evening making love to her best friend shouldn't END like this.
"If I agree with you, will you calm down and listen to me?" Rachel's uneven breathing shudders, but she nods quietly. JoAnn must take her silence as agreement, because she continues. "Tell me the truth. I know you sublet Santana's apartment. Did Santana spend the night with you?"
Rachel's eyes close in helpless resignation. "She's in the bathroom."
"Fuck."
Rachel's heart leaps, and she sucks in her breath. "JoAnn… Look, whatever's going on with Santana and me… the press doesn't have to know right away, okay? It's not like we're ready to go public. And Santana's already agreed to keep this to ourselves for now, so... It's fine." As soon as those words leave her mouth, Rachel knows it's exactly the wrong thing to say.
"IT'S FINE?"
"In a month no one will care!" she snaps, and desperately hopes it's true. It has to be.
But JoAnn huffs and laughs horribly. "Rachel, there are ten thousand pictures of you two at your stupid party last night all over Instagram and Twitter. So thanks to your gossipy castmates, the press already knows that Santana's in town, and they know you're staying at her loft, and they know that Troy left last night and YOU and Santana didn't. So excuse my language, but you're a fucking idiot if you think that they haven't put it together that you're right there right now with her."
That horrible, horrible feeling that has cramped Rachel's chest and constricted it to the point of choking, tightens even more and forces a dreadful gasp out of her. With wooden feet, Rachel stumbles to the window, and flutters the curtain to look down below.
Like blotchy bugs on pavement, she sees a crowd of men, scrunched together with cameras and backwards baseball caps, chewing on hot dogs and sitting on the stoop as if they're tailgating for the Yankee's game.
The horror is overwhelming. "JoAnn they're outside."
"Of course they're outside," JoAnn snaps.
Rachel's eyes shut tight; her head falls against the wall, and she clutches her phone, currently her only life line against this nightmare. "JoAnn, tell me what to do."
"Get the fuck out of there," is the immediate response. "I came into town early this morning, and there's a car outside of your place waiting for you. You will get into the car, come to me, and then we will deal with this."
Rachel nods violently, turns and then immediately stops when she discovers Santana, beautiful, gorgeous Santana, standing just inside the doorway, arms crossed and brown eyes dark and full of obvious concern.
Rachel wants so badly to just crumble. "Santana," she begins.
"FORGET Santana," JoAnn shouts, and it makes her jump. "Right now, you can't afford to think about Santana, Rachel. Just get out of there, you can worry about Santana later, once I talk to her team and figure out how to spin this."
The call disconnects, and leaves her with nothing but empty silence and the weight of Santana's stare.
Rachel has no idea what to do.
"Are you okay?" she hears, just above the buzzing in her ears. Rachel's eyes lift, catch the way her friend stands awkwardly, hauntingly beautiful with her hair damp and that silk kimono clinging to every single curve thanks to her wet skin.
It makes her ache, and suddenly Rachel wants very badly to forget JoAnn, forget that car, to bury herself in Santana's arms, and just like she did last night, lost herself in Santana's comfrot… push all of this away.
Her eyes water as she feels the crushing pressure on her chest. "Santana-"
"You're not the only one who got a call from their publicist, Rachel," Santana says. Rachel's eyes shift and catch Santana phone in her hand. She's got a tight frown, and it's then that Rachel realizes there is no going back. Even Santana has been affected by this…
Nothing is going to be the same, and nothing is going to be just for them… not anymore.
The panic pushes her into mobility. "I need to go," she breathes, awkward as hell in her nakedness as she rounds the bed, eyelids lowered as she curves around Santana and heads for the studio across the hall. "JoAnn's sent a car for me and she wants me to meet her so she can figure this out-"
She finds her dress, scattered over Santana's sound board and reaches for it, eyes searching wildly for where her bra may have landed. She dimly registers Santana leaning across the doorway. "Rachel."
Rachel's nearly trips as she tries to slip on her heels, and her head drops in frustration because WHAT IS SHE DOING?! She's been living here for weeks. She has other clothes. Quickly, she lets the shoes fall back and turns abruptly, once again shoving past Santana to get to the bedroom.
"Rachel!"
She makes it to the dresser, half stuffed with her clothes, because like an idiot, Rachel's made herself at home in Santana's apartment. She struggles to step into a pair of clean panties.
The pressure of a warm hand slides on her shoulder, and Rachel finds herself reacting immediately, whirling and knocking the contact away. "It's all gone to shit, Santana!" Her eyes are wild, her movements shaky, and still Santana just stares at her, with those full lips and deep, concerned brown eyes. "And there's paparazzi outside and … it's just all gotten fucked."
Dark eyes flicker past Rachel to the open window and back again, before Rachel hears a heavy breath and once again, those tempting hands are sliding over her shoulders, drawing her in. "Hey…" Rachel's eyes flutter as soft lips brush comfortingly along her temple, and suddenly she's helpless, leaning into Santana's damp frame, breathing in the clean skin and the scent of her Neutrogena body wash. "Rachel… Look, it's not that bad."
Rachel feels herself stiffen. "Not that bad?!"
Santana remains infuriatingly stoic, giving her nothing more than a soft shrug as Rachel pulls back. "It's just press, Rachel. It'll blow over."
And this is what has always been infuriating about Santana: her willingness to just… dismiss things as simple, no matter how complicated they could actually be. "It's not just press, Santana," she snaps, brushing off Santana's embrace more roughly than she initially intends. "This is… this is my reputation." Santana's lips press together in reaction, but she keeps her hands to herself and Rachel feels her face flame with annoyance. "This is my career. The entire country thinks I'm a cheating …"
"… lesbian?" Santana asks, with a pointed arc of her brow that makes Rachel immediately flush. "Cause that's fucking terrible."
"Stop it," she breathes, but turns away anyway, finding a bra and clumsily sliding the straps over her shoulders. "You know I didn't mean it like that."
She's not sure Santana does know that, especially given the way Santana just watches her, arms crossed and mouth closed as Rachel fumbles with the clasp and finally succeeds in snapping it closed.
The room is quiet, and Rachel hates it. Her heart won't stop its furious beating, and she finds she can barely look at the woman in the room with her or that beautiful bed growing cold with its rumpled sheets and ghost of sweet respite.
She's grabbing a dress from the wardrobe when she hears, "Look Rachel, I get it, okay?" Rachel swallows, but continues to try and unzip the dress with her trembling fingers. "It sucks. I know it does. And it's not like I like being in the media like this either..." Rachel pauses and forces herself to breathe, suck in the air and release it again, as she turns and offers Santana wounded, worried eyes. Santana's hair is dripping, soaking into the shoulders of her kimono. She's make up free, beautiful face bare and open, with a tentative half-smile that pulls on her upper lip. "But at least we're in this together."
There's a lilt in Santana's tone, a terrified sweetness that touches a part of Rachel that wants desperately to be left alone right now. And yet it affects her. Rachel finds her hands stilling as she observes this woman, her best friend, her lover…
"Are we?" she finds herself asking, and then swallows hard as Santana lets out a sigh and uncrosses her arms. "Santana, we haven't even really talked about what any of this means…"
"It means we like each other," Santana answers, firm and quick. After a moment, in the face of Rachel's uneasy stare, Santana's expression breaks, softens. "Enough to maybe try and face this together."
The panic that tickles the edges of Rachel's brain leaps forward like that last word is a trigger and Rachel bites her lip in conflict. "Santana… we can't just… come out like that," she manages, whispering the words like the pariahs outside can actually hear them. "Okay? Everyone's going to think –"
"Everyone already thinks that you left Troy for me," Santana interrupts, and Rachel winces. "And honestly, didn't you?"
Rachel did. She knows she did. If her words haven't proven it, she's well aware that her actions have. She's delivered promises with her mouth and her fingers, with intimate embraces and the sweetness of her laughter mingled with Santana in the stillness of dawn.
And it's the truth. A fantasy with Troy will never compare to the reality with Santana. And yet…
Rachel shudders, eyes dropping down. "JoAnn thinks we should lay low," she whispers.
"Fuck JoAnn, Rachel!" Santana huffs, and Rachel finds herself wincing. Fingers drift towards her own, digits tangling as she feels the soft skin palm hers. "Rachel," she hears, as an index finger tilts her chin up, forcing her to stare at the most beautiful and most terrifying woman in the world. Dark eyes search her own intensely. "What do you think?"
It would be so easy right now, to forget it all. Forget the reporters and the stories and the paps and to just move one step forward… bury her lips in Santana's, let every emotion come flooding back and remind her that THIS is worth fighting for. It's what her heart wants… to take comfort in what Santana is offering, to prove to her that love is enough and that they will make it.
But the fear doesn't recede. It whispers to her like a ghost, reminds her of her ambition and how DIFFICULT this journey has been… how close she's come…
And why can't they wait? Why does the choice have to happen now, with her heart beating so fast she feels like she's going to keel over? This isn't one of Quinn's obviously terrible romance novels… this is their reality.
She says the words before she can stop herself. "I think I want a career, Santana." It sinks into the space between them, and it's terrible, TERRIBLE to see how it affects Santana. Those dark brown eyes grow wounded, a millisecond before they harden and then Santana's flinching away from her, and Rachel finds herself spurred into chasing her. "Look, it's different for you, okay?" she begins, desperate for Santana to understand. "You're practically A-list! You're a rock star, and you've gotten star billing on your own movies, and you're already OUT!" The tears have begun to tumble over, stain her cheek. She wipes them away with no thought to them at all. "Me? I'm lucky to get a featured role on some USA show, and I'm fighting with Laura Benanti for every Broadway role ever, and up until now, everyone's seen me as straight- I've just been outed to entire country-"
"So what?" But Santana whirls, advancing upon her so quickly Rachel finds her excuses dying in her throat. "I wouldn't understand? Did you forget Rachel, that I was outed as a teenager to the entire fucking state thanks to YOUR fucking ex-fiance?"
Rachel's mouth is dry. She can only stand while Santana snaps at her, finger pointed accusingly. "No, I haven't."
"Or what about the fact that my ex-girlfriend released our very own sex tape when I was still a minor?" Santana continues, ignoring her tiny objection. "A sex-tape that still gets waved in my face to this day?"
Rachel hasn't forgotten. She remembers it now, every instance Santana brought it up to laugh it off, because if not someone else would bring it up first. She recalls every moment some drunken frat boy came up to her friend at work and obnoxiously asked her if she tastes as good as she looks. She remembers the defensiveness, the rudeness that Santana would have to employ just to ward off the gaggle of men who looked at her and saw a porn star; a slut.
Santana's mouth trembles, the only sign she's giving of any sort of weakness. "I was just a kid, Rachel," she whispers, and when her voice trembles Rachel finds her heart actually breaking. "But you?" she adds, a sneer emerging on that full upper lip. "You're an adult. You had every choice here. So yeah, I get that you're scared, but you're not alone in this unless you want to be…"
"I'm allowed to be SCARED, Santana."
"SO FUCKING FACE it, Rachel."
Rachel feels the shame in the flush that tickles up her neck, flushing her hot and deep. She remains rooted to the spot, eyes locked on Santana as the other woman just stares at her, searching for… whatever she needs to find.
Santana doesn't find it, because those proud shoulders fall, and those eyes grow moister still as she shakes her head in what can only be disgust, and adds "Just… grow the hell up."
For some reason, that sentence wounds her more than anything. There is no safe place here… not anymore. Santana's closed herself off, and Rachel feels the chill burning her as hotly as a searing hot flame.
"This was a mistake," she mumbles, unable to say anything else.
"Yeah I think it was."
She looks up, miserable as she looks at proud Santana, so beautiful and angry as she swivels on her bare feet and stalks out of the bedroom. Rachel's hands ball into fists. She sucks in a deep breath and tries to remind herself that Santana is hurt and angry, and has every reason to be. And honestly, Santana using her words to sting her aren't new… it's what Santana does when she's like this.
It's just never been directed at her… not this harshly… not since high school.
And since then, Rachel's become intimately familiar with the gentle pressure of her kiss, the warmth of her embrace, the sweetness of her smile and the glow of her heart…
God, Santana doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve anything but pride… affection…
Rachel wipes furiously at the tears that immediately trail down her cheeks. It seems fruitless. She's lost her strength and it's a struggle to finish dressing.
Santana may have left the room, but she's left her phone left behind, and when it begins buzzing, Rachel can't help but look at the screen. Blinking at her in text, signifying the incoming caller, is the name QUINN FABRAY.
The lump in Rachel's throat grows painful. Taking in a shaky but valiant breath, Rachel pushes open the bedroom door and finds Santana seated in her studio, staring motionlessly at her mixing board.
"Quinn likes you."
Santana doesn't move. When she does, it's to stare at her with obvious bewilderment. "What?"
The words taste like sand in her mouth, but Rachel struggles onward, wrapping her arms around her chest and sucking in a harsh breath for strength. "Quinn… " she tries again, unsteady as she continues. "She told me she likes you. She wants you and she's not…"
Santana's dark eyes pin her with her glare, and Rachel's sentence dies in her throat. The way Santana's stare glitters at her feels like a dagger digging into her chest. "What the hell are you trying to say, Rachel?" she asks, angrily bewildered. "You're trying to hook me up with Quinn right now?" Her tone rises, clearly losing any battle for anger that she may have had. "After having fucked me all night? In this fucking chair?"
She's yelling, and Rachel flushes miserably, glancing away for fear the tears stinging in her eyes will give her away. "That's not what I'm trying to do…" she answers, as carefully as she can. "I just… I care about you… You deserve something real and –"
"And it's not going to happen with you." Rachel's knees grow weak, and she can do nothing but breathe in a terribly painful bite of breath, watching as Santana's anger fades into something much worse. "I get it."
She broke her heart. Rachel can't stand it. "Santana," she tries, faltering forward despite herself. "Please."
But Santana is already on her feet, hands up in warning, halting her progress. "No," she snaps, face flashing with disdain. "FUCK you, Rachel."
Rachel battles herself not to crumble. She made her choice, she knows she did. And the consequence is this: Santana's anger, Santana's hurt… Santana's heartbreak manifested in her own vicious words.
"It's just… it's so stupid because you really are just another Hollywood bitch, aren't you?" The chuckle that floats out of Santana is broken and terrible to listen to. Rachel wants to open her mouth and argue – she's NOT like them, but the words get stuck at the look Santana gives her. "And the stupid thing is I knew better. I always knew you were this ambitious… one of the reasons we even bonded in the first place was because were both cutthroat bitches who would fuck over their best friend to get ahead but I never… " A noisy breath sucks in through Santana's nose as she shakes her head at her own naivety. "I never thought it'd actually happen. That you'd actually do it to me. Not after…"
Rachel loses her control and tries once again. "Santana, that's not what this is!"
"Whatever," Santana answers, a moment later. "It's your loss. You wanted a career boost? You wanted your Star cover? And your hit single?" A crooked, fake smile floats on Santana's plump lips, accented with cold, angry eyes. "You got all of it, and a lead role on Broadway to boot." Santana pretends to clap, a terrible cheer that is such a perfect mimic of the Santana Rachel knew in high school. It's devastating. "You've got a fanclub waiting outside with that car. So congrats! Enjoy that fame and success. You've earned it."
There's nothing Rachel can say. Not right now. She could get down on knee, she could beg and plead for Santana's understanding but she's well aware that at this moment, Santana only feels the pain and she's doing this, saying this, to hurt Rachel right back. Rachel knows that.
It works. Rachel's tears still blur the view of the angry woman, and her soul feels nearly crushed when Santana turns and adds, "But here's a tip, from one A-list star who has fucked so many starlets just like you that she's lost count. This shit you pulled? That doesn't make you special. Trust me, you've turned out to be just like everyone else."
It's a dramatic, cutting monologue, and it does it's job.
Rachel has no strength to fight. All she can do is painfully nod her head, and with a choked breath, whisper, "Bye, Santana."
She leaves the loft, shutting the metallic door with a clang. The sound snaps harshly through the air of the musty hallway.
She knows the pictures will be online almost immediately, scrawled with an aging Perez's increasingly bitter words that make 'Homewrecker' seem almost polite. Every detail of her appearance will be discussed and dissected, and Rachel knows that even though she was literally within the Paparazzi's lenses for less than a minute, she does not look good.
Dark glasses cover her eyes, and a Yankee's hat buries most of her forehead, but her mouth is tight and her hair is wild. She's wearing a scarf but she's sure that someone will notice the marks on her neck. The media will see what they need to, and what they see is a cheating Broadway diva who has pushed her boyfriend into a relapse by falling into the arms of known lesbian heartbreaker.
Of course what the paparazzi won't notice are the way her hands shake as she settles into the back of the sedan. Rachel is thankful for the tinted black windows as she presses her palms harshly to her mouth, trying desperately to breathe even though each painful inhalation feels like shards of glass crackling within her.
They don't notice the hot tears that slip out from underneath the dark lenses or the way the driver glances back at her and presses his mouth together sympathetically, clearing his throat and doing his best to drive her away from the madness.
"There's tissues in the side pocket right there, ma'am," he tells her, and then curses at a particularly enthusiastic guy with a camera who tries to keep the driver from going by standing right in the middle of his blind spot. The photographer tries to snap pictures through his window, hoping to get a shot of her in her back seat.
Rachel doesn't care.
They only see what they want to see, and for that Rachel is grateful. Better to be seen as a heartbreaker than for them to witness her own personal heartbreak and breakdown.
End chapter