Day 06: Spies / Secret Agents
this slope is treacherous, this path is reckless
Santana's boss is a total dick, and that's putting it lightly.
He's a tool by the name of Ken Tanaka, and sometimes Santana is so distracted by his eyebrows that she can't even listen to him talk – though he almost never says anything even remotely worth hearing. Sometimes, by the end of a meeting or a debriefing, Santana is worried about the state of the union and humanity in general, that such a clown made it through all of the arduous hoops it takes to become a superior in this kind of business.
This time, she's busy imagining that the deep lines on his forehead are actually miniature Grand Canyons on the greasy, stubbly landscape of his sallow-skinned face, when one word snaps her out of her disgusted daydream –
"…and Lopez is with Agent Fabray."
Santana's eyes snap into focus, and she can tell that Ken is just counting down the seconds until he can escape this stuffy boardroom (he looks like he's jonesing for a deep fried twinkie right about now), because he's shuffling his stack of papers and his small, glittery, beetle-shaped eyes keep skipping over the room full of agents impatiently.
"Hold up." Santana's hand comes up, palm outwards, and she crinkles her eyebrows. "Are you telling me I was partnered with Malibu Barbie – for the Jefferson case?"
"That is correct."
Santana's expression transforms from mild disbelief to acute agitation in less than a second.
"Please tell me you aren't serious." Santana's voice is dripping derision. "The Jefferson case is too important –"
"And that is exactly why you'll be collaborating with Agent Fabray on this one, Lopez," Tanaka says. His voice is low and grating and he's so jowly he could be mistaken for an English bulldog.
"What is this crap –"
"These orders are non-negotiable."
Santana throws her hands up in disgust. "Fabray is barely competent to handle the Cheney case, Tanaka –"
"Enough." Ken's face is shiny in the dull yellow light. He glances around the room, and Santana realizes he's pissed off for being argued with in front of all these people. She huffs, folding her arms with a jerky motion.
Ken's face is so red that it's almost purple, and she thinks if she keeps arguing with him he might have an aneurysm and collapse into the podium.
Tina's elbow nudges into her from the left. She grins at Santana good-naturedly when Santana turns to look, and all Santana can do is roll her eyes and scoff.
"Moving on." Ken gives Santana a pointed look. "Cohen-Chang, you have Abrams. Berry, you're with Puckerman –"
"Oh, come on!" Rachel Berry's voice is loud and dramatic, and Santana feels a rush of pleasure at seeing Ken's face wrinkle even more deeply at the objection from Rachel.
"These are final!" Ken slaps his stack of papers down on the podium. "I don't want any more lip, or you'll all be doing scut work for the next month!"
Sam Evans hushes Rachel, and everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats.
"Finally," Ken barks, "Jones is with Hudson."
Santana can only see the back of Mercedes' head, but she can see Mercedes shake it so violently her earrings jangle.
"You have your orders," Tanaka says, looking over the rows of agents. "I expect regular updates on these cases. Some of them are very sensitive and important, so –"
"We aren't in preschool," Santana mutters. "Some of us actually work these cases."
"Lopez!" Ken bellows. "That's enough!"
Santana snorts. "Are we dismissed?"
Ken stares at her for a tense moment, before he shakes his head in disgust. "Get out."
Tina grabs the cusp of Santana's arm in the shuffle to leave the boardroom, and Santana adjusts her pace to allow Tina to keep up.
"At least you don't have Hudson," Tina smiles while she says it, though. "Sometimes I don't know how he got into this business."
"It's shameful," Santana agrees. "Abrams is almost worse – I mean, he can't even walk. What does he think he's doing? Trying to get himself killed?"
Tina shrugs. "He's nice, and he's good at his job."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Everyone is good at that job, T. My dog could do that job."
Tina chuckles. "I don't know. I don't think I could do it."
Santana leads Tina into the break room, where half of their department is grumbling over styrofoam cups of coffee.
"I hate Noah Puckerman," Rachel complains, loudly, to Sam Evans. "He's so – disgusting. He doesn't even try to negotiate anything - he actually flirts with them!"
Sam's mouth drops. "No way? With which ones?"
"All of them! Even the Zekabous," Rachel practically shudders. "It's obscene."
Santana almost laughs, even though she thinks Rachel Berry is intolerable – because she can practically see Puckerman putting on his smooth moves on the zeebees.
"What's your case, anyway, Berry?" Santana asks while facing a vending machine. She doesn't even turn to look at Rachel. "The W. H. Harrison?"
Rachel rolls her eyes emphatically. "Very funny, Santana."
"You have the Franklin case, don't you, T?" Santana glances up at Mercedes. "And don't you have the Lincoln case, Jones?"
Mercedes nods, trying to suppress a grin.
"Who do you have, Berry?" Santana finally chooses a bag of fruit snacks. She watches as the machine dispenses it.
"I'm working on the McKinley negotiation," Rachel jerks her head. "It's a primary case, as you know."
Santana laughs.
"No wonder Puck is on that case with you."
"Just what is that supposed to mean?"
Santana can feel Tina tensing beside her, but she can't help herself –
"It's just – with your nose and his hair – between you, you almost make up a member of their species. They probably like dealing with people who look like them."
Rachel's mouth drops, but everyone else in the break room chuckles, even Sam. Santana tears her packet of fruit snacks open, and starts picking out the purple ones.
Santana laughs when she notices Rachel staring at her nose in the reflection of the paper towel dispenser next to the sink.
Shaking her head, Santana pushes past the double doors that lead out of the break room. She doesn't have time for those losers.
Santana walks down the empty corridor, chewing on the purple fruit snacks slowly. She takes a right, and then a left, and then she leans against the doorjamb of the third door on the east side.
Quinn Fabray sits at her desk, tapping away at the keyboard in front of her. Santana watches Quinn's fingers pick over the flat surface, highlighting each key as she presses down.
"Hey, Luce," Santana says.
Quinn jolts and turns so quickly she rams her knee against the surface of the desk. She grimaces and then huffs, narrowing her eyes at the sight of Santana. "What do you want? Don't call me that."
"Why not? It's your name." Santana grins, her fingers digging idly into the pouch of gummies. "You hear about the Jefferson assignment?"
Quinn is rubbing her knee beneath the desk, and she frowns. "What about it?"
"We're partnered up."
Quinn pauses and then sighs.
"Why would they do that to me?" She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Do they want us to lose this negotiation?"
"I'm not too happy about it either, sweetheart," Santana gestures with the plastic bag. "Are you hungry?"
Quinn's eyes flit from Santana's face and then down to the proffered bag. After a moment, she lets out a breath. "Sure."
Santana takes the three steps to enter into Quinn's tiny office, and she hands off the fruit snacks.
Quinn shakes it around, frowning. "Did you eat all of the purple ones?"
"What? No." Santana runs her tongue over her teeth.
"This is like the third package of these I've gotten with no purple ones." Quinn sighs, pops a red one in her mouth. "They're my favorite."
"No kidding?" Santana can't stop herself from grinning. "You ready to move on this case or what?"
"We don't have a rendezvous until tomorrow," Quinn says, keying up her calendar into the air in front of her. "I have some final paperwork to look over."
Santana breathes a beleaguered sigh. "Bureaucrats,"
Quinn glares at her. "I'm a xenopsychologist, Santana."
"Right." Santana quirks an eyebrow. "You're practically a politician, but you don't get any of the perks. No hot secretaries to bang." Santana grins.
Quinn huffs. "And you're a glorified beat cop."
Santana laughs.
"You keep working on your comebacks, blondie." Santana smiles. "One day you'll come up with something remotely impressive."
"I don't have time for this," Quinn snaps. "Get out."
Santana shrugs, but she's grinning as she turns around.
"I'm a scientist," Quinn mutters to herself, and it makes Santana laugh.
Santana whistles at the sight of Quinn Fabray all dolled up in a black pantsuit, her hair pinned up neatly on her head. She has to hand it to her – even though Quinn is annoying, and Santana thinks she took this job because of her retro obsession with some early 2000s show called Hannah Montana – that Quinn does clean up good. She looks professional, in those no-nonsense heels and a black briefcase clutched in her hands. Santana shrugs herself away from the wall she was leaning against in order to fall into step beside Quinn.
"You look particularly good today, Fabray," Santana chuckles. "Are those rumors that you slept your way to the top true?"
Quinn throws an annoyed glance at Santana. "I heard you sold your soul to the devil to get where you are. Is that true?"
"Completely," Santana says with a nod.
Quinn sighs, but doesn't retort, because at that instant they approach the loading deck, and both of them raise their arms by rote. Santana watches Quinn out of the corner of her eye as the little red lines scan up and down her body, and she notices the way Quinn's face is set and serious.
They walk in tandem past the entry point, and Santana tips her head to the guys working the controls. Quinn checks her wristwatch impatiently at the second check point, but she doesn't grumble or complain like a lot of the other paper-pushers do. Despite herself, Santana likes that about Quinn.
After the third and final check point, Santana and Quinn sit next to each other, along with a few other pairs of agents, on the short shuttle ride up to the main space station. Santana notices Quinn frowning.
"What's wrong?"
Quinn shakes her head. "This part always gives me a headache."
Santana takes Quinn's hand in hers and squeezes, and Quinn offers her a brief smile.
The process is one Santana has gone through countless times, so it's second nature to her – but she knows Quinn does it less often. The thrum of the engines and the quick, sickening shift in pressure doesn't affect Santana, but she sees Quinn swallow, her cheeks paling.
"Hey, Q," Santana gropes for something to distract her with. "You ever figure out that thing you were working on – uh, about those little blue tribes on the planet of Si-donia or some crap?"
"Oh." Quinn looks at Santana, surprised. "Actually, I just filed a petition for a grant to send in a group of xenobiologists to study –"
Santana checks out of the conversation right about then, but she's good at faking it; she holds one of Quinn's hands in both of hers, and nods, while Quinn rambles on aimlessly about weird blue-skinned gilled aliens on a planet that doesn't have higher technology yet. Santana could care less about it, but Quinn is actually kinda cute when she talks about them, so she lets her do her thing.
When they finally dock, Quinn isn't looking so green, and Santana pats herself on the back for preforming her one good deed of the day.
"Let's get this over with." She tugs Quinn upwards, and ushers her forward.
After another series of security protocols, but this time administered by aliens that smell faintly like green mold and pretzels, with weird slimy tubes that serve as mouths and big, bulbous, jewel-colored eyes, Santana and Quinn are finally ushered into an office.
Santana stands next to Quinn as she unsnaps her briefcase on the table in front of her. When the ambassador comes in, Quinn smiles warmly and shakes his – uh, claws – and then they sit down.
Santana doesn't. She stands next to Quinn with her hands clasped in front of her and watches.
A lot of her job is just watching.
She's good at it.
Almost six hours later, Santana follows Quinn back down the corridor that would lead them to their shuttle. Santana is quiet because she can tell Quinn is tired – exhausted, maybe - and the corners of her eyes are tight and irritated. They sit down without a word, and instead of tensing up when the engines start, Quinn's head just flops back against the seat.
Santana has the urge to say – something. Something to comfort her, or encourage her. But every time she thinks of anything, she just can't say it, and so instead she watches Quinn's face wrinkle and tense during the flight, and doesn't say anything at all.
After they go through the protocol on their end, Santana snags Quinn's wrist and tugs her down the hallway that leads away from the debriefing office.
"What are you doing?" Quinn's voice is tired, but also annoyed. "Tanaka will want this report."
"Tanaka can fuck himself," Santana says. She turns her head, glancing furtively down the hallway, before pulling open a door and shoving Quinn through it.
Santana steps inside, shutting it behind her, and Quinn turns around with a fist on her hip.
"This is a supply closet." Quinn states, unnecessarily. There's a mop next to her. "We aren't doing this here."
"Yes, we are," Santana insists, and in a moment, she has her body pressed up against Quinn's. Quinn stumbles backwards, knocking into a shelf full of bottles of bleach and Pine-Sol. She lets out a surprised squeal that's silenced by Santana's mouth on hers.
When Santana pulls back, Quinn is a little breathless. "We can't – Santana –"
"Shh," Santana nips at the length of Quinn's neck, and she smiles at the way Quinn groans. "We can. You need it." She slips her hand beneath Quinn's shirt, untucking it, and she feels the way Quinn's stomach muscles coil and jump beneath her fingers. "Besides – did you really think you could get away with wearing this all day?"
Quinn laughs, but it ends on a moan – Santana's hands are working beneath Quinn's pants, now, and her mouth is busy trailing hot, wet kisses up and down Quinn's neck.
"I thought you'd like the heels."
Santana grins, and Quinn loses the ability to talk when Santana's fingers slip into her.
When it's over, Quinn's skin is hot and sticky and her hair is a curly, frizzy mess – but her body is relaxed. Santana loves that sated, satisfied expression on her face. She loves the way Quinn's cheeks are pink and flushed, and the way her heart pounds in her chest.
"Feel better?" Santana smirks.
"Yeah." Quinn adjusts herself, standing up unsteadily. "Thanks."
"Anytime."
"Santana." Quinn says her name curiously. Santana turns to look, and the expression on Quinn's face is guarded. "What are we doing?"
"I think that is pretty obvious, Fabray."
"I know you eat all the purple fruit snacks." Quinn's eyebrows wrinkle. "I know you don't care about the tribes of Si-doria."
Santana examines her nails, trying to seem nonchalant, though she feels a weird little tickle behind her breastbone. "What's your point?"
"This is something," Quinn says, and it makes Santana's heart squeeze.
"It's sex in a supply closet, Quinn." Santana's voice is clipped. "Don't try to turn it into some fairytale romance."
Quinn sighs. She looks at Santana, and the way her eyes roam Santana's face makes her feel uncomfortable, like something itchy is crawling over her skin.
"I'm tired of the games," Quinn says, and she does – she sounds tired.
"That's half the fun," Santana replies, but her heart isn't in it.
Quinn pauses, and presses her palm to Santana's cheek. Santana has time to count the speckles in Quinn's eyes before she finally pulls away.
"Figure it out soon, Santana. I'm tired of waiting."
Quinn leaves Santana standing in the closet, alone.
Santana's chest aches with something – too many emotions to name, a chaotic jumble pressing down on her heart.
She misses Quinn, though. Quinn has only been gone for a minute, but Santana already misses her.
Santana thinks she might be tired of waiting, too.