Quinn knew anger. Sometimes she wondered if she was nothing more than pure anger in place of where a soul should be, wrapped up in skin with a poor complexion, hair that was the wrong color, eyes that didn't properly put the world into focus, and a nose that was more like a beak than anything else. She was the very definition of an ugly duckling. Friendless, anything but small, and unwanted. Back before Francine had become Frannie Fabray, she used to allow Quinn to toddle after her; back when she was still just her older sister who went out of the way to make her laugh. Back before her father's eyes shifted past her to more pleasant things, and her mother started hiding her from sight like a skilled magician using slight of hands to convince you that the rabbit wasn't already hiding in the hat."Where's Lucy?" "Oh, did you hear thatFranniewas asked to be in the National Junior Honor Society?" "Did you bring Lucy along?" "Did you know thatFranniemade the cheerleading team?"
After a while Quinn had started to feel as if she really were invisible, less than worthy of attention and affection. Whenever she had those thoughts, it made her angry because she wasn't invisible. Even though she was the only one who seemed to think so, she was just as good as Frannie, just as worthy of love, and affection, and attention, as her older sister. She hated her classmates who thought that it was okay to tease her, and the teachers for ignoring it, for shrugging it off and pointing out,"But you're bigger than them, Lucy,"as if girth meant that the smaller people couldn't, or wouldn't, touch her. She found comfort in books, and comfort in being alone, and all the while she felt this anger, slow burning and pure, growing beneath her skin. It's the kind of anger that grows like a raging fire, unable to be put out because those around her kept stoking the flames and building it up.
She was tired of being alone, tired of being picked on, tired of no one doing anything about it, until she finally learned how to fight back. Not face to face, no. If she took on her tormenters, it would make her a bully, if she demanded to be seen by her parents, it would make her petulant and disobedient. So she had to adopt circuitous methods to get back at those who did her wrong. She started to water down her mother's alcohol so her drinks were all less potent, so her father thought that she was drinking more because of how quickly she went through the bottles. She left tells of her father's infidelity around for her mother to catch. She altered Frannie's cheerleading uniform so that a well-placed tear exposed her sister to a crowd of unsuspecting gawkers. She was so good at subterfuge that no one knew she was doing it, so she wasn't given her due for her sheer genius, which just made her angrier.
Quinn credits that anger as the real reason for her weight loss. For her change. Her school teachers, and Sunday school teachers, and the corny shows on TV said that if you were yourself, people would like you, but no one liked Lucy. Everyone liked Quinn. Everyone wanted her. Quinn woke up one day to realize that people could actually see her, they adored her, which only infuriated her more because she was still who she always was, she had just tweaked the wrapper a little bit. The sudden shift in attention did nothing to eliminate the anger that had already rooted deep within her. Having the kind of people who used to torment her suddenly fawn over her, was not penance enough. She was still set on revenge. Revenge against anyone who was pretty, and successful, and so powerful that they got away with hurting her without expressing any remorse or repercussions. She wanted them to pay.
And then she met Santana, and the game changed.
Santana had been everything that she had been looking for along the lines of her next conquest; her greatest conquest. She was the perfect target: smart, popular, attractive; all the boys liked her. All the girls watched her, lusted after her attention. Quinn felt that if she could take down someone like her, she'd be practically invincible. It would be perfect payment for the years of pain she had to endure. She didn't worry about Santana's bad ass persona, because being Lucy had taught her that the bigger you try to be, the smaller you were on the inside. If Santana was that scathing, and that acidic, if she was that intimidating, it only meant that she was just the opposite inside, and she would fall that much harder once she sank her claws into her.
Only it never worked out that way. The closer she got to Santana, the more things got confusing. She started to forget if she was hanging out with Santana because she was trying to get information to use against her, or if she was hanging out with Santana because she wanted to be near her. Santana at school was a beast of another color, but Santana behind protective walls was a girl who loved her family, who would sit through endless Disney movie marathons to make Brittany happy, and would begrudgingly watch episodes of the shows that Quinn liked, complaining the whole time so she wouldn't know how much she enjoyed doing it.
Behind protective walls Santana was the perfect gift giver because she paid far more attention to you than you thought until you received what she'd given and realized it was what you'd always wanted. Behind protective walls, Santana spent her Saturday afternoons with her abuela, and never missed going to church with her on Sundays because 15 years after the fact, her abuela still mourned for her abuelo, and Santana felt that no one should have to love alone. Santana behind closed doors cried, not the fake cry at school when coach Sylvester took away her tanning privileges, but the real, full, body wracking sobs that she had the first time she ever had sex. And then almost every time after that when it was with someone other than Brittany.
Quinn wasn't stupid. She knew that Santana was playing her own game against her, knew that Santana was using her to rise to popularity, because this was small town Ohio, and Santana could never be at the top, so she took the next best spot: second best. She knew what their relationship was, a tentative bond, a numbers game, a long term play of strategy. Santana whispered secrets in Quinn's ear, and Quinn gave Santana her secrets, all the while the two of them knowing that the other had the potential to, and probably would, use the information against the other. Every time Quinn confided something to Santana, she cringed inside knowing that Santana had the potential to use it against her, and likewise, Santana shared information with Quinn knowing full well that she might turn around and bite her with it. And on occasion when Quinn would let something slip, Santana would return the favor. Santana would prod at her, Quinn jumped at the bit.
It was the kind of relationship that couldn't help being anything other than volatile. The two of them were a ticking time bomb, waiting for one of them to lower their guard enough for things to explode. They taught the school to fear them as much as they feared each other. Feared the amount of power they gave each other, safe only in the comfort of the thought that they couldn't destroy the other without actually destroying themselves.
Even once Quinn felt that anger start to ease a little as things changed for her, (the birth of Beth being one of the bigger causes of that change, Glee being the other), Quinn still held this dubious relationship with Santana. Every time she betrayed her for the sake of remaining on top, she felt justified, remembering that it was her mission to get back at Santana, at all the Santanas out there: the popular kids, the ones that made her life a living hell, the one's that filled her with so much anger because they had decided she was not worthy of knowing what it felt to love. She wouldn't allow herself to feel guilt over the betrayals, especially the ones she made against Santana; it was all part of the game. At least it was up until the day that she realized that it wasn't anger that she felt for Santana at all.
She knew, too, the exact day her feelings for her friend changed: the day she realized that Santana wouldalwayschoose Brittany over her.
Just thought you should know.
Quinn wanted to scream. She wanted to punch something. She could almost feel her insides boiling; she wouldn't have been surprised if her actual temperature had risen. She was sure that if Santana touched her in that moment she would have actually got burned. She was at a level of anger that she hadn't felt since practically junior high, so she did what she'd always done with it, swallowed it, put up a mask, pretended everything was okay. "Almost ready, babe?" she heard Santana call out.
Quinn swallowed back her anger at the sound of herwife'svoice. She carefully checked that her features were well hidden behind the mask she hadn't used very often in the past couple of years. "Just about," Quinn responded, pleased with herself at how normal her voice came across. "Hey, San," she called as she walked into the living room where Santana was actually waiting for her by the door, instead of hanging on the couch with her shoes off in front of the TV.
She looked up, smiled. "Yep?"
"I'd like that," Quinn said. "Opening a bank account together."
It was nearly painful at how much Santana's face lit up when she said those words. She should have anticipated it, but she was caught off guard when she felt Santana's lips against her own. She wanted so badly to push away those lips that had so very recently been on Brittany's, so she did the exact opposite. She pulled Santana closer to her, lengthening a kiss that Quinn knew was only supposed to be little more than a peck. She bit down on Santana's bottom lip, until she opened for her, accepted her tongue into her mouth. She started tugging on cloth, trying to pull Santana towards her even as she tried to pull her shirt over her head.
Santana drew back. "Babe," she protested, giving a small laugh. "This isn't helping us get out of the door."
"Who cares?" Quinn posed, pulling her back to her, her hand slipping beneath her shirt. She renewed her quest to remove it from Santana's body. "Come on, stop, Quinn." She felt her trying to pull away, so she strengthened her hold on her. She started to undo her own pants, uncaring that her partner was no longer kissing her back.
Santana forcibly pulled herself from Quinn's grip. "Seriously, Q," she said. "I said stop!" Santana ran a smoothing hand over her clothes, wiping her lip. "What the hell was that?"
Quinn looked back at her unapologetic. "Didn't you say that I could have sex with you whenever I want?" It was meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out almost as a taunt. "Isn't that what you said? You know, when in doubt, put out?"
Santana took several steps back away from Quinn. "That was a damn joke; it doesn't mean you get to fucking maul me!"
"Why not? This is what we do, right Santana? We fuck. We're fuck buddies who fucking got married to each other, and I was only trying to do what you expect! Got a problem, screw it away, right?"
Santana stared at Quinn, biting down on her lip, soft brown eyes scanning. "Where is this coming from?"
"Were you even going to tell me?" Quinn demanded, her voice rising as her anger took her anew.
"Tell you what?"
"That you kissed Brittany!"
Santana sighed heavily because of course Quinn knew. Damn Brittany. "I didn't kiss Brittany! She kissed me!"
Quinn's rolled her eyes, fighting to keep a grip on her tightly coiled anger. "Oh, wow,babe? You can't think of anything more original than that? Really?"
"It's the truth, Quinn!" She figured that things couldn't get any worse by telling her the truth, so she decided to go with that. "Apparently Britt's upset because we got married, and she wasn't ready to let me go. She kissed me before I had any chance to stop her, and pulled away before I could end it. I'm not still interested in Brittany. I'm not married to Brittany."
Quinn felt herself unraveling. She squeezed her fist open and closed, trying to keep herself together. "Why don't we stop pretending, San? I mean we promised each other that, right? That we would always be honest with each other? Let's not confuse things. Let's not pretend this is something that it's not. We got married because of a bet. Not because we're in love, not because we like each other, but because we're good at fucking, and because you wanted to win. I can handle that, Santana; I can't handle this back and forth where one moment you're sweet and caring, and the next-,"
Quinn's words evaporated in the air. Santana's eyes were still trained on her. "I didn't kiss her!" Santana hissed. "But even if I did, so what! You kissed, actually kissed Rachel Berry, with tongue, and yeah, it pissed me the fuck off even though I know you did it just because I was dancing with some girl, but I didn't say that what we have isn't legitimate just because of it! Brittany is my best friend, my best friend, Quinn, I've known her since 3rdgrade, yet I'm here, with you instead of chasing after her, so what does that tell you? The only reason I didn't tell you was because I wanted to get through the reception. I swear I would have told you immediately after. "
"Well that's awfully convenient for you, isn't it?" Quinn questioned, her voice dropping, dripping with sarcasm.
"Babe,"
"Stopcalling me that!"
"I'm telling you the God's honest truth. What reason would I have to lie about it? If I kissed her, I would tell you I freaking kissed her. You know that as well as I do. And God, how could you even think that I'd want to after what she did on her show? Quinn even if I was just playing atthis, you're still one of the best friends I've ever had. I wouldn't just fucking laugh it off with Brittany. Give me some damn credit!"
It sounded so logical to Quinn that she hated Santana for it, because the logic center of her brain was warring with the part or her body that had gone crashing to the floor the moment she saw that text of Brittany and Santana with their lips pressed together.
"Please look at me, Quinn," Santana begged. Quinn raised her eyes to Santana but the two of them didn't say anything to each other. A minute passed. And then another. It was so quiet in the apartment that Quinn almost felt like they could hear each other's heartbeat. "You have to believe that I didn't know what Brittany was up to. I didn't encourage her, I didn't reciprocate, and I don't want to be with her."
Quinn blinked. More time passed. Quinn actually was shaking slightly from the force of the emotions that were coursing through her, feeling sick. "I believe you," she finally said. Santana breathed out a gust of air. She didn't move forward to kiss her, and she didn't know what to say, so she just stood there.
Eventually, they left the apartment with no destination in mind. She imagined all the things that they would have been doing, if she hadn't gotten that text. General chores. Things for the event. At that moment, though, Quinn honestly didn't want to do anything that had anything to do with the reception; she didn't really want to think. Santana seemed to be feeling along the same lines because in the car all she did was turn on the radio and started to sing quietly under her breath. At one point Quinn even joined in, and Santana's hand itched on the console, but she didn't reach across the distance to attempt to touch her wife.
They made a trip to Cambridge Savings and Loan and opened an account with both of their names on it but, having not thought about the idea in advance, the only money they had to put into it at that very moment was a dollar. Santana thought it was perfectly fitting. Quinn worried that she lost something, but she wasn't entirely sure of what.
By the time that they returned to the apartment, Santana felt mentally drained. It was exhausting trying to be cautious of everything that left your mouth, scared to shatter a peace that was delicate at best. She may have wanted to curl up in a ball, or scream very loudly, for as long as she could, but she felt the day was successful in that they had had a major fight, but the two of them were still there. To her that said something. She only hoped that this meant that they were do-in for a couple of days of relative peace before things got rocky again.
When they returned to the apartment a few hours later, Quinn said that she was exhausted and wanted to take a nap. "Care if I join you?" Santana questioned after a moment's hesitation. Slight recognition flashed in Quinn's eyes, before she replied, "You can if you want."
So they went to bed, and after an initial moment of uncomfortableness, Quinn relaxed into Santana's embrace, and Santana tightened her arms around her.
Santana never made it to the point where she was able to fall asleep. She just lay there, sifting through all of the emotions that the day had brought to the foreground. Every so often her hands would tighten; a subconscious tick just to make sure that Quinn was still in her arms. Her mind wandered to Puck and Shelly, and wondered if those newlyweds had to deal with half as many issues as Santana and Quinn. She doubted it. She was sure that only she and Quinn had this type of relationship.
When she couldn't stand being in bed any longer, she got up and figured that she could at least get some work done. She curled up on the couch with her laptop, opening up a new word file, and conjured up a brainstorming activity from her undergrad days, where she just started typing, and navigated through where the words took her. Quinn woke up calling Santana's name, but was up and out of bed before Santana could actually get off the couch to respond.
"Did you need something?" Santana questioned, half standing.
Quinn shook her head. "You were just, gone. What're you doing?"
Santana settled back down on the couch. "Work. Did you have a good nap?"
Quinn quirked a shoulder. She gave a look at Santana sitting on the couch, and decided to join her after pulling a book down off of Santana's bookshelf. She flipped the book over in her hands.
"Have you seen my Nook, Santana?" Quinn questioned. "I can't seem to find it anywhere?"
Santana took a few seconds to look away from the computer screen, but quickly looked back. "No." Quinn got the impression that she was lying, but it didn't seem worth it to call her on it. She curled up on the opposite end of the couch from Santana, and opened her book.
They existed like this in peace, essentially ignoring each other, and everything was fine until Santana shifted from typing on her computer to addressing the last of the invitations for the reception. Santana was aware how every now and then Quinn's eyes darted up to watch Santana write out the names on the envelopes in her neat cursive script, fascinated by it. Santana's precision had come from her parents' insistence that she have great penmanship. Even though the teacher's hardly demanded that anything be written in cursive anymore, as a kid she had had to come home from school and work on her handwriting. She had special left-handed pens and pencils, and even, as a younger child, had a special pad made to show exactly how she was supposed to position her paper so that she didn't smudge her letters when she wrote them. The end result was that her motheralwayshad someone to neatly address envelopes for her whenever she sent out invitations, Santana grew up to flat out prefer to write in cursive whenever she had the opportunity, and Puck almost always beat her at Mario Kart because he was busy practicingthatwhile she had to work on her handwriting.
She pulled the next card out of the box, checked the name on the list, and carefully started to write out the name. Santana wasn't aware that Quinn was paying that much attention to what she was doing until she heard Quinn's voice say, "You don't have to make out an invitation for him."
Santana hadn't really been paying attention to the name she'd written so at first she didn't even know what Quinn was talking about. "What?"
"You don't have to make out an invitation," Quinn repeated.
Santana's hand still worked, not quite picking up on what Quinn said, still in work mode. "I thought that was the 'cultured' thing to do, or whatever it was you said. Half of the people we're inviting already know the date, time, and venue, but we're still sending notice out to them."
"I didn't intend to extend an invitation to him," Quinn said more crisply.
It was more the tone than anything else that she picked up on. Santana looked down at the cardstock in front of her, finally registering the name written on it. "Your dad doesn't want to come?"
"He's not invited," Quinn said sharply, her tone clearly indicating that it was a matter she really didn't feel like discussing.
Santana was a bit confused though. "Why?"
"I don't want him there. This is supposed to be a celebration: a celebration of us, and I don't want his hypocritical, backwards, judgmental self to be there to ruin the day for us."
With the way things were going, Santana was fairly sure that the two of them had a better chance of ruining things than Russell would, but she kept the thought to herself. "He was at the wedding though," Santana reminded her. "That didn't seem like, I mean he didn't say anything about it then; we even went to eat with him afterwards. Did he say something to you about it afterwards?"
"No, he didn't, but the wedding should be good enough for him. I don't want to bring him any more into our marriage than he already is. I don't want him to be there."
The little piece of stationary kept drawing her eyes. "I thought that part of the reason we're having the reception in the first place was so we could share this with our friends andfamily,remember? Your idea, Quinn. He's your family.Myparents are coming, Judy's going to be there, why wouldn't you have him there, too?"
"Because I don't want him there!" Frustrated, Quinn's voice had started to rise in volume. I don't want anything to do with him. How hard is that to understand?"
For Santana, it was very hard to understand. "But hewantsto be there, Quinn," she protested. She had talked to Russell personally; he had asked hertwicewhen the reception was going to be.
"He kicked me out of the house when I was 16 years old, Santana!"
Santana was there. She knew that fact. "Yes, baby, when you were16yearsold. You're not 16 anymore. That happened over 13 years ago. He's apologized and he wants to be in our lives. Be the better woman and let him."
Quinn felt her losing her grip on her anger. "Carol Hudson, Leah Puckerman, and Justine Jones were more of parents to me than that fucking bastard ever was so don't you dare try to make me out to sound as if I'm merely being petty. I was pregnant and had nowhere to go. He was supposed to protect me, not cast me aside like yesterday's garbage, because I turned out to not be his perfect little girl!"
Santana nodded, but her words ran counter to being in agreement with her. "I understand that, Quinn, but he's still your father. Finn's mom, Puck's mom, and Mercedes mom, they opened up their homes to you for a few months; Russell was your father for 15 years before that, and he might not have been winning dad of the year, but he did provide for you all that time. He also paid your college tuition, which neither of those three would have done because as much as they love you, you weren't actually their child. He may be a bastard, but he still cared enough to foot the bill for your Ivy League education."
"Cared? All he cared about was the name! Not about me!"
"He cares about you, too, Quinn! As hard as that may be for you to grasp, he cares! He's trying to make things up to you for the mistakes he made. I'm not saying that he's not a god awful man baby, I'm saying that he's trying to make things better. I know he's hurt you, I know what he's put you through, but he's trying to make amends for that, and at the end of the day, he's still your family.Don'twrite him off."
"How easy for you to say, Ms. High and Mighty," she sneered, her voice growing acidic. "It must be nice view from the throne you're sitting on, huh? Easy for you to cast judgment on my life when I don't seeyouinviting yourabuelato the reception!"
It was at this point that Santana realized just how angry Quinn actually was over the invitation. Quinn may as well have just slapped her. "Okay, me and my abuela, and you and your dad, that's not the same thing at all! I'm not inviting abuela because she's not going to come. Russellwantsto be there. Your Good Ole Boy, conservative minded, bible-thumping, overly judgmental, far right leaning fatherwantsto come to the reception of his bisexual daughter's marriage to her multiracial Latina partner, to show his support. Do you know how incredible that is?!"
"Isn't it nice how much you stand up for him, but not your supposed 'wife'? I don't care whathewants. I don't want him to be there. He's my father, not yours, Santana, and I do get a say in who I want to be at my damn reception. How hard is it for you to understand that I don't want him to be there?"
Santana honestly couldn't understand Quinn at the moment. Maybe it was because her parents were nothing like the Fabrays. Maybe it was because she grew up in a world where, like them or lump them, family was family, and you were stuck with them until they died off. Maybe it was because Quinn's grandparents lived in nursing homes, and Quinn's aunts and uncles lived in other states, and because Quinn rarely talked to her sister, whereas Santana couldn't get rid of her family. When she'd lived at home, her grandmother lived with her. Her mom's sister lived around the block and her mom's brother on the other side of town. Her father's siblings didn't live quite so close, but she saw them on the major holidays, and at the family gatherings every summer.
She didn't understand Quinn at the moment, but she was tired, she was so tired of arguing with Quinn, and if Quinn didn't want Russell to come, even though Santana thought he should still be there, she wasn't going to push it. He had certainly never done her any favors. Santana dropped her pen on the table. "Okay." She got up to get a beer. Quinn followed her into the kitchen. "I don't want him there," Quinn repeated.
Santana snapped the top off of the beer, the little piece of metal falling somewhere on the floor between them. "I said fine," she said again. She meant it to end the conversation, to calm things, but it had the exact opposite effect.
"You think I'm wrong?"
"I said fine," Santana said, more slowly this time. "You're right, Quinn. He's your family, not mine. You don't want him there, fine, he won't be there."
Quinn clutched at air, her fists balling. "You know you're starting to really piss me off!"
Santana let her free hand run over her face, trying not to let herself rise to the bait. It wasn't working too well, though, because she was seriously annoyed with her wife. "How am I pissing you off? I said fine, I walked away, you're the one who is insisting on carrying on an argument that's over. Russell's not invited. End of story."
"You're pissing me off because you so clearly think that you're right about this; you're not even trying to see things from my viewpoint!"
"Quinn," Santana said sharply. "I'm dropping it. You should do the same thing, too."
"Do you have any idea how much he hurt me, how much damage he did?" Santana nodded; she'd pretty much had a front row seat to all that. "But no, he probably told you some sob story, so now you feel bad for him, and I'm the one who's wrong because I don't want someone toxic at a day that's supposed to be special to me!"
"I'mnoton Russell's side! You really want to know what I was thinking? I was thinking that hey: that's one more person who wants to celebrate us. I was thinking that whenever kids come into play, they'll have all four grandparents alive, and wouldn't it be nice if they could know who their mommies' parents are? I was thinking that one day Russell is going to die, and it would be nice if the two of you could fix things between you while the option is still there, so you don't spend the rest of your life regretting that you were never able to have a relationship with your father.That'swhat I was thinking, but it is up to you. You don't want him there, so I won't send out an invitation to him."
"But you still think you're right?"
"At the moment, the only thing I'm thinking is that this has been the fucking week from hell, and I just, I just want to be able to enjoy being with my wife. We're supposed to be in the fucking honeymoon stage of our marriage, and it's been like I've been going to battle with you every other day, recently. All this going back and forth, it was fun in high school, it fucking passed the time, but we're not in high school anymore, and I don't want to fight over every trivial thing."
"Trivial?" Quinn threw her hands up in the air. "Fine," Quinn hissed. Quinn turned. She started to leave. She spun back around. "You know something: fuck you, Santana, and fuck me, too, for possibly thinking that you would be on my side about this. About anything! You don't know shit about this situation, and you don't give a shit about me! I keep telling myself that maybe we could actually have something, I keep getting my hopes up, but it's apparent that we can't because you just don't care. You think I'm still the same girl from high school? Well, you're still the same self-centered bitch that doesn't care about anyone other than yourself, so fuck you Santana. Fuck you!"
Quinn grabbed for her purse, and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door loudly in her wake. The sound seemed to echo for a long time after she was gone, and Santana just stood, leaning against the counter, staring in the direction of the front door. When Santana went back into the living room, beer forgotten but still in her hand, the little card with Russell Fabray's name on it was sitting on the coffee table, mocking. Santana found her cell phone, pressing call on one of the first numbers on her contact list.
She got the answering machine. She always did. She listened longingly to the female voice on the call service waiting for the prompt that meant it was her turn to talk. "Hola, abuela. Soy yo, Santancita. Quinn and I missed you at our wedding, but I understand that you may have just been too busy to come. I wore your dress. Mami says I looked just like you when you were my age. I wish you could have seen. I know I've called before, but I just wanted to make sure that you knew that Quinn and my's wedding reception is August 8th, and I hoped that you would come. I really, really hope that you'll come. I'll be sure to leave a space for you, just in case you change your mind. Te quiero abuela. Te echo de menos."
Santana paused, because she felt like she should say something else, but didn't know what, so she just repeated the sentiment of her last sentence, wiping at her eye as she said the words, because an eyelash or something had started to irritate it. "Te extraño mucho."
Santana ended the call, realizing how funny the whole thing was. She was once again inviting the woman that wouldn't talk to her, to a reception that was no longer going to happen because her wife had just told her to fuck off, and had just walked out the door. Her abuela was never going to talk to her again, much less come to a party celebrating her marriage, but what did it matter anyway, because her wife had just left her.
It was possibly the funniest thing that Santana had ever heard, and her body couldn't stop shaking from the force of her laughs. It wasn't until she noticed Russell's name becoming an inky, black stain against the beautiful crème cardstock that they had chosen for their invitations that Santana realized that she wasn't actually laughing at all.