Chapter Six

We fell asleep on top of Santana's blankets, so that halfway through the night she curls into me, her skin tepid against mine. Me – I always tend to run hot while I sleep, and so it doesn't bother me; but Santana's mother runs the AC constantly, and when I skim my palm down the length of her arm in the early morning I can feel the chill there. My brain is foggy and half awake, but I have the presence of mind to push and tug at her, coaxing her to the head of the bed, so that I can wriggle the blankets out from beneath us and then pull them over her. She doesn't wake up through that, though she mutters half-formed sentences in her sleep.

It takes me a while to fall back asleep, because everywhere Santana touches me is a little cold. I shiver when I wrap my feet around one of hers, because her toes are so chilly. She murmurs and draws close, until our bodies are touching at every point, and I smooth a hand down her hair, before resting my hand against the shell of her ear. My thumb finds the curve and slides down it, before rubbing her earlobe between my thumb and forefinger. I fall asleep like that, with my hand resting against her cheek.

It's full on morning when I wake up again, and it's because Santana is on top of me.

I smile at her, sleepily, and grin at the sight of her bare-chested above me, her hair spilling in dark threads around my face, tickling my shoulders. I reach up, still sleep-drunk, and pull her close for a kiss. Part of me is still astounded that I'm kissing Santana, finally – after all this time. I remember our last, before her accident, and then I think about the first last night, which was bitter and tasted too much like tears, and alcohol, and regret - this one is slow, and sensuous, and a bit sloppy; it tastes like copper and sleep and Santana, and it's perfect.

I'm too caught up in the kiss to notice, at first, the way Santana is rocking her hips against my lower abdomen, slowly. The rhythm is persistent, however, and her tongue, velvet-slick against mine, draws out a low moan. It starts up a tension beneath my breastbone that draws everything tight, straight past my navel to in between my legs. My nerves begin to tingle and buzz, but it's leisurely and gentle at first. The build-up is slow and languid, and Santana is kissing me so deeply and thoroughly it's hard to think and hard to breathe.

My tongue is full of Santana, and everywhere her bare skin touches against mine rouses, surfacing like a slow burn. It makes me anxious in an indescribable way, a nagging sensation that I know has no word - it's the same thing that makes my own body respond to Santana's rhythm, the gentle rocking, and little by little my breathing grows coarse and haggard, a struggle. Santana's lips are soft and thick, and they stroke and stroke against mine, over and over again, barely allowing me to get in any air. My lips feel full and hot, and my heart is beginning to pound sluggishly in my chest. Slowly, excruciatingly slow, Santana drags her mouth away from mine, and I suck in air – too cold against my warmed skin. But then Santana is fixing her mouth to my jaw, and beneath my ear; her tongue flicking there makes my hips jolt and my fingers squeeze the comforter. When she takes my ear between her teeth, my vision goes white and my entire abdomen squeezes impossibly tight. I arch beneath her, breath exploding harshly from my chest, and I reach up to grasp her, because I feel like I'm spiraling and I need something to hold on to.

"I got you, Q," Santana breathes, and it makes goosebumps erupt down my neck and shoulders. "Just let me." She kisses the shell of my ear, and it's wet and ticklish and it makes every single nerve in my body throb in response.

I can't help the way my body tenses, how hard it is to relax when Santana travels lower, her mouth skimming along my skin, leaving a trail of fire behind it. My body is still twisted up in sleep, so I have the odd double feeling of being sluggish and weighted, but the way Santana is touching me wakes me up, makes my heart race and nerves jitter in my ribcage. Santana slides her hands up and down my sides, and she looks at me, her dark eyes intent and knowing – almost as if she can sense my hesitation, how much of a struggle it is for me to lie still. My instinct is to flip her over, to taste her and hear her and touch her; but I know what Santana wants, so I force myself to stay still. Santana's palms against my ribs encourage my breathing to steady, even though the way she's hovering over my breasts makes me squirm. She smiles – just one, devilish grin – before she licks her tongue out over my nipple, making me hiss and clutch at the bedspread.

I feel Santana skirt a hand – her left one – down, to tease the skin along my hipbone, and beneath my abdomen. The muscles jump beneath the skin there, and now everything inside of me is accelerating in anticipation. I pant and whine beneath the way Santana's mouth is teasing my nipple, and the way her fingers skim with the tips of her nails even lower, lower. I want her to touch me so badly – everything is hot and swollen, throbbing and wet. I can feel it leaking down onto the mattress, and I know I should be embarrassed at how obvious I am. But I'm not. I can't think about anything else other than Santana, and the way she's playing my body expertly, like a master pianist.

Blindly, I slide a hand up, scratching the skin of Santana's side and shoulder, but she catches it with her free hand before I get to her hair. Slowly, deliberately, she kisses my wrist, and meets my eyes over them. "No," Santana murmurs, and presses my hand back down to the mattress.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere, aching in my ribs and throughout my body, down to my fingertips. I whine and roll my body against hers, insistent, and I think Santana smiles but my eyes are squeezed tight, while my hands fist in the sheets.

Santana uses her arm to pull my thigh up, up so that I'm spread wide open, and she slides down until the crook of my knee rests against her shoulder. I know she can feel my heat, because I can, and it's slick and thick and I have to hold myself still not to grind upwards into her. Santana looks up at me when she slides two fingers in, and the way that I'm positioned means she can go in deeply. I groan, and roll my hips, and Santana lunges forward, until my knee is pressed against my chest and her face hovers just above mine. I'm gasping and panting, now, because I can feel her inside me – deeper than I thought possible, deeper than ever, I think. She holds herself there, and through my fluttering eyelids I can see her watching my face, and her eyes are dark and drowning

Slowly, Santana rolls herself into me, and it makes her fingers go in even more. I hitch out a desperate breath, and my hips move of their own accord, shuffling out a frantic pace that's hindered by the way Santana has my body folded beneath hers. A moment passes, and Santana slowly draws out, only to roll forward again – this time harder, surer, and with a third finger; she slaps into me with a little grunt.

I can't help the way I gasp, or how my body vibrates, because it feels like Santana is touching the most secret and private place of me. She pauses, again, before repeating it – pulling out briefly and then slapping back inside. It's slow, but sharp, and it takes my breath away; all I can do is grip the sheets and close my eyes, and thrust my hips against her, pleading.

Suddenly, shockingly, Santana increases the pace – it goes from slow and deliberate to quick and almost brutal; the sound of her slamming into me fills the bedroom, a wet, slapping sound. I groan, overcome, and bite my bottom lip, breathing hard through my nose. Santana is relentless – she uses her whole body to roll into me, and each movement shoves my thigh even farther down against my ribs, and shuffles me a little higher on the bed.

It almost hurts. It stretches me, and it's harsh and fast and I'm swollen and tight, but it feels better than anything I've ever experienced in my life – perhaps that's the nature of everything with Santana; that it's wild and raw and almost violent, and it hurts, but the ache feels a lot like love, and it's delicious and beautiful and intense all at the same time.

Santana's breaths are harsh, I can see the way her skin is flushing, and I know that the stickiness between my legs is all over her. I can feel the sweat from her chest against my knee and calf. But she keeps up the unforgiving rhythm, and I wind up so tight so quickly I barely have time to catch my breath before I'm hanging, suspended – all of the air in my body frozen, paralyzed; then it's escaping in a great whoosh, and my hips buck and thrash, and everything inside of me goes liquid gold.

My heart is still pounding, beating hard and loud in my chest, when Santana peels herself away from me, slowly, allowing my leg to slide down. My hip is sore from the angle, and my knee joint is stiff, but Santana crawls on top of me, covering my body with hers, and I don't think about that anymore.

I think about the way Santana licks me off of her own fingers, while her ear is nestled between my chest, listening to my heartbeat. I can think of almost nothing else, except the skin and the sweat between us, the immense heat between my thighs, and how perfect and wonderful I feel.

I make a wish – a feeble one, I know, but a wish nonetheless – that I might always feel this perfect and wonderful. And if not forever, for at least for as long as I can.

Santana raises her head from where it lies on my chest, her eyebrows knitting together. I focus in lazily on her face, because my body still feels like it's floating; my fingertips skirt along the edge of her cheekbones, and then down, to the soft corner of her lips. Her eyes shift towards her bedroom door, and then she sits up even further, resting on an elbow.

"What is going on down there?" Santana's voice is scratchy.

I shift, lifting my head slightly, and finally I can hear it:

There's some kind of commotion going on downstairs, and the noise is muffled against Santana's closed door.

She moves a lot faster than I do – she leaps out of bed and starts pulling on clothes from the piles on the floor. I sit up more slowly, and run a hand through my hair, trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes.

"If those fuckers break anything," Santana mutters, her face stormy, "I swear to god I'll rip them apart."

I'm beginning to catch on to the urgency of the situation when I hear a dull crash. Santana goes rigid, her body freezing, and a look of horror crosses her face for an instant before it's overtaken by rage.

Santana rips her door open and stomps down the stairs so quickly I barely have time to register her turning the doorknob.

I slide out of bed and jab my legs through a pair of shorts, picking up a discarded tanktop on the way out. I'm still shoving my arms through and twisting it over my head when I start down the stairs, but I can hear the cacophony before my feet hit the landing.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?!" That's Santana.

"Just tell me WHO IT WAS!"

"Finn! Calm down!"

Another crash, followed by the sound of a scuffle. Puck and Blaine are clinging to Finn's arms, and the vein in his neck is throbbing. His face is red. It makes my eyebrows rise, because the last time I saw him this angry it was because he realized –

Oh.

My eyes immediately go to Rachel, who is standing behind Mike and Tina with a look of hurt and commingled fear on her face. I sweep my gaze around the room, but I can't find Sam, Kurt, Mercedes, or – Brittany.

Artie is sitting in the corner with his hands clasped in his lap, still ridiculous in his swim trunks, blinking behind his glasses at everyone.

"Rachel! I know you're lying!"

"Don't do this here," Blaine says, trying to be reasonable. "This is Santana's house. This is disrespectful."

"Damn fucking straight," Santana spits.

Finn shuffles loose from Blaine, and he goes towards Rachel, but Santana steps in front of him. He pulls up short, a look of surprised fury on his face, and he moves to shove her out of the way—

"Finn! No!"

In a flash I'm down the last step and grabbing his arm, yanking him away from Santana. He seems even more startled to see me, but I don't give him enough time to react – instead I push him away, and put my body between his and Santana's. Puck and Blaine reattach themselves to him, and he bristles, but doesn't struggle anymore.

"I know something happened," Finn is trying not to yell, but the look on his face is one of pure rage. "I know you're lying to me!"

Rachel doesn't say anything, but her silence – coupled with the way she stares at the ground – is full of guilt.

Santana narrows her eyes, looking between the two of them. "What the hell is going on here?"

I look at Puck, and he meets my eyes over Finn's shoulder – for some reason he seems more guilty than Rachel does.

Just then, Sam enters the living room from the kitchen, and his mouth goes wide at the scene.

Finn sees him and his expression immediately changes, at first from shock to sudden realization and then –

Well, he slams into Sam with the force of a semi-truck, and everyone takes up a collective gasp when Sam plummets to the ground. Finn knocks back and punches Sam in the face once, twice, before Mike and Puck wrestle him away.

"Damn," Artie comments, his eyes wide.

I slide a hand around Santana's elbow, because I can sense from the way she's standing she wants to do something. I don't squeeze, just rest my fingers and palm against her skin. She flicks a glance at me and I can see that her eyes are hard and glinting. Rachel and Tina stand just next to her, and both of them have their hands over their mouths.

"Fuck, Finn," Santana's voice seems almost tired.

"What the hell, man!" Sam is clutching his face, with blood dribbling out from between his clasped fingers.

"Stay the hell away from my girlfriend!"

Just then, Brittany rounds the corner, and simultaneously her eyebrows shoot up and her jaw drops. I watch as her eyes dart around the room – Sam, just at her feet, Finn, Mike and Puck a few feet away, and finally.. yes, I watch as her eyes lock onto Rachel.

For some reason, it makes something inside of me untwist, just a little bit, because she didn't look at Santana.

I know that there was a time when Santana would have been the first person Brittany looked for in a room.

I can tell, just by the way her face drops into almost instant impassivity that Brittany understands what's happening here. She looks back at Finn and then down at Sam, and she crouches down, touching his shoulder with her fingertips.

Brittany is one of those acutely perceptive people – more adept at it than I am, surely, since I never realized that about her before now.

"Listen here, ladies," Santana's voice cuts into the tense silence. "I don't know what happened – I don't care. But if you broke that table, Finn—"

"I'll pay for it!" Finn spits, furiously. His gaze is still locked on Sam, who is carefully climbing to his feet with the aid of Brittany.

"With your tire shop paycheck?" Santana's eyebrow quirks.

"Not exactly the time," I murmur.

Santana's fingers brush against my hipbone in acknowledgment.

"What really is going on here?" Santana says, fisting her hands on her hips.

"Rachel slept with Sam last night!" Finn screams.

"What?" Tina sounds appalled. She looks at Rachel and almost inches away from her.

"Whoa, dude," Sam says. His shirt – already stained with who knows what – now has splotches of blood all over it. His voice is muffled and stuffy, and he swipes tentatively at his face.

"That is completely not true, Finn," Rachel speaks up, finally. The look on her face is one of timid mortification, but touched with a kind of defiance. Everyone in the room turns to look at her, and (even now) she kind of preens under the attention. "You're being absurd."

Finn's ribcage is heaving with the struggle to breathe, and for some reason this conflict feels more real and gritty than anything that ever took place in the choir room. Maybe it's because we're all standing within ten feet of each other, and I can smell the alcohol leaking out of everyone's pores, along with unwashed sweat and morning breath. Finn has a smear of dirt on his cheek, and everyone looks ruffled and worse for the wear.

"Whatever, Rachel," Finn says finally. He shakes loose from Mike and Puck, and then turns on his heels, stomping towards the door. Puck follows after him, but I catch his eyes as he goes, and it gives me another odd twinge. Blaine slips out right behind Puck, and the door shuts almost too quietly, given the outburst that just took place.

"What the hell?" Santana is the first to say anything. She rounds on Rachel, who cups one elbow with the palm of her other hand, and won't look up from the ground. Brittany moves away from Sam and wraps an arm around Rachel's shoulders, pulling her close.

Santana cocks her head at that, but doesn't say anything else. She rolls her eyes dramatically and then steps forward towards Sam, dragging him towards the kitchen. "C'mon, Lips, I have frozen peas for you."

Everyone looks around at each other, a little stunned, but eventually the tension breaks. Rachel and Brittany disappear into a room behind the stairs, which I've never been in before, and then everyone else seems to start murmuring at once. Mike looks at me abruptly and says, "We're gonna head out. Okay? Tell Santana?"

I just nod, even though I'm somewhat baffled by the suddenness of it all. It's just past noon, but nobody has been awake for very long – Mike and Tina shuffle out of the house, hoisting Artie as they go. The living room is momentarily empty, but I can hear the low sound of Santana and Sam conversing in the kitchen. I wonder where Mercedes is, if she's still sleeping – if she knows anything about anything that's going on.

I do a quick search of the first level of Santana's house, opening doors and shutting them after looking inside. Most of them are untouched, but some places in particular have been hit hard. The living room – where Finn slept, and maybe even Puck, Mike, and Tina (I think maybe Artie slept outside) – has the most damage. I stare at the doorknob to the room where Brittany had Rachel were, and try to fight down my own curiosity. I want to open it and look inside – I want to see if it's obvious, at all.

Honestly, maybe nothing happened. Maybe they were just.. no. I know what they were doing. I resist turning the knob, though, because for some reason I can't shake the image of Brittany and Santana, even though I know it was Brittany and Rachel.

I peek in the bathroom, and it looks like it's seen better days. I sigh, because I know – I know – that Santana isn't going to clean it. She probably wouldn't even know how.

Finally, I reach Santana's den, and it looks much like the living room: a little bit wrecked. Mercedes is sitting on an ottoman, holding her head in her hands and staring at the carpet. Her hair is a mess. I'm a little surprised to see Lauren Zizes sitting on the couch, rubbing her eyes, but only because I had sort of forgotten she was here.

"Hey." I clear my throat a little. "Good morning."

"Shh, not so loud," Mercedes says.

"What was all that about?" Lauren doesn't look at me when she talks.

"Uh—" I shake my head. "There was a fight between Finn and Sam."

"Coulda saw that coming," Lauren snorts. "You glee kids are totally lame and predictable with your drama."

Mercedes slants a glare at Lauren from between her fingers, but doesn't say anything.

"You guys want to see if there's anything to eat for breakfast?"

Slowly, Mercedes nods and draws herself up. Lauren does the same thing, and they pick their way over the discarded piles of clothes and scattered beer bottles.

We can hear Santana laughing when we enter the kitchen. She's smiling up at Sam, who leans with his hipbone against her kitchen counter, a wet, gray rag against his face. I can see his grin even beneath the washcloth.

"This kid here is pretty funny," Santana says, amused. "You never told me that about him." She flashes me a smirk.

"Oh, Quinn doesn't think very much of me," Sam says with a dopey smile. "I asked her out using my best James Dean impression and she still said no."

That wipes the smile off of Santana's face.

Alarmed, I look between them – Sam is clearly joking (he never asked me out, but I do remember something about an impression) and he isn't catching on to the sudden chill coming off of Santana.

Mercedes just grunts and scowls, scooting out a chair from Santana's breakfast bar. "Where is everyone?"

"Most of them left," I answer, maybe too quickly. Santana's eyebrows are low on her forehead and she's glaring at Sam, who is still oblivious and talking through the cloth.

We all turn when we hear the back door open and close, and then Kurt and Blaine wander in.

"Hey." Kurt says, a little uncertainly. "What did I miss?"

Santana – distracted, now, from Sam – just scoffs and crosses her arms. "Did you really sleep outside, Kurt?"

Kurt blushes and Blaine ducks his head.

Santana rolls her eyes and walks over to her refrigerator, pulling it open. She hands Sam a jug of orange juice and then continues shuffling around inside. "I've got eggs and bacon, but absolutely no idea how to cook them." The fridge absorbs her voice, and I wonder if anyone else notices me staring at her ass. "Oh, and cinnamon rolls."

"I'll do it."

I shrug when Santana pulls herself out of the fridge, to stare at me with an obscure expression. "What? I like to cook."

Mercedes just laughs into her clasped hands.

Mostly Santana and Mercedes spend the entire hour that it takes to scramble eggs, fry bacon and bake cinnamon rolls arguing over what happened last night. Sam is oddly silent, though his nose is swollen and there's a bruise creeping up his cheek. He sits at the edge of the table, the long way across from Lauren, who just watches the entire scene from behind her glasses with her lips pinched together.

Kurt and Blaine are grass stained and smell like freshly cut lawn, and I don't want to know why. They stay quiet, sipping orange juice out of the same glass. I glance over and nod at Blaine when the timer for the cinnamon rolls dings. "Will you go get Rachel and Brittany?"

It's a little awkward when he returns with them, because I can feel Santana practically boiling with the urge to pummel them with questions. Brittany meets the curious gazes frankly, and with an almost catty twist to her lips – her eyes seem even more slanted, as if she has a secret. Rachel looks around with furtive, nervous eyes, and but she seems to settle down when nobody bombards her with questions.

I portion out the eggs and bacon onto plates, and put rolls on two of them. I sit down next to Santana and set her plate at her elbow, gesturing for everyone else to collect their own plates.

"What happened with Puckerman?" Lauren asks, once everyone has settled back down. The boys stand with their hips against the countertops, supporting a plate with one palm and a fork in the other hand. Santana, Mercedes, Lauren, and I are the only ones with chairs – Brittany and Rachel eat standing up, squeezed in between the chairs, sharing table space.

I catch the way Santana tenses beside me, and I watch as her left knuckles whiten around the silverware. She chews her bite of egg slowly and doesn't immediately look up from her plate.

"He left." Blaine says. "With Finn."

Lauren's face is impassive, but she nods in a way that makes me feel even less relaxed.

"Anything else?"

The room goes silent, and I wonder if anyone else here knows – about him and Santana. I glance around, attempting to be subtle but likely failing. I get nothing from the boys, who just look between each other and shrug, and I can't get good enough eye contact with either Rachel or Brittany. But Mercedes is staring hard at Santana across the kitchenette, and her jaw is set.

"Nothing." I say.

I don't know why I feel the need to protect Puck – really. He deserves everything coming to him. But I don't really know how Lauren would react towards Santana. And I can't help it if my first instinct is to protect her.

I feel bad. I know that Lauren deserves to know.

She won't look at me through her glasses, but I get the feeling that she knows that Puck forgets about her almost as much as I do.

The only ones who stay behind to help clean up are Kurt and Blaine, which seems to surprise Santana. She watches Brittany usher Rachel out with slightly parted lips and a look of mild shock on her face, but she blinks it away when Mercedes pulls her into a hug.

"It's been good seein' you, girl," Mercedes says with a smile. There is still awkwardness there, and some sternness behind her eyes, but she gives Santana a friendly pat on the shoulder just the same. "I missed your crazy ass."

"You too, Wheezy," Santana smiles back, but it fades away when Lauren catches her attention.

"Thanks for letting us crash." Lauren adjusts her glasses on her face. "It was definitely interesting."

"Yeah." Santana's tone is guarded. She waves goodbye to them as they leave, and turns to me with widened eyes once the door is closed. "Is that Zizes girl a serial killer or something? She totally freaks me out."

I chuckle a little bit, but I'm still bothered by the implications of Puck and Zizes. I wonder if Santana has the same thoughts that I do, or if she feels anything beyond general discomfort.

At one time, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I never tried to understand anything of what Santana was thinking – back in the days before we were anything to each other. I remember being baffled by her, by her non-relationship with Puck and the predatory way she watched Brittany, and the way she would hiss and spit at anyone who came too near either of them. I never understood how she was so hot and cold with Puck, one minute claiming him as her property and the next acting as if she could care less.

I remember how guiltless she was. I remember how she seemed to walk around as if everything bestowed upon her was a gift she deserved, and how she never allowed anyone to make her doubt herself.

I was always secretly jealous of that Santana – the one who smiled like the devil and did exactly as she pleased, took whatever she wanted, and lived only by her own rules. Even though we both played the part, I never felt that way. I felt as if every second on top was gained at a price, and the price was something indefinite and intangible; something that changed me, as the years wore on.

I know, now, that my presumption of Santana wasn't the truth. I know better the things she sacrificed to be that person – I know that it changed her, too.

I don't actually know Blaine that well, or even Kurt, if you want to know the truth. Kurt and I walked in different social circles before glee, and even afterwards I never had a reason to talk to him very much. He's not one of Santana's favorite people, either, but I think I remember something silly about him and Brittany dating sophomore year.

Still, they walk around with black trash bags and throw away the remnants of the party, while Santana mostly sits on her kitchen island, feet swinging freely, devouring a can of Pringles. They don't say a lot, but they smile at me whenever we happen to cross paths. Occasionally, Kurt laughs at something Blaine murmurs.

By the evening, Santana's house is looking pretty normal, considering everything that happened to it. The table Finn knocked over is no worse for the wear, and the bathroom – gross – is pretty much clean. I could do nothing about the congealing vomit in the bushes, but Santana told me not to worry about it. Her mother never goes outside.

"It was nice of you to stay and help."

Santana stands next to me, her arms hanging awkwardly by her side, while we bid our goodbyes to Kurt and Blaine. They seem just as uncomfortable with the ordeal as she does – so I try my hardest to look pleasant. It's something I've perfected over the years. Blaine, at least, shakes my hand, and Kurt looks torn between offering a hug before he finally does. It's one of those soft, tentative, patting hugs that are over almost before they begin. Santana's face tenses slightly, but she can't avoid her own one-armed hug. We both say goodbye with a little bit of relief when they finally leave.

Santana plops down on her couch once they're gone. It's close to getting dark and Santana hasn't turned any of the lights on, so the room is gloomy. I settle myself beside her, and she automatically snakes her fingers through mine. Her hand is completely relaxed and limp, but I notice that her fingers are a little cold. I'm spending too much time looking at her knuckles and the contrast of our skin tones to realize that she's watching me in the semi-darkness. When I finally glance up, it kind of startles to me to see her eyes fixated on my face.

"What?" I say with a hesitant smile.

"I really am sorry." Santana says it lowly. "About last night. About Puck."

I feel my breath catch in my lungs, and everything inside of me stills. I didn't expect Santana to apologize – in fact, I didn't expect her acknowledge anything at all. That's how Santana and I operate, at least so far; that's why I'm so shocked by her apology. I'm doubly shocked by how easily she says it, and how open and honest her face is.

I'm still working through the way I feel – which is caught up in how I felt last night, so angry and bitter, and then the strange floating happiness that followed – when Santana squeezes our hands, drawing my attention back to her face.

"But I have a question." Santana says it more carefully, her tone guarded. "Last night, you said—" She pauses, takes in a breath. "You said, 'anyone but Puck.'"

I nod, raising an eyebrow slightly. I know what I said.

"But not just that. You said.. Tina, Rachel, Brittany," Santana is watching my face intently now. I can tell she's concentrating by the faint line that forms between her eyebrows, and the way her lips are hard around the edges. "You said all of those names. But not – not anyone else. Not Sam or Finn." She swallows, looks down to her lap, and then back up at me. "Why?"

At the beginning of this conversation, I had felt anxiety begin to gnaw in the pit of my stomach and work its way out, encasing my bowels and slither up through my ribcage. But when Santana asked that – something of an old feeling took over, an old resignation. I can't exactly describe it; the anxiety washed away, replaced by a kind of sad knowing.

"Santana." I squeeze her fingers, and then take her free hand in my other. I rub the pad of my thumb over her knuckles, feeling the little bones beneath the soft, lined skin. "If you don't want to be with me, I get it." Even though I don't. "But I'd rather see you with Brittany than Puck, or Rachel than Finn, because I know – I know – that that's what will make you happy. That it's who you are." I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible, and I don't know what affect I'm having because Santana won't look me in the eye.

The silence builds between us, and I'm growing more worried by Santana's limp hands and unresponsive face. I know that she's thinking, but her fingers keep getting colder and something about that makes me feel like she's drawing away. I want to rub her hands in mine, to warm them; I want to pull her close, and keep her there.

But I don't. I just watch her, while she thinks, and squeeze her fingers, trying to keep the cold away.

"Quinn." Santana says on an exhale of breath, too big to be a sigh. "I understand what you're saying." Slowly, her eyes click into the place where they're connected with mine, and I feel an almost physical jolt from it. "And I'm sorry that you've had to think.. anything like that." She shifts until she's facing me more clearly, with the front of her body facing mine. It makes my throat tighten and ache, slightly, because of the way she's looking at me. "I don't want to be with anyone else. Nobody. Not Brittany, not Puck, not anyone." She squeezes my hands, which have now gone limp. "I want to be with you. I love you."

I don't want to cry. I really don't. Santana has made me so angry and frustrated lately – even though I've been so patient. I've been trying to tell myself, over and over again, the things Santana has had to go through, much more than I have, it seems. But right now, when Santana finally addresses it, I actually feel it; I feel how helpless and hopeless I was during the months at Atherton, knowing that I loved her, impossibly, when she couldn't love me. Dealing with the bile of jealousy clawing at my throat because of Brittany – someone I felt I could never compete with, and who I never wanted to be jealous of, because I love her as one of my best friends. Seeing Santana behave as if she were oblivious to my feelings, when all I do is agonize over hers. I'm not bitter, and I don't regret it. I love Santana, and I tolerate the things about her that make me crazy and which don't make sense to logical people.

"Say something," Santana whispers. I've been quiet for too long. I can see how uncertain she is, how fragile she must feel, because she actually said something true. That almost never happens with her, so I know that it's like a precious gem that I should treasure and keep close to my heart. She's gnawing on the skin of her lower lip, and her eyes are glittery and nervous.

"You know that I love you." I say it around the huge lump in my throat. It's hard to speak, when hot tears want to leak out of the corners of my eyes. I blink, and I know that a few have escaped. "I want to be with you, too."

Santana's breath hitches, and then she squeezes my hands so tight my fingertips go numb. In a moment, she slides from the cushion beside me until she's settled across my lap, and then she wraps an arm around my neck, hugging me with her whole body. I hold onto her, because I feel like everything inside of me is trembling and cracking, and I can sense the same thing happening in her – her breaths are ragged and wet, and she buries her face against my neck. Her arms are like vices around me, and I can only stroke my hand down her spine and hold her around the waist. I can feel her hot breath against my chest, and her nose and eyes are pressed so hard against my neck I can feel my pulse pound against them.

"I was scared," Santana whispers, and in the middle of that whisper is the quavery, broken tone of someone on the brink of crying, "I was so scared that I had fucked it up."

"No." I suck in a deep breath, even though my chest hurts with the weight of emotion too big to keep in. The corners of my eyes are shedding tears, but I'm trying to keep it out of my voice. "No, never. I love you, Santana."

"God, I love you," Santana chokes. She isn't trying to keep her tears inside anymore, and I can feel them scalding against my throat and collarbones. "I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry. And I love you."

In the end, I guess that's all I've ever wanted to hear.

I know Santana is an idiot, and she does tend to fuck things up. It's the nature of the beast – something I can't control or contain. It's Santana's struggle. It's something she has to overcome on her own, of her own volition. I know I can help, by being patient, and by loving her.

Which is all I've ever wanted, anyway.

A/N: Thanks so much for your patience. I appreciate every review, follow and favorite I get! Thank you guys. If you have any commentary or questions, you can direct them towards my tumblr.

Also this is only mildly edited, I apologize for the shoddy work.