Santana had honestly thought that bribing/threatening Julian out of inviting Quinn Fabray to this party would have ended this problem but clearly, even Santana Lopez has moments of naivety.
Apparently, Quinn's getting on very well on her desperate quest for friends. In fact, she's surrounded by at least eight of them right now—audacious frat boys, that is; "friends" whose friends would obviously like to get to know Quinn very well.
Under usual circumstances, Santana would be amused. Quinn Fabray is nothing if not an attention whore, unless, of course, that attention is of the sexual nature, then she tends to shy away like a kicked puppy, citing bible verses and spewing feminist rants to account for her prudishness.
Right now, she is anything but prudish though.
Right now, she is very, very drunk.
It's not like Santana cares or anything but she's been sitting here for about an hour now, sipping her rum and coke and watching as red cup after red cup somehow makes it into Quinn's hands, some being passed on from guys Santana doesn't even recognize and she's been a frequent at ADPhi parties ever since Welcome Week of her freshman year.
The ADPi girls are here too, as usual, and Santana was really hoping to use this party as an opportunity to meet some of the new girls who recently pledged but every single time she scans the crowd, her eyes seem to divert back to Quinn; Quinn who has gone from drunkenly flitting from arm to arm of various very drunk frat guys to hanging off of the arm of one very particular, very calculating frat boy.
So typical.
Of all the guys at this party who would be happy to vie for even a little bit of Quinn's attention, Quinn would just so happen to gravitate towards the one who is such a man-whore that his reputation alone has granted him the frat nickname "bad news," a pseudonym that precedes him well with the number of girls that end up drunk in his bed and then end up the laughing stock of ADPhi the very next day after he brags about his exploits.
Santana doesn't even really have a problem with the guy; in fact, she's known him since freshman year, back when he was still Chase and just pledging for the fraternity and she was still coming into herself— deciding who she wanted to be here and how much of herself she was willing to be open about. He had pursued her endlessly and annoyingly back then until she eventually just told him she was a lesbian and he had laughed and told her that he was one too before Julian swooped in with his warnings about the dangers of hooking up with frat guys, especially wannabe frat guys and she came out to him too and that was really the end of that.
She hasn't really talked to Chase since but sometimes at these parties while she's at least pretending to pay attention to what some sorority girl is saying and he's got some drunk girl hanging off his every word, he tends to catch her eye across the room and she knows that he's trying to insinuate that they're one in the same—him and her—which really pisses her off to no end because they can't even be compared! He clearly intends to get the girl of his choice as drunk as possible—she's heard that he's even dabbled in harder stuff but that's a big accusation and she won't spread it unless she has proof—and she actually shows up to these things early, even before the alcohol is free-flowing because she actually prefers whichever blonde has caught her attention this time to be lucid by the time they sneak back to a room with far too many tallies lining ceilings and get intoxicated on something far more fulfilling than alcohol.
Seriously, Santana doesn't need alcohol to make chicks want her. Fuck, she doesn't even know how Chase does it because drunk girls are high on Santana's list of the most annoying things in the universe! Take Quinn Fabray right now, for instance; the way her cheeks are flushed red and she keeps throwing her head back to laugh at jokes that cannot possibly be that funny; it's disgustingly annoying.
It's still not nearly as disgustingly annoying as the fact that Quinn's pretty much letting Chase openly feel her up in the middle of a party!
She's so drunkenly pliable right now that it's nauseating. Even worse, it feels familiar! It feels like Santana's been here before, seen this before.
"Quinn's pretty drunk right now!"
Fuck, she's even heard that before!
/
"Quinn's like really drunk right now,"
Santana rolls her eyes, leaning back against the couch to take in the blonde hovering above her.
"I think you are like really drunk right now," she counters, smirking as Brittany's bottom lip pushes forward into a perfect pout.
"You know I'm not, San!" Brittany murmurs. "I've only been drinking soda, just like you told me to,"
Santana rolls her eyes again, glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention to them.
No one is.
The music is too loud and the cheap alcohol too abundant for anyone to even begin to think that the way Brittany is leaning over the back of the sofa—so close to Santana that her words kiss skin—is anything but her trying to be heard over the pulsing bass of some techno dance track.
In fact, the music is too loud and the cheap alcohol too abundant for anyone to even begin to notice that Brittany's been drinking straight Coke since the party started.
It's perfect really. Just how Santana wants it!
"You remember the plan?"
"Of course San," Brittany giggles, her breath tickling the back of Santana's neck.
"Ok then. Just, I don't know, take your top off or something when you're ready and I'll swoop in to take your drunk self home and nobody will question a thing,"
"And then we can get our sweet lady kisses on?"
"Yeah Britt-Britt. Just hurry with your signal! This party's lame; I don't wanna spend more time here than I have to,"
"But what about Quinn?"
"What about her?" Santana asks, beyond aggravated that Brittany isn't bounding off to go create a scene already! She seriously just wants to go back to Britt's to get her mack on.
"She's really drunk!"
"Whatever!" Santana scoffs. "She's a big girl, Britt. She can handle herself,"
"Yeah, but she'd take care of you if you were drunk, San," Brittany reasons, her bottom lip jutting out enough to break Santana's resolve in a way that her words won't.
"Fine," She groans. She's seriously only doing this because it's Brittany and she knows that disagreeing with Brittany right now will only hinder her plans for tonight. Besides, Quinn's house is on the way to Britt's anyway so they can drop off the prayer prude and finally have some alone time. "I'll grab her. Where is she?"
"Last time I saw her, she was back there dancing with Puck," Brittany replies, jutting her chin towards the makeshift dance floor where Cheerios' uniforms and McKinley jerseys seem to be spinning and blurring into blots of red.
Santana rolls her eyes, sitting up to glance across the mass of sweaty dancing bodies until she spots Quinn… and Puck and then she's seeing red as metaphorically as she is literally.
This is fucking typical of Quinn Fabray!
When they had devised their plan to climb the McKinley social ladder together, Quinn chose Finn; for some fucking reason or another, she saw that oafish boy wonder and envisioned him as her ladder to eventual senior prom queen so she flirted and batted her eyelashes and twirled around him in her pleated skirt until he fell all dopey-eyed in love with and from then on, Finn was Quinn's which of course left Santana—whose ambitions never quite soared as high as prom queen—with Finn's best friend, man-whore extraordinaire, Puck.
Santana has never minded really; she actually likes Puck. Most of the time at least. She likes him most when he's not collapsed on top of her all sweat and musk and wet kisses that send shivers down her spine in all the wrong ways but she can handle that because their arrangement works. Sometimes he strays and Santana has to do a little damage control and rough up whichever chick is foolish enough to concede to his advances but that only adds to her reputation in the end because girls are fucking terrified of her and that's the way Santana likes it.
This little Quinn obsession that Puck has developed can damage her in a way that Santana's not completely sure is fixable.
It shouldn't matter though because the last person who should be conceding to Puck's advances is Quinn, but here she is, letting him dip his palms entirely too low on her hips while she throws her head back against his shoulder, laughing pretentiously, all flushed cheeks and flirty glances.
Santana is fuming.
Santana is also not stupid enough to create a scene.
"Leave her. Let's just go!"
"But San—"
"Just drop it!" She gets up, tugging Brittany's arm for her to follow. "Let's go!"
/
"Let's go,"
"What?" Julian asks, looking absolutely stunned and more than a little confused.
"Julian, let's go help her,"
"For all the talk of her absolutely nauseating you, you wanna go help her?"
"She's drunk. She's clearly not thinking right,"
"And you care?"
She doesn't.
She doesn't want to at least but she was there when Quinn made this mistake last time; she was the one who came up with most of the preggers jokes after it.
It's not like she's trying to atone for it or anything, it's just, it would be stupid to let it happened again.
"She's our squad mate,"
"She wouldn't be if you had anything to do with it,"
Which is true; she would be thousands of miles away if Santana had anything to do with it but clearly Santana has nothing to do with it because Quinn is right here, stumbling drunkenly into Chase's arms, ready to let him carry her right into a night that she'll clearly regret in the morning.
She sighs irritably.
"Look, are you gonna help or what?"
/
Julian turns out to be pretty good help, especially when Santana almost completely levels Chase for grinning all too smugly and suggesting they just have a threesome if she wants Quinn too because he's gotten her "ready" enough for the both of them.
Quinn seems to have the same reaction as Santana to the suggestion because she bounds off to the bathroom positively green in the face. Santana almost stays to really give Chase a piece of her mind—or her fist—but Julian waves her off, gesturing for her to go after Quinn while he deals with the pissed off frat boy.
Surprisingly, she doesn't find the blonde slumped feebly over the toilet, instead, she finds her in the bathroom with her head tipped back against the wall and her eyes skyward, staring at a point on the ceiling.
When she gets closer, she can see that Quinn is trembling slightly, her chest heaving with breaths so quick and jagged that Santana's sure she's hyperventilating.
"Jeez, Fabray!" She wants to say something snarky—possibly even just really fucking insulting—but Quinn looks so honest to God shaken up that she can't really bring herself to do anything but tell her to take deep breaths and run soothing circles on her shoulder until she's at least almost sure that she isn't going to die right this moment.
"You ok?"
Quinn nods shakily, closing her eyes tightly. She tries to peel herself off of the wall but she stumbles a bit and Santana reaches out to steady her.
"Here," she puts Quinn's arm around her shoulder, taking a bit of her weight. Quinn curves into her and Santana wonder if it's muscle memory, if it's the numerous Cheerios injuries that put them in this same position that makes this so easy. She also wonders if it's muscle memory that makes Quinn's other arm flop uselessly to her side like she was expecting someone else to be there the same exact way that Santana glanced past her, expecting to be met by worried blue eyes.
This is exactly why Santana doesn't want Quinn near her, because there are too many memories, too many triggers for those memories in Quinn but this isn't high school; this is her new life which apparently now includes Quinn Fabray as her squad mate; Quinn Fabray who is wasted right now and needs her help.
She sighs, pulling Quinn more firmly into her and taking a tentative step forward. .
Clearly, she's just gonna have suck it up and roll with these punches as they come.
Starting now.
"Where do you live, Q? I'll take you home,"
/
Apparently, she lives on campus which is about ten minutes too far out of Santana's way so she takes her to her one-bedroom apartment instead.
Quinn's dramatic near death experience seems to have sobered her up a bit because Santana doesn't even have to help her out of the car when she gets home and she only stumbles once—Santana steadies her again, thank God— on their trek up three flights of stairs.
"You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the couch," Santana says once they're in the apartment.
Some books are thrown hazardously over random places and there are a few jackets strewn over most available flat surfaces but it's clean and it's homey enough for a student apartment and most importantly, there's nothing Santana spies that she needs to subtly get rid of in Quinn's presence. In fact, Quinn's not even really taking in her surroundings anyway; she's taking in Santana instead.
"Santana," she grasps Santana's arm before she can put distance between them. "Thanks,"
There's something in the way she says it; even though she should be disgustingly drunk, her voice is startlingly clear and her eyes so genuine that Santana knows she's not just thanking for giving her the crappy bed in comparison to the crappy couch; she's thanking her for everything.
It doesn't change anything though. So, Santana's resigned herself to the fact that she's going to have to deal with the reemergence of Quinn Fabray, doesn't mean she wants to be her friend or anything.
"I didn't do it for you," she states lamely even though I did it because I didn't do it last time almost slips off her tongue and she covers it up with a scowl and arms crossed tightly across her chest.
"Believe it or not, I have a conscience and I don't need you getting raped at a frat party on it,"
Quinn smiles softly at her, reaching out to touch her again even though this time it's fleeting, just fingertips quickly brushing against her knuckles.
"Thanks anyway," she says. "I kind of have a track record for doing stupid things while drunk, don't I?"
"Sure do," Santana agrees and she thinks that's the end of it. She's done her good deed for the century and she's completing it by gathering some clean sheets and pouring Quinn a glass of water.
She's in the kitchen area wishing the water filter didn't run so slowly when Quinn speaks again.
"You know, I saw her. Beth. In New York,"
Santana manages to keep her surprise off of her face but she doesn't have to because when she glances up at Quinn, she's leaning with her back against the couch and her eyes are fixed on the floor.
Santana kind of wishes she really was disgustingly drunk right now instead of disgustingly sad.
"She's perfect," Quinn sighs, nervously playing with the material of the couch. "She's so perfect,"
"Well, I'm pretty sure your parents genetically mutated you to have perfect genes, so it's not surprising." Santana aims for humor even though she's pretty sure it's disturbingly true.
Her attempt at diversion goes nowhere though because when Quinn lifts her head to look at her, the undertones of their whole evening are right there on the surface, shimmering in Quinn's eyes.
"You know how many times I've thought back to that night and wished I would have done something differently. I mean, you never expect one night to alter your life so much but I knew he didn't have a condom—"
"You knew?"
Santana doesn't even try to hide her surprise this time, not when everything she's thought about that night, everything she's heard and assumed, has been shattered with one statement because Quinn knew and she risked it anyway.
Quinn nods shakily.
"All along,"
"And you didn't you stop him?" Santana asks, crossing over to her now because she's curious, mostly confused, but more than a little curious.
Quinn shrugs but it doesn't take that weight off of her shoulders; she looks heavier now than Santana has ever seen her, wrought full with regret and fear and just enough hope that she doesn't shatter.
"Maybe I wanted to feel something," she says. "Haven't you ever felt like that? Like, just so empty that you'd give anything, do anything, go anywhere just to feel even a tiny something?"
"No," the denial slips out without thought because Santana is so used to denying everything but there are maybe two people in the world who know when Santana's not quite being honest and she's leaning on the back of her couch next to one of them and the other is so deep-rooted in just about every interaction she and Quinn have shared that her presence has been hovering like a phantom limb ever since Quinn walked into that try-out.
Santana sighs, knowing that Quinn's silence is far from her acceptance of her answer but because she'd rather not waste her time if Santana's not going to be honest.
"Maybe I liked feeling nothing," she admits.
Quinn nods in understanding.
"Because something hurts too much?" she broaches, treading lightly over the subject like she knows that stepping on it too harshly could be explosive.
Santana just nods, suddenly exhausted.
"Because something hurts too much," she agrees, handing the glass of water over to Quinn and gesturing towards the bedroom door.
"Good night, Quinn,"
Quinn smiles at her, nudging Santana with her arm slightly like they've made some kind of progress or something.
"Night, Santana," she says softly, disappearing behind the bedroom door.
Santana stares at the closed door until the pristine white blurs her vision. She wonders if they really did make progress. She wonders even more if she really minds.
Thanks for the reviews guys! I think I finally know the direction I want to go with this but if you have suggestions or anything then feel free to tell me or you can hit me up at my tumblr: downlikeyourinternet (dot) tumblr (dot) com.
Review please!