Quinn let herself into her apartment in a fit, angry at the self-righteousness of the bartender. Like seriously, who did she think she was? Quinn thought about reporting her to the bar owner because really she could have gone home with that girl, Jenna, and now she had to spend the night alone. Quinn really hated sleeping alone.
Quinn took a quick shower to wash off the stench of failure and the bar before she crawled beneath the sheets, dead in the middle. It was only then that she checked her phone. There was a text from Mercedes that she looked over without reading, and one from Santana. Santana's message was even shorter than the first one she'd sent. All it said was:Good Night. Quinn couldn't bring herself to respond back.
With tears in her eyes, Quinn pulled up begrudgingly pulled up YouTube on her phone, but unable to remember the name of the song she searched out the lyrics she remembered Kelsi saying, and found it that way. Before the song was even over, she had added it to her iTunes library, playing it on repeat until she fell asleep.
Quinn received her third text from Santana at 10:58 in the morning, just as she was waking up and contemplating getting out of bed.Morning. Moved Aspirin to the lower cabinet.7 words.
Fuck you,Santana, Quinn thought as she stumbled up to get the aspirin.No one told you to move anything inmyplace. She took the two aspirin and immediately felt worse, because even mad at her, Santana still had a desire to take care of her, and how could Santana say and do things that made it seem like she cared, when obviously she didn't?
It was a long day. Quinn didn't want to be in the house but she didn't want to go anywhere else either. She contemplated calling Santana. She didn't. She contemplated texting her; she didn't do that either. She thought Santana was lucky because Santana probably wasn't sitting at her place going through all of this. Santana probably wasn't even thinking about Quinn. Santana had maybe gone out herself last night, or even better, had just called up Brittany. She did almost call up Santana, then, to cuss her out, but then remembered that she said she had to work today. She wondered if she was really at work, or if that had been a clever excuse to dash off to be withher; after all, Santana hadn't mentioned having to workbeforeFondue for Two.
Quinn actually contemplated spying on Santana until she remembered that she didn't know where she worked, and how could she not know where her wife worked? That reminded her, she had never switched Santana over to be her emergency contact. Quinn hated how every sign pointed out to the fact that they didn't have a real marriage.
The silence started to get to her, and the TV being on just made her cringe. She picked up her phone, toying with it. She wished that shedidhave a relationship with her father; that Russell Fabray was the kind of man that she could go to for advice. Instead he'd always been the man who extoled the virtues of strength; deplored tears. Who told her and her sister repeatedly that they were Fabrays, and that in that there was an honor, and a code, and that they should follow it. She tried, lord knows she did, but every time she tried to be his perfect ideal, she fell hideously short. She tried so hard, she got pregnant, and she tried so hard again that she got Puck, and then she gave up because no matter what she would never, ever, be the kind of daughter that her father would be proud of. And now Santana wanted her to make amends with this man? Really?
She needed someone to talk to, though. Her mom was nice but what she really needed was to talk to her dad because all her mom could tell her about was what being married to a man was like, and no matter how much she and Santana joked back and forth about who was butch, or who was the most dude like of the two of them, Quinn wasn't married to a guy. She was married to a woman, and what she needed was someone who could explain to her what it was like to be married to a woman. Who could commiserate on that. She didn't have many gay friends, so who she needed was her father.
So she decided to call him.
It took a few rings, but the call finally connected. "Quinn," the strong and unflinching male voice greeted. "To what do I owe the honor?" She didn't feel guilty in calling him. What was the point of having a dad if you couldn't go to him for advice, and Quinn had put it to together: this man was her dad. See if Quinn and Santana were related, and Santana and her dad were related, then Mr. Lopez was related to Quinn, thus by the associative property Mr. Lopez was now her dad. It was simple math.
"Santana and I got into an argument. A really bad one. I, I walked out on her." Quinn felt guilt and shame grow in her belly as she said the words, and before she knew it she was crying and spilling everything. Like everything. This went on for so long without any input from Mr. Lopez that Quinn was sure he had hung up on her, probably in disgust.
In the first empty silence, however, he spoke up. "Quinn, Maribel and I have been married for 35 years, and if you think that we haven't had an argument or two, you still have the blindness of youth, which I don't think you do because you are a very intelligent young woman and should know better. Now I know that I'm not you, and Maribel is not Santana, but you want to know why I think that she and I have stayed together this long?"
Actually she was dying to know how they hadn't left each other, yet. Her parents couldn't hack it. Most people's parents' couldn't. She didn't know very many people who were actually happy and married. "Let me tell you the very first rule of being married: youneverwalk out on your partner. Unless there is a threat of violence," he quickly corrected, because he knew both of these girls very well, and he knew how fiery a temper they both had. "It's a coward's way out, and you're not a coward, do you understand?"
If possible, Quinn felt even worse. "Yes, sir."
"The second rule, and I know this is going to seem nearly impossible to your generation, but the second rule: keep your married business in your marriage. This means don't put your partner down to other people, and don't run off to tell other people things about your partner that they have no business knowing. You may think that it's harmless, but I think that it plants this little seed of negativity inside of you about them, and then when your friend turns around and puts down your spouse, that little seed grows bigger. And then, before you know it, it has a life of its own, and you're wondering how it got so out of control. Everyone has advice to offer, but not everyone needs to speak. And one of the worst things I think you can do is go to a single person and ask for advice about your marriage. What would they know about it, they're not married?
"Also on this note, don't put your business out on social media. It doesn't disappear, and it doesn't do you any favors. No one needs to know that you got in an argument with your wife. No one needs to know that you're feeling very loving to your wife at the moment, either, because there are always the negative ones who will do anything to piss, pardon my language, on your happiness.
"My final advice is a secret wisdom that has been passed down from Lopez to Lopez and I'm entrusting you with it because you are now a Lopez. I'm a man married to a woman, and admittedly, I don't know how lesbian relationships work, you know like when it comes to how things go in the relationship with there being two women and what not, but my dad offered me this golden nugget of advice, so I am passing it on to you. He said 'Pedro, you are a Lopez, and when it comes to the women that we marry, no matter what, you're always wrong. You always apologize first. It doesn't matter if you told her that she packed the bags too full, and if she tries to carry them she's going to spill every last grocery on the concrete. When that happens, you pick up the groceries, and make dinner with them because it's still somehow your fault. So just apologize, and move on."
Quinn wasn't quite sure she could accept that. "Doesn't that make me a push over?"
Mr. Lopez laughed. It was a deep chuckle that still resonated through the phone. "Let me tell you a story, Quinn. Maribel and I had just gotten married, and we were supposed to be watching my brother's son, but we were paying more attention to each other than to him. Well, he rushes off, and gets lost in the crowd, and when Maribel and I notice, we panic. We're scared, and worried, and fearful, because he was just a small kid, and so much could happen to him. So we're so full of emotion that we're just yelling at each other over whose fault it was, and you know what we're not doing? We're not looking for my brother's kid. We were just wasting time trying to figure out who was at fault. When we realized that, we really went looking, and eventually we found him. I can still remember that fear, and that uncertainty, how my heart felt when my eyes took him in again, that hurt look on Maribel's face at my harsh words. I remember my brother's relief when Aaron was brought home safe and sound, but you know what I don't remember about that whole thing?"
Quinn shook her head, then remembered that she was on the phone. "No."
"Whose fault it was," Mr. Lopez responded. "When it comes down to it, it doesn't matter who is right or wrong in the argument, it matters how you conduct yourself when you're put through the wringer. There is no right or wrong, or winning or losing because you are partners. I can understand not wanting to be a push over, but pride goes before destruction; a haughty spirit before a fall. As far as I'm concerned, you can keep your pride, or you can keep your marriage. You can either have the type of marriage that damages you from the inside out, the other the kind that brings joy to your spirit. The difference is that in one the person asks, 'how do I make this work for me', and in the other, the person asks, 'how do I make it work forus.' There are two of you in the marriage. It's not Santana and Quinn anymore, it's Saninn, and if you can't handle that, then you're not going to be able to have a fruitful marriage. And of course that's what I want you to have.
"You asked for advice, this is the advice that I'm giving you: apologize and move on."
Quinn was asleep when she received the fourth text from Santana, a simple 'Good Night, Quinn', and saw it after she had woken up, and hung up on Santana. Not intentionally. Well, it'd been halfway intentional. Quinn had just heard Santana's ringtone (Wild Thing), hesitated, meant to click ignore, connected the call instead, and then when she realized what she done, she quickly hung up the phone. The fifth text message came so quickly after that Quinn wondered if Santana had actually written the text before she made the call. The second time she read over Santana'sJust checking to make sure you're still alivetext she knew that she had. The thought made Quinn nearly throw her phone across the room because Santana thought she knew Quinn so damn well.
Quinn reluctantly drove to work, and ended up getting at the absolutely worst time because three other of her coworkers ended up getting there at the same time she did. "Hey Quinn," Ryan greeted her happily. She bit down on her lip when he matched her stride as they made their way to the elevator. "Have a good weekend?" he questioned.
Quinn was grateful for the years of practice she had masking her emotions because she was sure everyone would look at her like she was crazy, if she had barked out a laugh at that. "About the same," she lied evenly. "Yourself?"
"Awesome: me and my friend Chaz went to a Sox game."
"Did they win?"
"Not really. Hey," he waited for the elevator to empty before he too got off and Quinn could either do the same, or end up going up another floor. "I was thinking that we could go out for drinks some time."
Quinn gave him a very neutral smile. "Yea, sure. The next time Connie and them want to get together a group, that sounds great," she said cheerily, purposely misunderstanding his intentions.
"I was actually talking about just the two of us."
At this Quinn pretended to be surprised. "Oh. Ryan, I didn't realize that you didn't know. I'm married." She held up her hand to show him, feeling slightly bad when she saw his face fall. "But like I said, if you want to get a group-,"
He stalked off.
It turns out that bad days in your home life and bad days in your work life are like a group of women that spend too much time around each other: they sync up. Quinn always thought that being a financial analyst was something that sounded fun, and daring, and she would get to drive around town in a super-hot, expensive sports car, and buy a lot of nice clothes. Instead, it was a super stressful, highly demanding job, in which people like Quinn made people above her and her clients very wealthy, and she herself drove a Prius. Santana once said it's how she knew Quinn was a closet lesbian.
The day dragged unfathomably slow. And the only thing that was worse than a slow day was a slow day where it seemed likeeveryonewas either on her ass or on her nerves. And to completely top it off, she discovered she had started two days early, so she had to use the scratchy Tampons that they kept in the bathroom, because it started after lunch, and wasn't expecting this misery for anothertwodays.
At 4:01, Quinn decided that when she got off work she would pretend it was just like any other day, (and coincidentally face Santana for the first time since her storm out), and at 4:02, the clock started to speed up impossibly fast. Her manager, who had been gripping to her all day about her being slow with her work, didn't demand that she stay late to finish and even suggested that she go home and get a good rest because then maybe she could come to work tomorrow ready to work. They shared an elevator down together, and the whole time she kept imaging scenarios that would end with him being squashed like a bug.
Although Quinn had decided to head to Santana's after work, she had no idea what she'd say to her when she got there. When she was in front of her building, and still hadn't come up with anything brilliant, she decided to just wing it. She walked up the stairs slowly, counting out every step her feet made, the walk feeling a lot like how she imagined it felt to walk down the Green Mile. She held her breath as she inserted her key into the lock, fearing that Santana had changed the locks on her. She hadn't, her key slid easily through the lock, but the sight that greeted her was so unexpected that she stepped outside to check the number on the door just to make sure she had the right apartment.
The place was completely spotless; all the dishes were done and put away, the floor swept clean, shoes stacked by the doorway, and even the stacks of paper that Santana brought home from work and were usually lying (neatly) around, were gone. Santana, too, was gone; it was immediately apparent that no one was home.
Still, Quinn went searching through all of the rooms, just to make sure. It was Monday. On Mondays, Santana got off of work first, so they spent Mondays at her place. Quinn waited for a half-hour before she gave up and started driving to her own place. She didn't feel so condemned when she walked down her hallway, because she didn't expect Santana to be at her place-mostly for the aforementioned reason and that being that Mondays were Santana's place.
Quinn unlocked her apartment door heavily, but not expecting anything to be behind it, so when she got in she kind of just froze in the doorway of the room. Quinn's place had gone through a similar treatment. The difference in the two places, though, was that Santana was here, and had cooked, or was cooking. Quinn could smell it from the doorway. She followed her nose into the semi-enclosed area, only stopping when she realized that Santana was in the kitchen.
Her heart leapt at the sight of Santana standing in her kitchen, but her mouth didn't know when to shut up. "What're you doing here?" Quinn demanded.
Santana turned at her words, though she had to have already known that she had come in, that she had been in the house. Known and not come out to greet her with a kiss, and every now and then one of her wine coolers or a glass of water. She didn't ask her how her day was. Instead, she watched her with those intense eyes, causing Quinn to squirm underneath the gaze. Quinn had almost forgotten just how beautiful this woman was.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to stay," Santana said. "I just came by to drop something off."
Santana motioned to a stack of papers that were sitting on the counter. From the second Santana gestured to them, Quinn had a bad feeling. She commanded her eyes not to look, but they didn't listen because they looked at what Santana had decided to bring for her. She wanted to stop reading at "Common Wealth of Massachusetts" but almost as if her eyes were working against her, they traveled downwards and picked up the lines 'trial court', and 'probate and family department', and 'joint petition', collecting the words together as if they would add up to something whole, when the end result of all of those words together was nothing. She looked up at Santana because the only other option would be to keep looking at those papers, letting them become real.
"I figured that you would have waited at my apartment for an hour before you came here; otherwise dinner would have actually been ready."
Quinn tried to add Santana's words to the words that added up to nothing, and couldn't place how they all fit together. "What's this?" she questioned, gesturing vaguely to the black hole on the counter.
"They're divorce papers," Santana said evenly, never taking her eyes off of Quinn's face. "I'm giving you the excuse you need to walk away, because that's what you've been asking for right? You, I feel that you keep taking every single thing I do wrong, and let it work you up into a frenzy because you keep expecting something to go wrong with us, and I've been trying to figure out a solution to this problem, and-,"
Quinn sneered. "This is what you came up with?"
"Tell me that this isn't what you want."
"So it's my fault?"
Santana sighed. Turning off the burners. "No, it's not your fault. This isn't about fault, and this isn't aboutanargument. Iknowhow to argue with you; we've been doing it for years. I can argue with you until we're both blue in the face, as long as you fight fair, but you cheated, Quinn! You walked out!"
Quinn flinched at the accusation, but instead of agreeing, her jaw clinched. "You left, too!"
"I went into the kitchen to get a freaking beer! I didn't tell you to fuck off and walk out of our home. I didn't not come home. I didn't let us go to sleep without at least saying good night to each other. There are other rooms in the apartment, there's other space in the building. Take a walk around the fucking neighborhood, but don't just not come back home! We don't get to act like we're just hook-ups to each other anymore! You want to sleep apart, fine, tell me that! You want to hook up with other people, fine, tell me that! As long as we're on the same page."
"Page?" Quinn demanded. "Whatpage, Santana? We got married because you wanted to win a bet!"
Santana looked like she wanted to throw something, or break something. "So, what!" Santana growled from sheer frustration. "So for that reason, and that reason alone we can't actually try having an actual marriage?"
"So, everything! How am I supposed to take anything seriously, how am I supposed to know that there are rules when this was always a joke?"
"People get married for dumb or dumber reasons every, single, day! Just because there was a bet involved, doesn't mean that I don't care about this relationship. It's not like it was just random. We've kept an ongoing relationship forninefucking years, and I do mean that literally. We were once really, really good friends to each other." Quinn scoffed. "Look, just because we might have screwed each other over every now and then, doesn't change the fact that we were there for each other when it counted. That we cared for each other.
"So because I'm not good at this whole married thing that makes it a joke? I've never been married before! I've never been right here before this, so yeah, I've done an awful lot of messing up, but I'm learning! Our relationship has always been one of two things: it's either been a 100% sexual, or it's been a dynamic friendship with a sexual undertone that has every potential of blowing up for no reason whatsoever. We've never done both. We've never been friends and have sex at the same time. For the past couple of years it's mostly been about the sex. So yeah, I mention sex a lot. That's what you like. At least that's what you liked. That's what we did.
"So forgive me for not being able to turn nine years' worth of behavior off in a month. I like sex, and I like having sex with you. I like having a lot of sex with you, but for God's sake if I was only after you because I wanted someone to help me keep the bed warm, well I'm an attractive woman, and it's a pretty big fucking world out there, yet I'm here in this small, tiny, space with you, arguing about everything when I don't even fucking have to!"
"Then don't!" Quinn screamed. "You've done a real good job at showing how much you really don't have to!"
"I'll admit that I've pooched things, but this hasn't been all me, and I will be damned if I allow you to place it all on my shoulders as if I'm the one solely in the wrong, and you're guilt free. I flirt, I do, and I can admit that, but so do you. Even if you're not as overt with it as I am, you still flirt, so it's not fair to call me on my shit. And Ididn'tkiss Brittany: she kissed me. She kissed me, but you felt the need to punish me for something that I had no control over! I know how much her and my relationship makes you feel insecure about ours, and I would never knowingly do something to prey on that insecurity you have about me and her. Even when we were at war with each other back in high school, we knew there were boundaries to our fights, and no matter what, we never crossed them.
"Lo siento! I'm sorry that I came across as not understanding about your father. I'm sorry about the show, and about Brittany, and the reception, and because I flirt. I am sorry that those things hurt you. I was not trying to hurt you. I do not strive to do things that will hurt you, Quinn, whether you believe that or not. But I'm me. I will always be me. You can't be upset about the things that make me, me, when that's who you married. I can work on the things that are changeable, but I will always be that sarcastic, crude, somewhat insensitive, sexy as hell, bad ass that has a healthy libido, and enjoys coming home to her wife and expressing that. That has to be good enough for you, Quinn, because you married Santana Lopez, no one else; I can't be anyone else. I'm not asking you to be any one other than who you are either; I'm prepared for a fight as long as it's fair, but you have to tell me what you want!"
Quinn watched Santana draw in haggard breaths, winded by her speech. "I'm on my period," Quinn inexplicably said.
Santana's eyes narrowed, clearly confused. "Are you really trying to use that as an excuse for…everything?"
Quinn shot her an angry look. "No, it's not," she snapped. "I was just telling you that because you said that before we got married that if I married you, you'd watchSex & the Citywith me, and feed me chocolates when I was on my period. You asked me what I want: I want to watchSex & the City."
Quinn watched Santana's eyes lower, scanning her own. Keeping careful watch on the expression behind her gaze. Quinn had perfected masks over the years, but Santana had perfected learning how to read her. "You're really expecting me to hold to thatnow."
"Yes," Quinn said seriously. She would take what she could. "You don't make promises because they're easy, you make promises to prove that you can keep your word even when things get hard. You promised you'd watchSex and the Citywith me, and I'm holding you to it."
Santana just stared with that darkly intense look. "Okay," she finally said. Quinn could have left to dig out the DVDs and put them on, but she wanted to stay. She watched Santana dish out two helpings, and then with her back to her, did something in one of the drawers and turned around with a bag of Reese Cups Minis in her hand. "Where did those come from?"
Santana winked. "It's a secret."
"How do you have secrets in my apartment?"
Santana gave an amused, showy grin. "You'd be surprised at the things that I manage to keep hidden," she said, and she could have been talking about food, money, or things far more explosive for all Quinn knew. When there food was sitting on the coffee table, and Santana was situated on the couch, in front of Quinn's modest television, Quinn searched out the DVD and turned it on to the last season she had watched.
They sat about a foot away from each other, Quinn's feet curled up beneath her, Santana's feet perched on the coffee table, almost like she was challenging Quinn to say something to her about it. The silence was companionable while Santana was busy eating her Chicken Tetrazzini, but once she was done with it, she started to get chatty. "Now, who is who, again?"
Quinn gave a scowl at Santana. "You've never watched this before?"
Santana snorted. "You know I haven't."
Quinn quickly pointed out the characters of which Santana quickly forgot. "So all they talk about is sex?"
"Yes!" Quinn hissed. "So it should be right up your alley!"
"How in the world did you get Russell to allow you to watch this?"
"It's not exactly as if I advertised!"
As they made their way through Season 3, they progressively got closer together so that by the time thatDrama Queenscame on, they were very nearly touching, but then came the lunchroom scene that sounded an awful lot like a rundown of Quinn and Santana, and their marriage, and they drew apart.
"Remind me, why do you like this show so much?"
Quinn shushed her. "You promised you would watch and not talk."
"No, I promised I would watch and notcomplain. Much. I haven'tcomplainedabout anything yet. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on. And the red-head? Totally a les!"
"She came out in 2007."
Santana clapped her hands together. "Totally called it."
"Would you have sex with her?"
"She has to be like 50 or something."
"Not now, like back then."
Santana's lips curled. "Not on your life."
"What about Carrie?"
Santana half watched the action on the screen. "Which one's Carrie?"
"Sarah Jessica Parker's character."
"No."
"No!" Quinn protested, disbelieving. "She's blonde."
"You know, I know everyone thinks that I just have this thing for blonde's, but I really don't. Noah, wasn't a blonde, Finn wasn't a blonde."
"Sam was, and anyway they were all guys."
"Sam was just to get back at you."
"I know that's why you started dating him, but I could never understand why you ended things with him. He was the perfect beard for you."
Santana fiddled with a string on her shirt. "He was too perfect." Quinn just stared and eventually she buckled. "Okay, I thought he was a nice guy. I felt bad for him. I felt bad about using him, there, happy?"
"Mildly."
"And you're not a blonde, either, not the hair that I like, anyway, so Britt was the only blonde I was ever actually with."
"I'm sorry, San," Quinn blurted, suddenly. Without taking her eyes off of her, Quinn picked up the remote and muted the television. "For…I shouldn't have walked out. I shouldn't have ignored your text, and I should have come home. I shouldn't have treated you as if you were…as if the only thing that we had between us was sex. I'm sorry for telling you to fuck off, and I'm sorry I blew up over my dad. I still feel like you should have respected my decision to not want him to come."
"I do-," Santana interjected. "I think that one day you're going to regret it if you don't try to meet him at least part of the way. I'm not saying this to lessen any of your feelings towards that man, I only say that because I would kill, Quinn, I would absolutely kill for my grandmother to even justlookat me again. She hurt me, she made me feel worthless, she abandoned me…," Santana angrily brushed away her tears, "but she still belongs to me. If she came to me and said that she wants to be at the reception, I would send a limo to pick her up. I know we grew up in completely different family situations; in my family, friends, jobs, money that all comes and goes, but your family is always your blood. I guess I was kind of thinking that since you and I are supposed to be a family now, that family decisions belonged to both of us. If I overstepped my boundary there, I'm sorry. I just want you to know, though, that I'm not trying to do anything to purposely hurt you."
Quinn shifted, uncomfortably. "It's hard for me to accept that."
Santana nodded. "I know."
"You should have told me about, Brittany."
Again, she nodded. "I know, babe, and I promise, Ipromisethe only reason I didn't because I know how much my past relationship with Brittany makes you feel insecure in us, and things were so rocky lately, I didn't want to mess things up any more than they already were, but I did mess up. I should have told you as soon as it happened."
"Yea. It's not easy for me to talk about feelings."
Santana nodded in agreement. "Quinn, turst me when I say that this is the most vulnerable you'll probably ever get to see me, and most likely tomorrow I'll be calling you Tubbers again. But our relationship means something to me, so don't think that I'm not going to fight-"
Quinn felt herself get riled up with those words, and without realizing it anger returned. "Is that why there are divorce papers sitting on the kitchen counter? Because you want to fight?"
"Yes, Quinn, that is exactly why."
Whatever space that'd been earned between them, was gone, and they were back to opposite sides of the couch. "What logical sense does that make, Santana? How am I supposed to believe that you want this relationship when one argument has you wanting out? You're actions run counter to your words!" Santana stood up abruptly. "Now who's leaving?" Quinn yelled at her back. She realized that she was being childish, purposely combative at this point, but she didn't know how to be vulnerable. Every time she went to that place, someone always hurt her.
"I'm not leaving," Santana called quietly over her shoulder. She disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with the papers that'd been left behind. She sat them in Quinn's lap. "Look at the last page," she directed. Quinn flipped as Santana talked. "I don't want to get a divorce; that is the last thing that I ever want to do, but if that's what it takes for you to have enough security about us to not think that everything I do is a slight against you, that I'm here because of a bet, then I will." Quinn stared blankly at the last page that Santana had clipped together. It was a marriage petition. "But if we do get a divorce, I'm just going to turn around and ask you to marry me again. Iwantto be married to you, Iwantto be with you. No matter how hard you push, you won't push me away. I won't let you. I care about this too much."
Quinn realized that she had started crying. She shook her head, brushing the tears away. "Why?" she questioned earnestly. "I'm not soft. I'm noteasy." She bit down on the uneasy feeling rumbling around her belly, but then finally decided to say the words that rambled around in her head all the time anyway. "I'm not Brittany."
"No, you're not," Santana agreed.
Quinn just blinked in acceptance. "And no matter what, you'll never love me the way you love Brittany."
Quinn could feel Santana stiffen on the couch beside her, but she couldn't bring herself to look at Santana. "You're right," Santana said. It was what Quinn was expecting to hear, to be honest, but that didn't change any the feeling those sting her words brought about. "I will never love you the way that I love Brittany. I will never loveanyonethe way I loved Brittany because no one elseisBrittany. You know something, Fabray? I honestly didn't sign up for this! Shit, I expect the dramatics from Berry, but not you. But between the storm outs and the tears, it's all just starting to get to be too much for me!
"If the kids of McKinley could see you now, I swear they wouldn't believe that you used to make them scamper away from you! They would have had you carrying their books. They never would have voted you Queen. When I asked you to marry me, I thought I was fucking getting a winner, someone who could keep up with me in the bedroom, almost, and matched up to me in sheer bitchdom, but no, instead I get this! Some pathetic sap who whines because I don't want to pick out card samples? Like what the fuck is that? What's next, are you going to cry because I don't tuck you into bed, too?"
"Shut up, Santana!"
She didn't. "Tell you what: next Saturday, I'll take you to the pond to feed the ducks, and then the circus to hang out with the clowns, and just to top it off, I'll take you on a unicorn hunt because if you can catch a unicorn you get to make a wish, and maybe you can wish for a fucking clue, bigger breasts, and a better cure for stretch marks because the last time you wished for that it just didn't work!"
Quinn felt her hand reaching out in a familiar motion, but Santana didn't even flinch as Quinn's hand moved closer to her face. She did sigh, softly, when Quinn's hand touched her cheek, her thumb gently wiping away a leftover tear. She pulled Santana down on top of her, kissing her fiercely. "Lopez," Quinn corrected once they had pulled away, both breathing hard.
"Yes?"
"I wasn't calling your name. You called me Fabray. It's Fabray-Lopez."
Santana leaned down to initiate another round of kissing. "Damn right it is!" It didn't take long before it was determined that clothes were just in the way, but it had been a couple of days and there werethingsthat they needed to work out anyway, so as much fun as it would have been for the clothes to be off, neither of them really had time to wait for that to happen. Quinn's shirt was hanging around her neck, and beneath that her bra was half off exposing one breast, and Santana's pants had made it down only as far as her thighs. Santana's hand was reaching to slip beneath Quinn's waistband, when they both seemed to remember. "Are you really on your period, or were you faking it."
Quinn sighed. "Sadly…"
Santana's fingers drew back so quickly Quinn wondered if she thought her lady parts were going to bite her. "Ah, fuck, Q!"
"Trust me, I wish you would," Quinn said cleverly. Santana sat back for a second. "What about dry humping?"
Quinn actually considered that for a second, but too many years in the Fabray household prevented her from saying yes. Santana grumped for a solid minute before she adjusted her and Quinn's clothes, and pulled Quinn into her lap. "On to the next episode then."
They watched a few more episodes until they were both half asleep, and they retired to the bedroom. They didn't really wake up, just sleepily slipped out of their clothes, and collapsed into the bed together.
"This doesn't make things right between us," Quinn said softly.
"No it doesn't," Santana agreed.
Maybe a minute passed. Maybe longer. "Hey San?"
"Yeah, babe?"
"Are you asleep?"
"Yep."
Santana could feel the sudden tension in Quinn's muscles, which caused her to open her eyes. "Please never stop."
Santana drew Quinn's face up so they were looking at each other. "I won't," she said solemnly. "I promise." Quinn held her look for half a minute.
"Okay then," she finally said. "Okay."