A/N: I'm apologizing, beforehand, for anything that might be considered offensive about this, or anything historically inaccurate. It's based on loose historical facts and I didn't care to do a lot of research, so there's that. I'm also sorry for the liberties I took with canonical facts, like that Santana is actually Mexican and her mother is also Hispanic. I changed a few details as necessary to fit this oneshot. I tried to write it as gently as possible, and I certainly didn't mean to rub anyone the wrong way with it.
This story is set in antebellum Georgia. That means that there is a highly fictionalized depiction of slavery, and there are themes and situations in this oneshot that are sensitive to that.
Day 04: Historical Time Period
I'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands
Quinn Fabray is used to getting what she wants.
She is the only daughter of Judith and Russel Fabray, of the South Georgia Fabrays. She is what's graciously known as a princess of cotton – because her daddy owns one of the largest plantations in the south. Quinn has had hopeful men after her hand in marriage since before she could talk; her father dotes on her endlessly, and her mother shows her off to all of the high society ladies.
For all of the advantages she's been afforded in life, there is just one thing that Quinn wants that she can't, technically, have – and that's a slave girl by the name of Santana.
Of course, one day Quinn will be the de facto owner of all of the slaves on her daddy's property, but it isn't exactly ownership she wants of Santana.
Santana is the most beautiful girl Quinn has ever seen, and that's including white folk. It's whispered that Santana is a mulatto, and Quinn would believe it. There was even some talk, when she was born, that a certain white man of high repute fathered her – disgusting slander that Mrs. Fabray shot down the second she heard it – but as Santana grew, those rumors fell away. Her mother gave her the name Santana, and coupled with the look about her, the talk then turned to passing Spanish and Mexican migrants who were occasionally hired to help with the harvest.
Quinn isn't privy to these rumors, at least not officially. But she still hears the talk, and when she was young she was tended by a negro nursemaid named Denna who sometimes forgot to censor her tongue around the quiet blonde girl.
Santana and Quinn are of an age, and Quinn has always been aware of her, at least on the periphery. Santana was brought into the house at an early age, due to her complexion, even though her mother is one of the ones who tend the fields. Quinn knows that this is the standard practice on other plantations as well – it isn't spoken about, but Quinn knows it's because the lighter ones tend to be less offensive to the eye.
The next obvious thing about Santana is that she's wily. Quinn knows the reason Santana never serves supper or waits on guests is because she can't keep her mouth shut, even though at first glance she's so pale she could almost pass for a non-negro. Quinn has heard Denna – and the other kitchen ladies, Joanie and Tessa – gossiping about the spitfire young Santana, who is constantly banished to the more menial tasks, like scrubbing the stairways and tending the garden. Santana can't be trusted to keep her tongue in check around cultured white ladies, that's the word on her.
Maybe it's those particular rumors that draw Quinn to Santana, because she has always wished to possess the sort of innate boldness that Santana exhibits. Quinn can't imagine stepping a toe outside of her parents' expectations; she can't imagine not living up to the fabled Fabray image.
Quinn would say her wanting of Santana isn't necessarily – unnatural. She doesn't think of it as wanting her the way a man wants a woman, or the way a dog wants to mate. Quinn doesn't think of it as anything so repulsive. Instead, she thinks of it as being captivated by her beauty (and she is beautiful; everyone says so, even Quinn's mother, who dislikes most negroes on principle), and a desire to understand her better; a desire to possess the same kind of indigenous spark that fuels Santana, but that doesn't live in Quinn at all.
Of late, Quinn's wanting has grown to a consuming fascination – she finds herself spying on Santana as she washes the stairs, or dusts, or scrubs the laundry. Quinn finds reasons to do her needlework in the solar while Santana sweeps, and other times she pokes her head into the kitchen when Santana is baking. Sometimes, her old nurse, Denna, scolds her – in the goodnatured way she has – for being a bother, for being caught up underfoot. Quinn is a girl of sixteen, and she's of marrying age; she shouldn't be pestering the negroes while they clean or cook, like some wayward toddler.
Quinn didn't know she was so obvious, until Santana confronts her about it one day. Quinn had been snooping around the garden, trying to catch a glimpse of Santana pulling tomatoes from the vine, when Santana startles her, by approaching from behind.
"Miss," Santana says, and it makes Quinn whip around, her heart in her throat.
"S-Santana," Quinn says, a hand over her heart. She had thought she was being sneaky, but it appears not; Santana is watching her with a bemused quirk of a brow, a hand resting on her hip.
"What can I help you with, Miss Quinn?"
Quinn can't help but feel like Santana is laughing at her somehow; and even though she says the right words, there is an undertone of mockery that Quinn can't quite place – but it's still unmistakable.
"I was just—"
"I see you watching me, you know," Santana says, and Quinn is so startled at being interrupted by a slave that she nearly swallows her tongue.
"I never—"
Santana shakes her head, amused. "What do you want?"
Quinn can think of nothing to say, so she stares at Santana. Santana holds her gaze, and Quinn is unused to making direct eye contact with anyone, let alone a slave. It makes Quinn's face hot and her mouth go dry, and when she finally finds her voice, it's small and whispery:
"I just like watching you."
Santana's brow creases, and she studies Quinn thoughtfully.
"I suppose you can."
Quinn is flabbergasted that Santana just gave her permission to do anything – but Santana steps around Quinn, and continues into the garden, leaving Quinn to stare after her as she goes.
Quinn is a passingly clever girl; her tutors always told her so. She grasped the concepts of reading, writing, and arithmetic fairly easily, and she also soaked up etiquette lessons like a sponge. She likes to spend long days in her father's library, consumed with books, and she has a reputation for being bright. Russel appreciates having a daughter who is not mindless and vapid, and so he encourages her – there is talk that the reason Quinn has not been suitably engaged is due to the fact that Russel wants to find a man he considers a mental match for his daughter.
This cleverness is what makes her approach her mother one day, and she decides to request Santana as her personal maid.
"Why, dear?" Judith is busy plucking through her collection of gowns. "Has Millie displeased you in some way?"
Santana shakes her head, quickly. "No, Mother, of course not. Millie is a gem. I just think Santana might be better suited for the task –"
Judith turns to regard Quinn, and it makes Quinn chew on the skin of her cheeks. "Is it because she's a high yellow?"
Quinn's cheeks flare, and she shrugs.
"Use your words," Judith clucks.
"Perhaps." Quinn knows this is the closest she'll come to admitting out loud that her attraction for Santana has anything to do with her skin color.
Judith hums, runs a thumb over a pale pink taffeta gown. "Well, certainly, if you feel she's up to the job. But there has been some talk – of insolence."
Quinn nods. "I'll make sure she behaves."
"It might be good practice for you," Judith concedes. "Well, all right. I'm sure your father won't care."
Quinn feels a flash of triumph when she leaves her mother.
She tells Denna of the change – and Denna looks at her strangely, but doesn't question her. The next day, Quinn wakes to find Millie moved out of the tiny room off the side of her own bedroom that has always housed her various servants over the years. She doesn't see hide nor hair of Santana, though.
Quinn finds herself in a sort of dilemma – she has never gotten dressed without the aid of someone else. She is standing in front of her wardrobe, pulling delicately at the corset she has always needed help getting into, when her door creaks open.
Santana looks wary and annoyed, but all Quinn feels is a rush of relief. She didn't want to have to embarrass herself by parading around in her nightclothes searching for Santana. Santana's hair is pinned to the top of her head, and her arms are full of her personal effects; a few changes of clothes, a hairbrush, a wooden box. Quinn points wordlessly to the chambers leading from her room, and Santana walks into them hesitantly.
"What is going on?" Santana asks, and her voice is full of incredulity. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Excuse me?" Quinn's jaw drops.
"Why would you have Millie replaced like that?" Santana turns, her face full of accusation. "What did she do wrong?"
"N-nothing," Quinn finds herself shrugging, which is a habit her mother detests. "I just prefer to have you as my maid. Millie has done nothing to offend me."
Santana's eyes narrow, and she stares at Quinn for a long moment, suspended in the doorway between her new sleeping quarters and Santana's.
"I don't know anything about being a maid to you, Miss Quinn."
"You'll learn." Quinn clears her throat. "I had thought we could – become friends."
That cocky, amused expression returns to Santana's face. "Why would you want to be friends with a slave?"
Quinn shrugs again. "Why not?"
Santana pauses, and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth speculatively; Quinn finds her gaze darting down to it, and then back up to her eyes. "Why not?" She echoes, and it makes Quinn smile.
As far as maids go, Santana is a terrible one – she has to be talked through even the most basic of tasks, and even then, Quinn finds herself seeking out Denna or Millie to properly lace up pieces of her clothing she can't reach herself. It isn't for lack of trying on Santana's part; rather, Quinn gets distracted by the closeness of her, and sometimes her mind wanders, and she forgets to tell Santana a step or two. Santana has a hard time adjusting, at first, to sitting quietly with Quinn while she knits or does needlepoint, and she watches the other slaves with a hungry look when Quinn spends midday with her mother for tea. Santana is smart enough to keep silent in the presence of Judith, but when she's alone with Quinn, her mouth runs a gambit on how annoyed she is with leisure, and how lazy she thinks Quinn is. Quinn would normally find this kind of talk from a negro to be offensive – and in some places, it's actually a crime – but coming from Santana, Quinn just takes it as part of the package.
"It would probably suit you to learn how to stitch clothing, you know," Quinn says from her rocking chair. Santana sits on the ground beside her, staring longingly out the deep bay window.
"Oh, tch," Santana scoffs. "The kind of stitching you do is worthless. I actually mend clothes."
Quinn glances up from her lap, her eyebrows high. "You know, if my mother overhears you –"
"She'll put me back in the kitchens, where I belong," Santana finishes.
Quinn sighs. "Santana, I don't mean to keep you against your will. If you want to be sent back to the kitchens, I'll send you back."
Santana looks up at Quinn with a kind of light in her eyes. "Would you?"
Quinn nods. "If you want."
Santana chews on her lip, a habit Quinn has noticed she has for when she is nervous. "If we're to be friends, I can't do it from the kitchens."
Quinn inclines her head. "I agree."
Santana picks a fingernail over the floor. "I'm not used to so much idle time."
Quinn looks at her. "Is there some task in particular you'd like to do?"
Santana inhales, and Quinn can tell that now she's not just nervous – she's frightened. She glances around the solar, before edging in closer to Quinn.
"You could teach me how to read," She whispers.
"That's illegal," Quinn warns, even though she feels her heart kick up in her chest.
Santana looks at her for a long moment. "A white girl can't be friends with a slave girl, no matter how light her skin is."
Quinn's eyebrows crinkle. "I don't think that's true, Santana. We're both just – people, aren't we?"
Santana swallows. "If we're both just people, then why can't I read? Why is there.. any of this?"
"I don't make the rules. This is the way it is." Quinn shrugs.
Santana shakes her head. "Then you might as well send me to the kitchens, Quinn, if you're willing to break only one rule for our friendship, but obey all the others."
Quinn's fingers knot on the material in her lap, and she can feel her heart pounding in her chest.
"We'll have to be very careful."
Santana holds her breath, and she nods carefully. "Can we start now?"
Quinn almost laughs. "Who knew that any negro would be so eager to learn?"
Santana scowls. "A negro is as eager to learn as a white man is."
"It might be dangerous to say things like that." Quinn stands up, and uses her own hand to help Santana up, too.
"It doesn't make it less true."
Quinn is too nervous to use the actual primers that she learned from as a child, so she teaches Santana in an unorthodox fashion – she uses sticks and a box of dirt, kept underneath her bed. She teaches Santana the vowel sounds, the length and shape of the letters. She uses tiny rocks to sketch into the floorboards of her room, wiping away the chalk marks at the end of the lesson.
Santana is never satisfied – she always wants more, and Quinn is surprised at her voracity for learning. Quinn remembers how much her male cousins fought against long days locked up in a school room; she wonders if all negroes would be as hungry for letters as Santana is.
It only takes a few weeks before Santana is putting together simple sentences, and Quinn wonders if Santana didn't already know how to read, in a fashion. She feels like her progress is nothing short of a miracle.
It occurs to her, one day, that Santana is learning with such concerted speed that – well, that Santana is in a race of sorts. But Quinn wants to know, against what is Santana racing? What sort of opponent does she face?
Quinn has just finished bathing in her room when she decides to confront Santana about it –
"Are you planning on going somewhere?"
Santana is in the middle of putting away the bathing things; the sponges and rags, the soap. She stops and turns to look at Quinn, and her expression is patently guilty.
"Where did you hear that?"
"Is it true?" Quinn's eyebrow quirks. "Santana, why would you ever want to leave? Have I mistreated you someway?"
Santana looks dumbstruck; she stares at Quinn, her fists in tight knots.
"You're dripping on the floorboards," Quinn whispers.
Santana shakes her head, and then dumps the rags and sponges unceremoniously into the tin bucket that had been Quinn's bathwater. "I'm not going anywhere, Miss Quinn."
Quinn knows, by now, that when Santana refers to her as miss when they're alone, it's because she's annoyed.
"No one has told me you plan to leave." Quinn says slowly, and she can tell Santana is watching her carefully. "I also know that it would be a very unwise decision. I can't protect you from my father if you run away, and are captured by slave hunters."
Santana is getting angry, and Quinn can tell – Santana looks at her with fire in her eyes, and something about it twists Quinn's gut. She feels excited, though the prospect of arguing with a slave shouldn't do that to her; nevertheless, Quinn can feel her blood quickening.
"What would your father say about our reading lessons, Quinn?"
Quinn bites her lip. She's never been threatened before, but she thinks she understands that Santana is threatening her.
Quinn doesn't know what to say, or how to say it. She stands, wrapped in a towel, and Santana looks at her from across the room. Everything in her life has taught Quinn that she is the superior, in this situation; but she feels helpless, somehow.
While Quinn is deliberating, and the silence grows thick between them, something changes in Santana – her eyes take on a predatory gleam, and she slowly sets down the bucket she was holding. The way Santana moves puts Quinn on alert – her muscles bunch and tense, and her eyes are wide. Santana steps closer to Quinn, closing the distance between them; and when Quinn meets her gaze, Santana is smiling.
"What are you smiling about?" Quinn asks. Her throat is tight, and she can hear her own heart beating in her chest.
Santana doesn't respond. She steps into Quinn's personal space, and Quinn doesn't flinch – even though she isn't used to anyone being so near, so.. intimate.
Santana is even more beautiful in this proximity; Quinn holds her breath, because she can't quite believe how visibly stunning Santana is – in every detail, from her hairline to her chin. Quinn knows that the slaves who live in the house are generally more hygienic than those in the fields, but Quinn has never noticed anything even remotely grimy about Santana – except her feet, because she has a penchant for running around barefoot – and up close, Quinn can see that her skin is smooth and unblemished, a pale sandstone color. Her eyes are catty and slanted and dark, and are the one thing, perhaps, that give proof to her negro roots (that and her hair has a tendency to frizz in the moist heat of summertime) – but Quinn doesn't find them anything besides fascinating. Her lips are soft and pink, and so full; and Quinn knows the place right on Santana's cheeks where dimples peek out during a smile.
Quinn's shoulder muscles bunch when Santana reaches for her, but she doesn't shy away – instead she keeps her eyes wide open the closer Santana comes. Santana settles her fingertips along the nape of Quinn's neck, and her thumb traces the vein that pounds with Quinn's pulse. Quinn feels frozen, and like she can't breathe, because Santana is so near and is touching her and looking at her with those dark, feline eyes.
"Don't scream," Santana whispers, the moment before she presses her lips against Quinn's.
Quinn has never shared a kiss like this – a kiss that lingers, that is full of pressure and heat. Quinn's entire body goes rigid, and she breathes in sharply at the unfamiliar sensation. Santana's thumb strokes gently, gently over Quinn's neck, and the motion is reassuring – almost soothing. Quinn's throat hums, a quiet vibration; Santana takes this as an invitation to slide her tongue out, and then between Quinn's lips.
Quinn gasps, and at that moment, Santana pulls her closer, holding her steady by the neck, and both of them can feel the wild, erratic way Quinn's pulse beats out of control. Quinn feels heat in her cheeks, heat in her chest, and lower – tightening her belly and singing up and down her nerves, to her fingertips, to the edges of her ears. Santana tastes something like cinnamon; spicy and sweet at the same time; overwhelming, intolerable.
Quinn's lungs struggle to breathe, and her head swims. Quinn feels the same way now as she does in the height of summer, when the air is too thick to swallow and even flies stagger in the heat – except in Quinn it's accelerated, and Quinn has the same lightning-quick fluttering in her chest that she has when she knows a wildfire has broken out.
Santana pulls away slowly, and Quinn's eyes flutter open in the same instant. She knows her cheeks are red, and every part of her is pounding. She stares at Santana, and Santana is smiling – a self-assured smile.
"Santana," Quinn whispers. "What was that?"
Santana shrugs. "I know why you watch me, Quinn."
Quinn shakes her head. "This isn't why—"
"It is." Santana says confidently. "I know."
Quinn shakes her head again in denial. "I never thought such things—"
"Just because you didn't know the reason, doesn't make me wrong, princess." Santana is smirking now. "Do you want me to kiss you again?"
Quinn wants to say no, she wants to push Santana off of her – she knows any well-bred girl would do the same. She knows that this kissing was just a distraction, and Santana did it to turn her mind away from – what was she thinking about before? She can't quite remember, because all she has now is the memory of Santana's lips against hers, and Santana's breath on her cheek.
Instead, Quinn sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and stares at Santana.
Santana laughs, a playful, full-throated sound that makes goosebumps appear on Quinn's forearms. "You do." She gets another light in her eye – one that, now, makes Quinn's stomach drop, partially in anticipation, partially in memory. "Lay down on the bed. I want to show you something."
Quinn tiptoes over to her bed and sits on it, gnawing on her lip. Santana walks over to the door and then turns the latch to lock it – and that makes Quinn nervous. She doesn't know why. She clutches at the towel around her body, even though Santana has seen her naked countless times, and her hands fidget in her lap.
"Lay down," Santana says again, and this time she presses her hand firmly into Quinn's shoulder. Quinn lays back reluctantly – she is still afraid, even though she knows one shout would bring everyone in the household to her aid – and she stares at Santana with wide, wild eyes.
"Just relax," Santana murmurs. "You'll like this."
"I don't know about that," Quinn's voice quavers. She swallows, and her hands are in such tight fists that they hurt.
"You don't need to be afraid." Santana smiles, and then presses her lips to the corner of Quinn's mouth, and then her cheek, and her jaw.
"What are you doing?" Quinn whispers. The light in the room is dim, lit only by an oil lamp on her bedside table – and even though Quinn is anxious, and every nerve in her body feels twisted too tight, she wishes for darkness.
"If you want me to stop, I'll stop," Santana assures her. She shimmies out of brown and white plaid dress she wears, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. Quinn's eyes go wide at the sight of Santana in just her under-clothes – though they're white, and still cover her from shoulder to knee. Santana unbuttons it quickly, however, and then it falls to the ground, too, and Santana is suddenly naked.
Quinn swallows and turns her face, and she wonders why she doesn't stop this – her heart thunders in her chest and she feels dizzy. But she can't deny that.. she does want it, even though she has no idea what it is. She knows for certain that she shouldn't want it.
Santana finally dims the light in the room, and Quinn feels her breath explode out of her in relief; but a moment later the bed dips, and Santana is crawling towards her. Slowly, gently, Santana unwinds Quinn's fingers from the edge of her towel, and then she tugs it away. Quinn's skin is cold and damp, still, from the bath she had only moments before – her hair is clingy and fragrant – but Santana's hands are warm.
"Quinn," Santana murmurs, and in the dark, her voice has a different quality. It sounds almost loving. She presses her mouth again to Quinn's face in soft, gentle kisses, on her eyelids and chin and cheeks, but not on her lips – until Quinn is practically squirming with eagerness. Santana teases her by kissing directly under her chin, by her jaw, and then up high on her face, on her temple. The kisses are as soft as rain, but they make Quinn inexplicably thirsty; she finds herself reaching out, fumbling in the dark, to pull Santana's face where she wants it.
Santana is grinning when their lips come together again, and Quinn swallows Santana's laugh. It's easier in the dark; it's easier to forget – that she shouldn't want this, shouldn't want to be doing it.
While Santana kisses her, her hands start to roam – over the dips and valleys of Quinn's stomach, first, pressing lightly along the incline of her navel, tracing the rigid outline of her hips. Her fingertips are light and exploring, and they cause Quinn to shudder when they ghost upwards, tickling the underside of her breasts. Quinn kisses Santana harder, their lips making wet, urgent clicking noises in the silence, until Santana lays a palm, finally, on top of Quinn's breast. Quinn sucks in a breath and arches when Santana's fingers close on her nipple, and she strangles on a whine when Santana pulls her face away. Quinn can just make out her shadowy outline – she appears to be smiling – but in a moment Santana's mouth replaces her fingers, and Quinn writhes against the bedsheets.
Quinn has no vocabulary to describe it, because she never knew her body could feel like this – too hot, too hungry, too out of control. She digs her nails into the sheets and bites her lip to keep herself from crying out; but still, she gasps and moans, and her hips move to an internal rhythm. Santana's tongue drags from one nipple to the other, and Quinn groans at the feeling of Santana's teeth scraping against her skin. Her stomach knots and hardens, and heat floods from her breastbone down along the center of her body, ending between her legs. Everything throbs, and it's so intense that it's almost painful; she doesn't even know what she's asking for when she mutters please, please, please over and over again – until Santana's hand snakes between their bodies, and touches her.
Now Quinn knows that it was she was asking for, and it's the most overwhelming sensation she's ever had – she can feel that she's wet, and that Santana's fingers slide against her easily; but she moans and her hips jerk until Santana finds the spot just there, and begins to rub.
Quinn clutches at Santana, her chest heaving, while Santana works between Quinn's legs. She kisses her cheek and ear, and Quinn hides her face against Santana's shoulder, because she feels like she's spiraling out of control – she thinks this must be what it feels like to fly through the air and dive underwater all at once: exhilarating, and a bit frightening. The pressure builds inside of her, liquid and potent and scalding; her spine arches in a perfect crescent when it reaches its breaking point, and Santana holds her strong with one arm while the other continues to draw it out, slowly. Quinn's body seizes and then erupts, shaking and shuddering; her breath explodes in little half-sobs against Santana's neck. The stickiness between her thighs is amplified when Santana finally pulls away from her, and her legs come together.
Quinn feels like her body is filled with warm liquid – her bones are melted, it seems, and her muscles have gone lax. She lies, gasping against the sheets, while Santana holds her and strokes her hair and murmurs.
Quinn feels like some sort of secret has been revealed to her; like this was some kind of private thing her body kept from her – until now. Until Santana knew how to unlock it, and bring it forth.
Quinn curls into Santana, because now the dried sweat on her skin makes her cold, and Santana moves them both until she can pull Quinn's quilt down. She covers them, and beneath the blanket, Quinn starts her own tentative exploration of Santana's body, her palms sweeping over Santana's long arms, down to her fingers, and then over her ribs, on her stomach. Santana stops her, though, before she can go further – "Not now, princess. Go to sleep."
"But Santana—"
"It's all right. Go to sleep."
Quinn doesn't stop to think how strange it is to have Santana telling her what to do – instead she just does it.
Quinn has Santana in her bed almost every night after that. She always wants to do the same thing to Santana, too – but Santana always stops her, though sometimes Quinn can tell she doesn't want her to. Sometimes, Quinn can see that Santana's body is just as needy as hers is, and she shakes; she enjoys the feeling of Quinn's naked skin against her own as much as Quinn does. But Quinn suspects Santana has a reason for refusing, so she doesn't push it.
Quinn feels an affection building for Santana – and she wonders if it wasn't always a part of her, somewhere. She wonders if the way she feels for Santana hasn't always been living inside of her, constantly attracting her to Santana – and it feels natural and right and real, and it feels like love, and Quinn wonders at the possibility of a woman loving a woman, the way Quinn loves Santana. She wonders if such a thing has ever existed in all the history of humanity, or if hers is the first heart to tumble in such a way, for the person who is absolutely, completely wrong for it.
Santana is sweet and kind to Quinn, in the bedroom; she's cheeky and defiant as a servant, but suitably deferent in front of others, and Quinn thinks she could have worse for a companion in that way. Quinn doesn't think Santana loves her in the same manner – because there's always something guarded behind Santana's eyes, something reserved and secret. Quinn hopes to chip away at it, as the years go by; she hopes that by the end of it, she can say that Santana loved her, too.
Sometimes, instead of making love, Quinn tries to talk to Santana – but it's like pulling teeth. Santana won't tell her things, even though Quinn tells Santana some of her darkest secrets; about the time, when she was seven, and she held her cousin Samuel beneath the surface of the pond until he fainted and had to have someone push the water out of his lungs. She tells her about the time she hid a spool of yarn, and Denna got reprimanded for it – she tells Santana all of the small, petty, hideous things Quinn has kept locked inside her heart, in the hopes that Santana will share her own stories.
One night, she does get Santana to talk – and it changes things between them.
"Santana," Quinn says, playing with the long length of Santana's arm. Santana lies with her face pressed into a pillow, and allows Quinn to draw her fingertips down the inside of her elbow. "If you weren't a slave, what would you like to be?"
Santana's body tenses, and then she turns to look at Quinn with narrowed eyes. Quinn thinks the reason Santana is so eager to share a bed with her is just for that – to share a bed. Quinn's iron-framed bed with a pillow mattress is much more comfortable than the pallet Santana would have to sleep on in her own quarters.
Quinn doesn't think Santana will answer – she thinks Santana will brush her off – but she doesn't. Instead, she clears her throat, and says:
"I think I would like to be a performer of some sort."
Quinn's eyebrows rise high on her forehead. "A dancing girl?"
"Or a singer." Santana shrugs. "I have a fair voice."
"Do you?" Quinn asks, almost laughing. "Sing something for me, then."
"Maybe another time." Santana chuckles, and pushes at Quinn teasingly. "If you weren't a pretty southern belle, what would you want to be?"
"Oh, I don't know." Quinn shrugs. "I've never thought about it."
"Really?" Santana's head quirks. "You've never thought about being something other than a wife or a mother?"
Quinn sighs and looks up at the ceiling. "A novelist, maybe."
Santana smiles at her, and kisses her on the shoulder. "A spinner of stories, is that it?"
Quinn wrinkles her nose at Santana. "You're making fun of me."
"I am not." Santana laughs. "Writing novels is important. Why else does anyone learn to read?" She presses her face into Quinn's shoulder for a moment. "More important than marrying some sod and having a handful of children, in any case."
Quinn smiles, runs a hand down the length of Santana's hair. "If I could, I would make you a performer, Santana."
Santana looks up at her sharply, startling Quinn. Quinn's eyes widen, and just the expression on Santana's face reminds Quinn of that night – the night she accused Santana of wanting to leave.
"I wouldn't want you to make me one, Quinn." Santana says, lowly. "I'd want to do it myself."
"Well, all right." Quinn swallows. "If I could – at all – I would."
Santana squints at Quinn thoughtfully. "Would you?"
"Yes," Quinn says.
"Would you give me my freedom?"
Quinn's heart stops, for what feels like the longest instant in her life. She thinks about it – thinks about what it would mean, both to Santana and herself.
"I wouldn't want you to leave me," Quinn says softly.
"That isn't what I asked." Santana's voice is hard. "Would you set me free?"
Quinn has a wild, panicked moment where she imagines Santana leaving – Santana going away from her, to live a life up north, where a girl of her complexion might be more favorably looked upon. Santana might even pass, up north. Quinn has heard they get all types, from white-blonde Dutchmen to swarthy Italians.
Quinn lets go of a quiet breath. "If you wanted me to, I would."
Santana peers at her curiously. "Right now? Today?"
"Santana—"
"If you could." Santana persists. "If you could do it, right now, would you?"
"Yes," Quinn sighs. "Yes. But the fact of the matter is, I won't be able to do it – not for years. And even then, maybe not at all. My father might name my husband as his heir, not me. In that case, I'd have no say in it, Santana."
"If you asked your father to set me free, would he?"
Quinn frowns. "Is there some reason you want to leave, right now, so badly?" Quinn gestures to Santana, naked beneath the quilt. "Is this so troublesome for you, you want to flee from it?"
Santana smiles at Quinn – quick as a bobcat, and sly, too. "You know it wouldn't be from you that I'd want to be free."
"No?" Quinn raises a brow. "If that's the case, why ask for freedom at all? It will always be me, here, with you. I would never sell you, you know." Quinn's face gentles. "I'd keep you with me, always."
Santana looks at Quinn with that distant, reserved look – the one that means the conversation is over, and that Santana is shutting down. Quinn just sighs. She thinks Santana is an enigma that she'll never get to the center of.
"The thing is, Quinn," Santana says softly, drawing Quinn's gaze back to her face. "As pretty as you are, and as wonderful as my service is to you – it's still just that. You're still just my master, Quinn. And I'm your slave."
Quinn slides her thumb along Santana's lower lip, and then she touches the place on her cheek where she knows Santana's dimple is hiding. "I don't think of you as my slave."
Santana doesn't smile. Instead, she looks at Quinn with the most solemn expression, and it makes Quinn's heart drop.
"I never forget for one moment that I'm a slave, Quinn." Santana pulls her face away from Quinn's hand. "And neither should you."
Quinn didn't think again on Santana and her strange request for freedom, not until she caught Santana and Samuel – her cousin, the one she nearly drowned – out behind the old cotton house. Quinn had been looking for Santana that day, but didn't want to kick up a fuss (because she didn't want her mother to know that Santana had wandered off), so she searched for her quietly, wading through the heat that was so poignant it was like to choke her.
The noises coming from behind the house were wet and violent, and Quinn had an idea what she would find when she looked there – but she still went to look, anyway, curious to see who would rut out in the open like this. The sight that greets her is of Sam, with his breeches down, and Santana with her skirts up around her hips. Quinn claps a hand over her mouth in shock, and her eyes widen – she has a moment to take in the way Santana's eyes are dead, and faraway; the way Sam holds both of her wrists in one of his hands – before she lets out a strangled yelp.
Sam almost falls to the ground, he's so startled; and his mouth hangs open, in surprise and fear. Santana looks at Quinn with pain in her eyes – and Sam has the decency to tuck himself back into his pants, quickly, stumbling over his words.
"Uh, Quinn – what –"
"You get out of here, Sam Evans, or so help me!" Quinn can barely see through the sheet of tears in her eyes; she doesn't know where the anger comes from, but it claws at her stomach like a demon. "I'll tell my father!"
"No! Quinn, don't –"
"Get off me!" Quinn hisses, shoving him. "Get out of here."
Sam looks between the two women with guilt in his cornflower eyes, before he shakes his head and trots off.
Quinn stares at Santana with hot fury and jealousy building up inside of her, like bile – she doesn't know why, but the thought of someone else touching Santana repulses her. Especially there. A place Santana guards so fervently that even Quinn isn't allowed to wander.
"Quinn –" Santana stands up, and it shocks Quinn to see that there are tears in her eyes, too. "Don't cry."
"How could you?" Quinn feels a sob rip from her chest, and she pushes a hand against her face to ward it off. "How could you – let him? When you won't even let me?"
Santana tries to hold her, but Quinn balks; she shoves Santana away, and stumbles blindly into the rough siding of the cotton house. Quinn cries, hard, into her arms, and finally allows her feet to give out from beneath her; she slides along the wall until her bottom hits the grass.
Santana crouches in front of her, and she pulls Quinn's hands away from her face. "Quinn." Santana murmurs. "How could I stop him?"
"You could have cried out – someone would have heard –"
"And nothing would happen, Quinn." Santana says sadly. She squeezes Quinn's hands in her own, hard, until Quinn looks at her. "Or I would have been beaten. And it still would have happened. Quinn," Santana sighs, and kisses her fingers, one by one. "It's better not to fight."
"But I love you," Quinn's voice breaks on a sob. "I love you, and you're mine,"
Santana jerks away from Quinn, and the disgust is clear on her face.
"I didn't mean it like that," Quinn wipes at her face. "I didn't mean it like—"
"I know what you meant." Santana's voice is cold. "But do you want to know something? Sam Evans thinks of me as his, too." Santana stands up, slowly. "So does Finn Hudson, the overseer's son. So does the overseer, in fact." Santana's face twists on a snarl. "So does that nice older man who comes over on Sundays to court you, Will Schuester. Every white man I've ever met considered me his, Quinn." Santana wipes the dirt from her dress, brushing aside the dry grass. "What makes you any different?"
"I would never – Santana," Quinn's tears are thick and sticky, and Quinn tries to dab them away. "I would never force you to do anything."
"No?" Santana looks defiant. "If I ran away, right now, you wouldn't call for me to stop? You wouldn't tell your daddy that I ran off?"
"Santana –"
Santana crouches down again, swiftly, so close to Quinn's face that Quinn smacks her head on the side of the house to avoid a collision.
"Every day that I'm a slave, it's because I'm being forced." Santana hisses. "Every day that you keep me here, you're forcing me to be a slave."
Quinn doesn't have a chance to respond, because Santana stands up and then darts off, quickly.
By the time Quinn has picked herself up, wiped her cheeks, and straightened her skirts, she has an idea formed.
It takes her almost two months, but Quinn finally secures a contact with someone in the underground railroad. She knows she is risking her life and her freedom by doing it, but she figures – Santana had already sacrificed those things just by being born; what kind of a coward would she be if she wasn't willing to do the same thing? Quinn got lucky, because one of the girls she grew up with – Brittany Pierce – her family are active abolitionists. They still own slaves, of course, but they're vocal in the town meetings and Quinn always hears her father talking about Thomas Pierce as if he were a negro sympathizer.
It was fairly easy to convince Brittany to help her, because Brittany always suspects the best in people – she's sort of naïve like that – and, after two months of planning, Quinn is ready to get Santana out.
Santana has no idea, of course, so when Quinn wakes her up out of a sound sleep, she's understandably upset. Santana is always grouchy in the mornings, anyway, and it's not even truly morning; more like an hour after midnight.
"Hurry up. We have to go." Quinn whispers. "Pack your things."
Santana stares at Quinn with her jaw slack, but she doesn't question it. She rolls up her clothing and a small box of keepsakes into a knapsack, and follows Quinn out of the house.
Quinn's heart is beating fast, even though she knows the likelihood of anything going wrong is small. Brittany argued with her about this part of the plan until she was nearly blue in the face, but in the end, Quinn was stubborn; Quinn insisted on leading Santana out herself, rather than sending her alone.
This way, if someone happens upon them, Quinn would be able to make up an excuse – and Santana would go unpunished.
No one discovers them, though. Quinn walks with quick determination, and Santana struggles to keep up – blinded as she is, still half-asleep, and surprised.
"Where are we going, Quinn?" Santana is breathless.
"You're escaping," Quinn tells her tersely. "Someone is waiting for you at the edge of the property, and they're going to escort you to the north. To Canada," Quinn clarifies. "So there will never be any doubt of your freedom."
"Quinn.." Santana mutters. "How? Why?"
Quinn stops short. "Why do you think?"
Santana looks at her, this time with her lip trapped between her teeth. She seems so uncertain and afraid – not at all like the girl Quinn has come to know.
"We have to hurry," Quinn says, and yanks Santana forward.
It takes the better part of an hour to reach the creek where the getaway party is waiting. Quinn almost yelps when a tall, skinny man unfolds from the shadows – she clutches at her chest, her heart beating wildly.
"It's so good of you, Mr. Pierce." Quinn says around the fluttering in her chest. "You have my eternal thanks."
"Yes, ma'am," Thomas Pierce is a man of little words. He gestures to the shadows on the far side of the creek, where a wagon is waiting. Quinn thinks she spies Brittany inside of it – and it makes her jaw drop. What man would bring his daughter along for such illicit activities?
"This is where we say goodbye," Quinn says, turning to Santana. "Please take care of yourself. Don't do anything foolish, like write to me. My father will be very upset when he learns of this."
Santana drops her pack and stumbles into Quinn, throwing her arms around her. Quinn staggers back beneath the weight, and but steadies, and she embraces Santana back. For the last time, she listens to the way Santana's heart beats, and to her lungs breathing; she inhales deeply of her smell. "I'll miss you," Quinn whispers.
When Santana pulls back, there are tears in her eyes, and it makes Quinn's heart wrench.
"Come with me." Santana pleads, and it sends a shock of adrenaline coursing through her. "Please, Quinn. Come with me."
"I can't," Quinn's refusal is automatic. "I can't, Santana."
"What life is there for you here?" Santana's tears spill down her cheeks, hot and angry. "You'll be a brood mare, Quinn. Nothing else. No one will ever appreciate you, or your stories, or your words. Not like I will." Santana's hands squeeze, hard, onto Quinn's.
It breaks Quinn's heart to see Santana crying like this – it makes her own throat tighten painfully.
"Stop being foolish. My whole life is here."
Santana shakes her head. "We can make a new life together, Quinn. You don't have to stay here – here, you're just as much a slave as I am."
For one brief, beautiful instant, Quinn considers it. She thinks about the hard traveling, the lying, everything she would have to do in order to see them both safely over the border. It frightens her – but it excites her, too. The thought of living alone with Santana, just Santana, as equals – it's a sweet dream.
But it's only a dream.
"My father would never countenance it, Santana." Quinn holds Santana's face with both of her hands. "He would spend the rest of his life looking for me."
"He'll die, someday." Santana says.
"Go, Santana. Go." Quinn bites her lip, hesitating, before she kisses Santana. "I'll always love you, for wanting me to come."
Santana sobs, again, and the noise is like a bone cracking. "I'll always love you for letting me go."
It's the first time Santana has ever told Quinn that she loves her.
Quinn watches her as Thomas Pierce helps her up into the back of his wagon, and she cries, and cries, until Santana is out of sight.
Fourteen months later, Quinn Fabray marries her maternal second cousin, Samuel Evans.
Her mother arranged the marriage; she thought it would be best to keep the holdings within the family.
A year after that, Quinn miscarries her first child.
The next year, war breaks out; the south is torn apart, and Samuel Evans dies fighting for the Confederacy.
Her father is still alive after the fighting stops. He plans to marry her to Finn Hudson.
Quinn considers killing herself. She can see no other way to end her own suffering. She doubts she will bear a living child – and the thought of lying beneath Finn as he tries and tries to get her pregnant makes her stomach roll.
A letter comes. It has no return address, and is only addressed to Quinn.
I have heard about the war, and I hope to find you well.
I have thought of you often over these last two years, and miss you greatly.
I am wondering if you would reconsider my request to visit?
If so, send a message through our old mutual friend.
I would love to hear from you, regardless of your choice.
All my love,
Tanna.
Quinn stares at the piece of parchment as if it is a ghost, or gold, or something unfathomable; she reads the lines, over and over again, until her vision blurs with tears.
She gets ahold of Thomas Pierce, who has managed to stay out of the war, though he freed his own slaves long ago. Many of them have stayed on to work for him, as many as he could afford to pay.
"Can you get a message to Santana?" Quinn asks, and when he says he probably could, she continues: "Just one thing – yes."