Author's Note: A Santaresa side-story. Concurrent with It's the Life We're Living Now.
This has mostly been an exercise in battling writer's block. Unbeta'd and very rough. As always, if you're not into Santana, skip this one.
Rest Your Soul With Me
So will you roll with me? Rest your soul with me?
Will you hold me when I'm broken up inside?
Will you go with me? Will you roam with me
and take the road that twists in a crooked line?
You need love? Take all of mine.
~Crooked Road, Kate Voegele
Teresa knows that something is wrong the moment she opens the door and finds Santana awake. The lights in the apartment are all off except for the flickering television that's currently casting eerie shadows across a mildly scowling face. The volume is barely discernible enough for Teresa to guess that she's watching an old episode of Botched. Santana only seems to do that when she's feeling surly and needs something to mock.
It's well past three o'clock in the morning but still about an hour earlier than Teresa typically gets home after a late shift at Weather Up. Home, of course, is technically still the small apartment that she shares with Kate in Brooklyn, but she hadn't felt like taking the subway all the way back there, so she'd decided to take advantage of the key that Santana had given her two months ago for nights—well, mornings—exactly like this one. It's nice to have somewhere relatively closer to her workplace to crash and a girlfriend who cares enough about her safety to insist that she come here in a cab and let herself in whenever she needs to.
She needs to more often than not lately. True; the need is really more of a want, but Santana doesn't seem to be complaining.
Tonight, she'd expected to find Santana snoring softly (despite her insistence that she absolutely does not snore) and sprawled across her queen-sized mattress in a way that always challenges Teresa's creativity while attempting to quietly crawl into bed next to her. Those attempts always seem to fail miserably, waking up Santana just enough to earn Teresa a gruff, "C'm'ere," before she's pulled into a soft, sleepy body and cuddled (despite Santana's insistence that she also does not cuddle) for a couple of hours until Santana inevitably has to get up for some god-awful early morning shift at the hospital.
The only time the routine seems to vary is when Santana is battling the grief and guilt that too often seems to come with the patients she can't save, but so far that's involved more crying and less staring broodingly at bad television shows.
Taking a breath, Teresa shifts her bag off her shoulder and cautiously makes her way over to the couch. Santana's gaze abandons the television to cling to her as she moves closer, and while Teresa can't see any traces of tears through the dimness, there's a certain tension to Santana's posture and a tightness in her jaw that makes her a little wary.
"Hey, you're up late," she murmurs, dropping her bag to the floor and sinking down onto the cushions next to her girlfriend. The blue, cotton sleep-shorts and flimsy tank top she's currently sporting are proof that Santana had at some point at least intended to curl up in bed and sleep. Finding her still in scrubs would have meant that she was so upset that she hadn't even made the effort. "Did something happen at the hospital?"
Teresa had learned fairly early on that it's best to not to ask Santana open-ended questions—like what's wrong?— when she gets like this because, nine times out of ten, it's met with an irritated roll of dark eyes and a sarcastic barb or a defensive nothing instead of a real answer. It's better to be direct, so Teresa starts with the hospital because, as far as she knows, everything else in Santana's life, including their relationship, has been really good lately.
"Something always happens at the hospital," Santana mutters flatly before shaking her head and offering Teresa a forced smile. "But no, it was fine." She huffs out a humorless laugh, rolling her eyes. "Today was actually a pretty good day as far as works goes. It was my evening that got set on fire and shot out of a canon right into Shitville."
Teresa frowns thoughtfully, reaching out to sift her fingers through the loose ends of Santana's hair where it falls against her shoulder. "What happened?"
"Quinn happened," Santana grumbles irritably, shaking her head again before purposely looking away from Teresa and back to the television.
It isn't what Teresa is expecting, and she waits a few moments for the colorful tirade that will reveal whatever Quinn has said or done to rile up Santana this time. They might be best friends—Teresa has witnessed firsthand how much they genuinely seem to love one another—but they apparently still have moments when their opposing alpha personalities come out to play in less than friendly ways. According to Rachel, their occasional little spats are absolutely nothing compared to what they used to be like back in high school.
After some of the stories that she's been told, Teresa is not-so-secretly happy that she'd met all three of them now that they're older and allegedly more mature—well, usually anyway.
When Santana only continues to stare at the television (where Doctor Dubrow examines a man who wants an ass implant) without even offering up a snarky insult, Teresa has to wonder what exactly Quinn did to put Santana in this mood. "Did you two get in a fight?" she finally asks, moving her hand to rub sympathetic circles over the knot of tension she finds at the back of Santana's neck.
"I wish," Santana answers huffily. "Then I could've just slapped the bitch."
Teresa squeezes the flesh beneath her fingers in a gentle warning, causing Santana to flinch slightly. She's fairly sure that Santana is mostly joking, but she also knows that Santana has a temper that she'd reportedly been less inclined to tame in her misspent youth.
"Hey…kidding," Santana insists with mild scowl. "Verbal slaps only," she clarifies, lifting a hand to bat away Teresa's fingers before they can inflict anymore damage. "Your tender loving care could use some work there, Rese."
"I'll start with the TLC when you stop threatening violence to your best friend and tell me what happened."
Santana sighs in frustration, and her eyes dart away again. "It's so stupid," she mumbles irritably, slumping down deeper into the couch cushions and crossing her arms petulantly. "She just…dragged her ridiculous marriage drama over here, dumped it in my lap, made me get inside her crazy wife's headspace…which is a place I never wanna visit," she complains with an exaggerated shudder. "And then she cries all over me for two hours…and you know how I hate that squishy emo crap."
"So…Quinn and Rachel had a fight," Teresa works out, dismissing the rest of Santana's rant for the defense mechanism that it is. Santana doesn't hate that squishy emo crap nearly as much as she claims—she just hates letting anyone but a select few see her express it. Teresa counts herself pretty lucky to be one of those select few.
Santana nods jerkily, back to staring unseeingly at the television just the way she'd been doing when Teresa had found her ten minutes ago, and Teresa finally understands that Santana must have been brooding all night over whatever it was that Quinn had shared with her. "Is it serious?"
It's weird. Teresa hasn't really known Quinn and Rachel Fabray for very long—she doesn't really bother to count their brief association all those years ago when she'd only seen them a handful of times in her bar—but she considers them to be her friends now, and she discovers that she's a little bothered by the thought of them having a serious disagreement. They've always seemed so happy and in love whenever she's been around them, though she supposes that appearances can be deceiving. She knows from some of those other stories she's been told that Quinn and Rachel weren't always so in sync.
Santana shrugs despondently. "I don't really know," she admits quietly.
"What are they fighting about?"
A pained expression settles over Santana's features. "I can't tell you," she says apologetically. "I want to, but I promised Quinn I'd keep my mouth shut about it until she gets it settled with Rachel. If she gets it settled with Rachel," she adds with a troubled frown. "I'm sorry."
"Hey…no." Teresa shakes her head, curling her arm around Santana's shoulder and urging her closer. "You don't have to be sorry for being a good friend. I don't need the details." She's not going to deny that she's as curious as hell about them, but she's not one to keep digging for information that isn't offered up voluntarily. It's one of the qualities that she thinks makes her a good bartender—she's happy to listen but reluctant to pry. She's found the approach works pretty well with Santana too. "I just want to make sure that you're okay."
Santana relaxes into her side, dropping her arms out of their defensive position and curling a palm over Teresa's thigh with a grateful sigh. "Yeah, I am," she promises. "Like I said…it's stupid. I'm just pissed Quinn ruined my nice, relaxing evening."
"You're not pissed," Teresa corrects knowingly. "You're worried about your friends."
Santana doesn't bother to deny it this time, and that—in addition to the fact that she keeps using their actual names instead of one of the many colorful nicknames that she has for them—proves just how worried she actually is.
"I know I make fun of them for being all domesticated, but it's only because I….I kinda envy them, you know," Santana eventually admits, and Teresa does know. While it's true that Santana had been allergic to commitment when they'd first met, Teresa knows the story behind all of that now, and she's learned that Santana really does believe in love and family and marriages that last. She wants those things for herself now that she feels like she's ready for them.
"I thought they had it all figured out," Santana continues, shaking her head in disappointment. "They worked through all the dumbass decisions they made when they were kids and actually got to a place where they just sort of…fit together. I mean, yeah, they can get bitchy with each other sometimes, but it's never about the stuff that really matters anymore. It's all nit-picky shit, like Rachel being a slob around the apartment or Quinn getting lost in her books and ignoring her wife. I didn't think I'd legit have to worry about Quinn ending up on my pull-out again once they got hitched."
"Well…she's not here now," Teresa points out with a worried frown, realizing again just how serious Santana believes this might be. She's itching with curiosity, but she does her best to ignore the desire to pick at it. "So that means Quinn went home to talk to Rachel, right?"
"Yeah, she did," Santana confirms with a sigh.
Teresa reaches down to where Santana's hand still rests on her thigh and threads their fingers together. "Try not to worry so much, Ana," she encourages gently, using the pet name she only ever dares utter when they're completely alone. "Quinn and Rachel are big girls, and they clearly love one another. I'm sure they're capable of working through whatever they're fighting about. You shouldn't be losing sleep over them."
Santana loses far too much sleep over other things in Teresa's opinion—and she doesn't mean the voluntary all-nighters they occasionally share in her bed.
"I'm not," Santana dismisses.
"Really?" Teresa prods, not bothering to disguise the skepticism in either her tone or her expression.
Santana huffs irritably. "Fine…maybe I am," she reluctantly admits with a shrug. "It just got me thinking about….stuff."
The telling pause at the end along with Santana's general restlessness has uncertainty twisting in Teresa's stomach. "What kind of stuff? Or can you not tell me that either?" she asks, aiming for lightness but suspecting that she's fallen short of her goal when Santana's hand tightens around hers.
Dark eyes are suddenly staring intently into hers. "You'd tell me if I was fucking this up, right?"
The question takes her completely by surprise, and even after a good twenty seconds of silence in which she can do nothing more than stare at her girlfriend in confusion, her brain fails to formulate a response beyond a stupefied, "What?"
Santana purses her lips and leans away, purposely putting an extra inch of distance between their bodies, and her gaze finds some unknown spot on the wall before she speaks again. "I mean, you've never hesitated to call me out on my bullshit. We don't hold back with each other or tiptoe around the hard stuff. And yeah, I know it's only been, like, six months, but I feel like we've got a pretty good thing here." Santana's eyes come back to meet hers, and Teresa nearly loses her breath at the vulnerability shining in them. "You'd tell me straight up if I'm not what you want for the long haul, right?"
It's on the tip of her tongue to tell Santana that she's exactly what Teresa wants for the long haul, but it has only been six months, and that's still a pretty big, scary admission to make at this stage of their relationship—and not one that Teresa particularly wants to make with Santana in this mood. So it seems like maybe they do actually tiptoe around some of the hard stuff.
"Where is this even coming from?" Teresa asks gently, ignoring for the moment how this may or may not relate back to Quinn's visit and focusing solely on the reason why Santana is suddenly questioning their relationship.
At first, she doesn't think Santana is going to answer her. She has that look on her face—the one that's part annoyance and all defensive—and Teresa waits for her to shrug it all off and say forget it. But then Santana hisses out a sharp breath and confesses, "I just don't want to end up blindsided someday when I thought we were on the same page, okay? I'd rather know upfront if you feel like we're hitting some kind of wall we can't get over. You would tell me if that happens," she stubbornly repeats.
Teresa can see how much her answer matters to Santana, and it's not so hard to guess where it's probably coming from. She can admit now that she'd stayed in her last relationship longer than she should have, hoping that Olivia would change her mind about how open they could be in public and believing that it would somehow fix all the other problems they'd had between them. She wouldn't say that she'd blindsided Olivia though—it's not like her ex hadn't known that Teresa wasn't satisfied with the semi-closeted life they'd been living.
There's a tiny flash of irritation that Santana might be holding her last relationship against her while she imagines the hypothetical ending of this one, but it's smothered pretty fast by the realization that she honestly seems worried that she might somehow be fucking this up. The irritation briefly shifts to Quinn for sending Santana down this road before she forcibly reminds herself that Quinn hadn't done it on purpose—or probably hadn't, anyway.
It just happens that all that cool confidence that Santana projects to the world is mostly a shield to keep people from seeing how deep her emotions actually run.
Teresa has seen it.
She's seeing it now.
"Hey," she says softly, turning on the couch to face Santana more fully and lifting a hand to her cheek. "I'd tell you if there was something I didn't think we could work out," she promises, silently conceding that she'll probably be inclined to believe they could work out most things at first—like she'd thought she and Olivia could work it out. "But right now, I'm only seeing things that make me want to stick around for a really long time."
Sure, Santana hadn't been the easiest nut to crack, emotionally speaking, but Teresa loves everything that she's seen under the shell, and she's pretty sure she wants to spend the rest of her life discovering every new, hidden facet of Santana Lopez. But yeah, okay, she does still worry a little that actually saying that out loud right now will spook Santana and send her scrambling to get her key back and change the lock on her door—which is exactly why she isn't saying it out loud.
"So you dig the fact that I'm still a bitch most days and practically live at the hospital?" Santana pushes, the words virtually dripping with sarcasm.
"I don't dig it," Teresa admits with a wry smile, "but I can deal with it." She's not exactly a saint herself—the only thing she has in common with Mother Teresa is the name. She can more than handle Santana's bitchy side. "As long as you don't trip and fall into bed with some random nurse, I think I'll keep you."
The storm of emotions that's been raging over Santana's face calms, settling into relief with a hint of amusement, and a soft smile briefly touches her lips before it curves into a familiar smirk. "Can I trip and fall into bed with you in a nurse's uniform?"
Teresa laughs quietly, relieved to see a bit of the mischief back in her girlfriend's eyes. "Find me one and we can play doctor anytime you want, tiger."
Santana moans in appreciation at the promise—her eyes briefly falling closed—before she licks her lips and levels Teresa with a hungry look. "Can we play now?"
"Don't you have to be at the hospital in, like, two hours?" Teresa asks, amused by her girlfriend's predictability but more concerned for her overall well-being. Sending Santana to work exhausted isn't something Teresa particularly wants to do even under the best of circumstances, and while she obviously doesn't have a psych degree—she doesn't have any degree since she'd dropped out of college after three semesters—she somehow doubts that sex is the healthiest resolution to the discussion they've been having.
"Nope," Santana answers with a devilish grin. "My shift doesn't start until two. We've got all morning," she reveals before she practically crawls over Teresa in order to straddle her legs—all dark eyes and sexy smirk. "So why don't you let me give you a thorough examination?"
Santana's hands are already slipping underneath her t-shirt in an attempt to do just that, and Teresa's body responds accordingly to the gorgeous woman in her lap. Her palms automatically mold to the curve of Santana's ass, fingertips grazing the exposed skin where those very short shorts ride up enticingly. "Shouldn't you…you know…actually try to get some rest before you have to work?" Teresa already knows this is a losing battle, but she'll be damned if she surrenders without at least trying to do the responsible thing.
Santana barely pauses the in-depth breast exam that she's currently conducting. "I'll catch a nap after we fuck each other into a sex coma," she promises huskily before capturing Teresa's answering moan with her lips.
The kiss turns carnal almost immediately, devouring any objection Teresa might have made—not that she'd been particularly committed to objecting. Maybe that makes her selfish, but with Santana on top of her and rocking her hips in an enticing rhythm, she just doesn't fucking care. She knows without a doubt that Santana can deliver on her promise of a sex coma. She might be adorably inept when it comes to actual romance, but she's incredibly skilled in the bedroom. Eight hours is more than enough time for multiple orgasms with a few hours to spare for actual sleep.
Except—
"You know you're not fucking this up, right?" Teresa manages to ask when she finally tears her mouth away from Santana's heated kisses. She needs to be certain that Santana is fully here with her and isn't just trying to fuck away whatever stuff she's been brooding over tonight.
Surprisingly, Santana doesn't answer her with some snarky innuendo. There's only a quiet, "Yeah," breathed out past a grateful smile in a rare moment of vulnerability. The hands that had been busy beneath Teresa's shirt slip down and out, and one comes up to gently stroke Teresa's cheek. "In fact, I'm feeling pretty damn good right now," Santana assures her with an air of her usual confidence as she lets her smile curl into something far more playful. "Guess you're not so bad with the tender loving care after all."
"The loving part is pretty easy," Teresa admits tenderly. "Because I do, you know? I love you, Santana."
It's hardly the first time she's said it, but every time she does, all of Santana's squishy emo feelings are painted in vivid colors across her face. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.
"I love you, too, Resa."
And that's the most beautiful thing she's heard.
"So fucking much," Santana adds gruffly before she's putting her mouth to better use, and Teresa lets herself get swept away in in the torrent of arousal that Santana so easily unleashes in her. Whatever drama that had put Santana in her earlier mood is lost to the world they create together inside her apartment.
xx
Santana meets Rachel for lunch three days later. Teresa doesn't expect to hear about anything they discuss. She only asks how Rachel is doing in the general sense, and Santana only tells her, "She's doing what she does. Balancing Q's crazy with her own."
"So they're okay?" Teresa verifies, attempting to decipher Santana's true opinion from her mocking quip.
"They're not calling any divorce lawyers. So, yeah," she decides with a shrug. "We're invited to Rachel's opening night shindig next Friday, by the way," she reveals, dismissing any further speculation on the state of her friends' marriage. "Madam Diva didn't score us free tickets to her show," she grumbles, rolling her eyes, "but we're at least getting the friends-of-Rachel-Berry discount, and there'll be free food and booze at the after party. Plus, you know, a celebrity or two." Santana slips her hands around Teresa's waist and curls her fingers into the belt loops on her jeans with a playful grin. "You in?"
An immediate hell yes wants to come tumbling out. Not only is she eager to see Rachel's new show, but the possibility of rubbing elbows with a roomful of the rich and famous is way too tempting to pass up. The only problem is, "I'm scheduled to work next Friday." Santana's smile falls into a disappointed pout, and Teresa grins at the sight of it. "But you better believe I'm getting the night off now. Fred still owes me a favor for working two of his happy hour shifts last month."
Santana's grin is back in an instant, and she tugs Teresa closer by her belt loops. "It's a date then. You can wear one of those sexy dresses you hide in the back of your closet."
"All two of them," Teresa jokes, though it's not far from the truth. She's always been more comfortable in jeans, but she's not opposed to putting on a nice dress when the occasion arises. It's just that she never really had many occasions arise before she'd started dating Santana.
"Say the word and I'll buy you a dozen."
Teresa laughs at what she knows to be a legitimate offer and shakes her head. "Knowing your taste in dresses, I might as well just paint one on."
Santana's lips curve into a wicked grin as she unashamedly cups Teresa's ass. "That works for me too. Maybe you could use that edible paint."
A matching grin blooms on Teresa's face at the memory of the other times they'd used that paint—Santana's body really is a magnificent canvas for her to work on—but, "I don't think the Broadway crowd would really appreciate that particular form of artistic expression."
"Their loss," Santana dismisses. "Your form is so fine."
There's really no arguing with that, so Teresa threads her fingers into Santana's hair with a come-hither smile before closing the distance between them to claim her lips. The rest of their day is spent appreciating the unparalleled fineness of each other's forms—both with and without the edible body paint.
xx
When the official opening night of Confessions rolls around, Teresa is eager to escort Santana to the show. Neither one of them have seen any of the previews, though she knows Santana had had the chance to go with Quinn on a couple of the nights that Teresa had been working. Instead, she'd opted to wait until they could see it together, and Teresa is grateful for that. Getting dressed up and going out with her gorgeous, successful girlfriend to see the newest Broadway musical in the premium seats certainly beats the hell out those days of picking up whatever discount tickets were available for a last minute matinee and squeezing into a single seat between sweaty strangers in the second balcony.
The show is phenomenal. Teresa doesn't only think so because Rachel's character is a struggling artist. (She'd even spent a few hours shadowing Teresa's attempts to paint in the name of research for her role.) The music and lyrics are an entertaining mix of catchy and inspirational, and the story itself is as heartbreaking as it is heartwarming. Rachel, of course, is brilliant.
There's a standing ovation that lasts all the way through two curtain calls.
Santana's hand is warm and firm around hers as she leads them backstage with their VIP passes to offer up their congratulations to Rachel before heading to the party at Espace. When they get to her dressing room, they have to wait their turn behind a small group of supposed-friends, much to Santana's annoyance. "They're her friends like I'm her piece on the side," Santana snarks under hear breath, and—ignoring the crude reference to some of the wilder rumors about Santana's role in her friends' lives—Teresa is inclined to believe her. She gets the feeling that she's already met pretty much everyone that Rachel and Quinn (and Santana) consider to be their true friends.
Despite Santana's general impatience, Teresa knows that she isn't going anywhere until she grudgingly (or so she'll swear up and down) accepts Rachel's thank-you-for-coming hug. It's really just a thin excuse for Santana to give Rachel a congratulatory hug, and everyone in the room knows it. Their weird version of friendship really is ridiculous sometimes.
Rachel is practically glowing from the high of her performance, and Quinn is right there next to her beaming with pride. Teresa hasn't seen them since whatever incident had put Santana into that funk a few weeks ago, so she finds herself studying the couple with a critical eye, trying to determine if there's any lingering tension. If there is, she really can't see it.
It's not until two hours later that she wonders if she might have been too hasty with her assessment.
For the most part, Teresa hasn't been thinking much about Rachel or Quinn. She's been too in awe of the room she's in and the fact that she's up close and personal with people that she's only ever seen on television or in magazines—because yeah, sure, she's aware that Rachel is technically famous, and Quinn too if you're really into the literary scene, but she never thinks of them that way. She thinks of them as Santana's friends—and her own now. But, like, Neil Patrick Harris and Patti LuPone and Anne Hathaway are all here, in this room, to celebrate the opening of Rachel's show. Teresa was sitting in the audience with them, and now she's here in the same space as them, and she's been introduced to a few of them, and it's taking every ounce of chill she possesses not to fangirl and ask for autographs. Frankly, she'd nearly passed out when Anne—yeah, she's calling her Anne now—had mentioned recognizing her name from a painting that an acquaintance of hers had bought from the gallery earlier in the year. She'd even taken a card.
Anne Hathaway has her card and might possibly buy one of her paintings!
She thinks that's a perfectly valid reason for not paying much attention to their friends.
But at some point, she does notice that Rachel doesn't seem to be basking in the attention of her admirers quite as fervently as Teresa has come to expect from her. And she notices the almost wistful way that Rachel watches Quinn whenever they're drawn into separate conversations. And she definitely notices when Quinn makes a hasty retreat to the ladies' room with a pained expression on her face, only to be followed a few minutes later by her wife. And despite Santana's insistence that the couple has a thing for bathroom rendezvous, Teresa really doubts that they're ticking another location off their to-do list, especially when they reappear five minutes later only to claim exhaustion and say their goodnights.
But it is extremely late—or extremely early to be technical—and Rachel did deliver a high energy performance earlier that evening, and not everyone is a night owl like Teresa tends to be. And they both really had looked exhausted in that bone deep way that betrays a weariness of both body and mind.
"Do you think they're still having problems?" Teresa asks in concern, glancing at Santana.
"I think they're still fixing them," she answers with a thoughtful expression. "But someone pretty smart told me that those two bitches are capable of dealing with their own shit, so I shouldn't worry about them."
Teresa rolls her eyes. "I think someone phrased it a little nicer than that."
"Still good advice," Santana insists, tucking her arm around Teresa's waist. "And I'm really not as worried about them anymore," she admits with a shrug, and Teresa trusts her judgement on the subject more than her own. "I'd much rather spend my time thinking about you and me. So what do you say we get out of here too so I can get you home and out of that dress?"
The suggestion is not at all unappealing, and a thrill of anticipation races through Teresa at what could be the perfect end to a(n almost) perfect night on the town. "But you worked so hard to get me into this dress," she teases, running her hands over the simple black dress that manages to flatter her figure while still being perfectly respectable for a Broadway premiere. And it's true—Santana had lobbied hard for this dress with smoldering eyes and innuendo-laced compliments.
Those same smoldering eyes unabashedly travel the length Teresa's body before her lips curl into a feral grin. "And now that I've had a whole night to fully appreciate the total package, I'm more than ready to unwrap it. And trust me," she murmurs, pressing those smiling lips close enough to Teresa's ear to make her shiver, "it won't take any effort at all to get to my prize."
Teresa manages to suppress the moan that wants to slip out. "There's that ego again."
"Oh, please. You love it," Santana accuses huskily, oozing confidence.
"Not as much as I love your boobs," Teresa counters cheekily, letting her gaze drop down to appreciate the ample cleavage that Santana is so fond of showing off. Her dress can be considered respectable for a Broadway premiere by only the very loosest of standards—that being that it technically covers all the parts that might get her arrested.
Santana sucks in a quick breath, making that ample cleavage rise enticingly. "Yeah, we're leaving," she announces before finding Teresa's hand and determinedly leading her through the crowd.
Teresa follows without complaint.
xx
They sleep late on Saturday, exhausted from the previous night and the accompanying activities that had lasted well into the morning. Santana has the whole day off from the hospital, but Teresa has to leave for work midway through the afternoon. Working the rest of the weekend is the price she has to pay for successfully getting out of her shift on Friday. Santana grumbles about her stupid schedule when it comes time to let her go, but Teresa can tell by the sated sparkle in her eyes that she'll be just fine for the rest of the day.
"Maybe I'll go annoy Lucy Q since the midget has two shows today."
It's Santana-speak for checking up on her friends, and the fact that she's back to the nicknames seems like a fairly good sign that she really isn't all that worried about them anymore.
Teresa ends up back at Santana's place in the wee hours of Sunday morning to find her girlfriend awake and waiting for her once again. She doesn't have the chance to ask her if anything is wrong because Santana's lips immediately find hers and everything feels increasingly right. Teresa doesn't feel the need to question anything after that.
Santana is back on a ridiculously early rotation at the hospital on Monday, so when Teresa makes use of her key after closing the bar, they barely have time for a quick hello before Santana has to get ready for work.
Teresa has been waking up with the itch to paint for a few days now, and she doesn't have to be back at the bar until Wednesday afternoon. She really needs to catch a few hours of sleep right now, but, "I think I'm gonna try to paint this week," she informs her girlfriend. "So I'll be out of your hair for a few nights."
The tired scowl that Santana typically wears in protest of being awake (for work) at this time of the morning deepens into something close to a pout. "I like you in my hair. Why can't you just paint here?"
Teresa smiles at the mildly petulant tone, shaking her head in amusement. "Besides the fact that all my art supplies are at home?"
"You could bring them here," Santana argues, tapping her nails impatiently against the side of her coffee mug.
"And set up a canvas in the middle of your loft for you to trip over every time you get in and out of bed?" Teresa questions with a laugh, though she sobers quickly when Santana's frown only deepens. "I mean, I love your place," she's quick to placate, "but the only decent lighting is right there," she points out, gesturing to the miniscule space in front of the window by the bed, "and I really don't think you want me setting up a makeshift studio practically on top of your mattress and making your whole apartment smell like paint."
"And your tiny bedroom in Brooklyn is better?" she scoffs.
Teresa lifts a hand to cup her girlfriend's cheek with affection. "Only because it's mine to make a mess of without worrying about it." She strokes her thumb across Santana's cheekbone once more before dropping her hand. "And anyway, I need to spend some time there or Kate might be tempted to rent my half of the apartment out to someone else."
Santana stares at her for a long moment before muttering, "Whatever," and dropping her eyes to her half-empty coffee mug.
Teresa bites back her annoyance with Santana's moodiness because she doesn't want to argue with her before she leaves for the hospital—especially not when Santana is clearly only being moody because she wants Teresa to be here when she gets home. But she feels like she's been neglecting her art, and she doesn't want to let this current burst of inspiration slip away. "I'll probably crash here again on Thursday morning," she offers, knowing it will be more convenient to stay in Manhattan when she has to work again on Friday.
Santana shrugs half-heartedly. "Guess I'll see you then."
Teresa sighs, wondering why Santana is suddenly being so difficult about this. It isn't like this is the first time she's felt the need to have a few days alone with her oils and canvas. Reaching out again, she gently tips up Santana's chin until she can look into her eyes. "You'll see me then," she reiterates before leaning in to brush a quick kiss across her lips. "Now go save lives, Doctor Lopez."
A reluctant smile pulls up the corners of Santana's mouth as she rolls her eyes. "Yes, dear."
xx
A week later, Teresa is back at Santana's apartment, and there's a new painting back in Brooklyn waiting for its chance to possibly hang on the gallery wall if Georgia likes it well enough. She can never really predict which of her pieces will strike the woman's fancy, but she tries not to let any rejections stifle her creativity, and she does have her own barebones website filled with images of her work in the hopes of enticing a few more buyers.
All-in-all, she doesn't expect that she'll be able to give up her job at the bar anytime soon, and really, she still generally loves working there. It's just that she currently doesn't love the weeks when her schedule and Santana's are so completely at odds that they barely see one another. She doesn't think she's at risk of becoming codependent or anything; she just likes spending time with her girlfriend when they're both actually awake and functioning on more than an hour or two of sleep.
Today is one of the rare days when Teresa isn't working at the bar and Santana is home for the evening after a thirteen hour shift at the hospital. They're currently cleaning up the kitchen after a nice, relaxing dinner—well, Teresa is cleaning up. Santana is leaning against the counter and watching her while she nurses the last drops of her Corona. Teresa is letting her get away with it only because it's the fourth thirteen hour shift she's had this week and she'd come home exhausted and looking generally paler than should be possible for her skin-tone.
Even so—
"You're lucky I love you," she grumbles good-naturedly as she side-eyes her girlfriend. "Otherwise I'd leave you here to do your share of the clean-up while I go home to paint."
She's not entirely sure, but she thinks she might catch a glimpse of Santana wincing ever-so-slightly. She's definitely sure she hears a sigh which makes her turn her head fully. "Yeah, about that," Santana mutters as she stares down at her nearly empty bottle of beer. "I've been thinking. This whole thing with you going back to Brooklyn to paint is kinda lame."
Teresa drops the pot she's rinsing into the sink with a thud. "Excuse me?"
"Not, like, the painting part," Santana explains hastily, obviously realizing that she'd just put her foot in her mouth. "The Brooklyn part." And that doesn't make it much better in Teresa's opinion. Brooklyn is her home, after all. "I mean, I get it," Santana continues, setting her bottle down on the counter. "You're used to having your own space to be all creative in, and my space is…not really all that spacious," she admits with a wry smile and a helpless shrug. "My papi bought me this apartment when I started at Columbia, and it's been great for me…but it's not just me now." The almost shy grin that accompanies her soft proclamation is nothing but endearing. "I probably should have upgraded a while ago, but…you know…awesome bachelorette pad," she boasts smugly, waggling her eyebrows, and Teresa rolls her eyes at how quickly Santana can go from endearing to arrogant.
"Didn't you live here with Brittany?"
"Well, yeah," Santana confirms with another shrug, "but we were young and in love and didn't care that we were practically living on top of each other. I mean, that part was actually all kinds of fun at the time," she adds with a smirk. Teresa gives her shoulder a light push, not particularly caring to hear details about Santana's sex life with her ex, but Santana only laughs off the weak reprimand. "I figured we'd look for someplace bigger after I graduated, but then we broke up, and I didn't need bigger, but now," and that soft, almost shy smile is back as she reaches out to slide her hand down Teresa's arm until she can tangle their fingers together, "I kinda do."
It's a really sweet sentiment, and Teresa would be lying if she said she wasn't touched by it, but, "You don't though. I don't expect you to carve out a corner of your apartment just to make room for me to paint."
Santana's smile dims slightly. "Yeah, I'm not doing that. I was thinking more…you know," she trails off, looking suddenly nervous before she takes a deep breath. "We could find a place together with room for your clothes and all your paints and…well…you. Like, permanently."
Surprise has Teresa inhaling sharply. "Are you…?" She has to take another breath when she hears just how breathless those two words come out, and it takes a few seconds for her to find her voice again. "Santana, are you saying you want us to live together?"
It seems pretty obvious, but she has to make sure she isn't misinterpreting this as Santana wanting a bigger place for herself that Teresa will get another key to and maybe some more storage space for more of her things.
"Well, obviously," Santana huffs impatiently, reaching for her shield of sarcasm and swagger to cover up any hint of uncertainty. "So do we rent the U-Haul or what?"
Teresa wants to say yes—God does she ever!—but she also needs to know that Santana has really thought this through and isn't just asking on some whim. They're standing in the kitchen, for God's sake. It's about as unromantic as Santana's first spontaneous declaration of love had been. "You're really sure you want to give up your bachelorette pad?" she asks, going for humor in the hope that she won't do something embarrassing like fall into Santana's arms and cry big, happy tears all over her.
"I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't," Santana is quick to confirm. "Look," she says, lifting her free hand to stroke Teresa's cheek, "I love you, Teresa." And just like that, the protective shield that she'd only partially erected melts away, leaving her eyes soft and hopeful. "I love having you here with me. I love falling asleep tangled up with you and waking up the same way…and I really love all the sexy, naked bits in between," she can't resist adding, smiling as she tightens her hold on Teresa's hand and urges her closer. "I love when you cook for me, and…you know…when you let me try to cook for you and pretend it's anywhere near as good as what you make." Teresa chuckles at that, though she's admittedly getting a little teary-eyed at how sweet Santana is being—sweet for Santana, anyway. "I love that you always seem to know when to let me bitch about my shitty day and when you need to hold me instead... or just let me cry it out," she confesses quietly, her voice shaking slightly with emotion, but then she rolls her eyes at her own sentimentality. "I love that I'm not the only one of us who bitches about her shitty days," she continues in an attempt to lighten things up again. "And I love how your accent goes all super Jersey-girl when you go off on a rant."
"Shut up," Teresa commands wetly, hastily swiping at the moisture gathering under her eyes. Her accent is hardly even noticeable.
"It's fucking hot," Santana insists, grinning as she squeezes her hand. "Hell, I love just listening to you talk, even when you're giving me a hard time. And I love that your clothes sometimes smell like paint and that you can't always get the smudges off your fingers." She lifts their joined hands to examine those fingers—which are perfectly clean today!—before pressing a soft kiss to them. "I even love those geeky vests that you like to wear over your button-downs."
"They're not geeky," Teresa defends, trying to keep the besotted smile from her lips and failing miserably.
"No. They're sexy. You're sexy," Santana assures her, growing serious once again. "And I want you around all the time. I know I'm not always easy, and I know living with me might seem like a risk, and maybe it is. I mean, there are no guarantees, right?" And something tells Teresa that she's thinking about the rough spot her friends have been going through. "But if it's something you want, then you work for it, and I want this," she asserts, still holding Teresa's hand between both of hers. "If you do?" she trails off hopefully.
"I do," Teresa promises, curling her free hand around the back of Santana's neck and guiding her close for a soft, sweet kiss. It's the easiest promise to make, because she wants this too. She wants Santana Lopez for keeps. She's been so close to saying it so many times, but she's always held back, afraid that Santana might not be on the same page just yet.
"And you're not a risk," she vows softly when their lips part. Her heart hurts knowing that Santana thinks she might be, and that maybe Teresa's past opinion of her might be one of the reasons she does, especially now that she knows exactly how passionate and generous and loving Santana Lopez really is. "At least, not one that isn't totally worth taking. If I wasn't already completely in love with you, that speech would have gotten me there."
"So shack up with me already," Santana presses, slipping her arms around Teresa's waist.
Leave it to Santana to follow up such a sweet moment with something blatantly unromantic. God knows living with her won't ever be boring.
"I suppose I can manage a few more hours of you in my day," Teresa responds with mock flippancy, barely able to bite back her excited grin.
"Don't put yourself out or anything," Santana snarks, but she's having a hard time containing her own smile.
Teresa laughs in delight, sinking her fingers into Santana's silky hair. "I thought you liked it when I put out."
"Well, yeah," Santana purrs, letting her hands roam over Teresa's ass. "Didn't I mention that a minute ago?"
"I think I remember it somewhere between waking up with me and having me cook for you."
Santana's cheeks grow a little ruddy at the reminder of all the squishy emo feelings she'd just put on display. "Well, there you go."
Smiling softly, Teresa leans in for a kiss. She takes her time with it, expressing exactly how happy she is that Santana wants to take the next step in their relationship. The low moan rumbling from Santana's throat tells her that she's getting the message loud and clear. Teresa doesn't think she'll ever forget a word of what Santana just said to her, and she realizes with sudden clarity that Santana has almost certainly been thinking about asking her this for the last few weeks at least. All the signs had been there if she would have known to look for them. When their lips part, Teresa rests her forehead against Santana's, smiling as she whispers, "I can't wait to live with you."
The smile she gets in return tells her that Santana is feeling exactly the same way.
Of course, they'll need to wait until Kate can find another roommate—she's not about to leave her best friend high and dry with double the rent. She figures it will take a little while for them to find a nice apartment anyway. Santana isn't the type to settle for anything less than exactly what she wants.
And Teresa is pretty damned happy that, apparently, she's exactly what Santana wants.
She has every intention of making sure it stays that way—and that Santana stays as happy as she is right now.