After the Silk song went off, Santana seriously had to leave the floor because her wife was so damned sexy, and that song brought up some serious childhood nostalgia of the times that she was being baby-sat by her older cousins who thought it was funny to teach her to sing it, because she was too young to understand the actual words that were being sung. Now she did, and damn it if she didn't want to just go at it with Quinn right there. She couldn't believe that Quinn had never heardDo Me Babybefore, and that fact made one thing clear: Quinn needed her horizons broadened. Santana seriously needed to kidnap her for the day and educate her on the fine styling of R , particularly 90s R , and none of that whitewashed commercial success crap that had been raping the airways ever since R went mainstream. (Blurred LinesI'm looking at you).The thought that she had never heard a Boys II Men Song, or Bell Biv Dafoe, it hurt her heart. It was like finding someone who had never watchedShawshank Redemption.

Another thing that was also past due: Santana making love to her while speaking to her in Spanish. Dani had been Santana's only Spanish-speaking partner, and having Dani speak to her in Spanish as they'd had sex was an experience like no other. It wasn't just the idea of having a 'foreign' language spoken in her ear; she'd slept with a German speaking woman before, and it hadn't gotten her motor running quite as much. No, Spanish was just a fucking sexy language. French was okay, but really the only other accent that could compare, (in her book), was Italian. That and maybe a Jamaican or an Antillean Creole accent.

Santana looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. She grinned, just thinking about everything. It honestly, didn't seem fair that she got to look this good, that life got tobethis good for her. Her boss may have been demanding, but she knew that she had a good job, she liked her coworkers, the pay was decent, and there was room for her to slowly work her way up the ladder. And even if she had the suckiest job in the world, it didn't matter because she got to go home to one of the smartest, most beautiful, daring, and feisty women she knew. It was like she had cheated on the life lottery or something, but she seriously wasn't complaining.

Santana wiped her hands off and left the restroom. On her way back to Quinn, she saw an opening at the bar and ordered a Sam Adams for herself, and a bitch beer for Quinn, some new raspberry flavored Smirnoff concoction. "Santana?" a voice questioned familiarly as the two bottles were place in front of her. Santana turned in the wrong direction, so that by the time she turned herself around, the speaker was laughing at her.

"Bryne! How are you? It's been…?"

"Six months," she answered for her. "Wow, you look good; great actually." Bryne's eyes were appraising in one of those ways that made the recipient feel uncomfortable, but Santana was used to it, and she just waited. "You have that I've been having great sex after glow. And you look like you've been having a lot of it." Santana beamed. "Oh my god, 'Tana! It's that girl that you were always mooning over, isn't it? What's her name?"

"Quinn, and Santana Lopez doesn'tmoon."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is pine a better verb?" Santana rolled her eyes and sipped her beer, a smile smugly on her lips. "I certainly seem to recall a time when you left my bed because she called, and I'm positive I'm not the only one."

"I didn't leave your bed, we were making out on the couch, and we both know it was a good thing that things didn't progress any further than that."

Bryne's eyes twinkled. "You don't think that we'd been good for each other?" she teased.

"I think that the sex would have been fantastic, because the sexual tension between us in phenomenal, and we've got even better mental chemistry, but it would have turned into one of those awful situations where after several years of casually falling into each other's beds, we'd both realize we'd need more, and hate each other for it because we'd never give it to the other."

"It is scary how you do that, but that's so true. How are you two? It has to be more than just great sex, because you two always have great sex, butthislook-"

Her smile went all the way to her eyes, and she made sure that Bryne could see the wedding ring. "We got married!"

"Get out! Really? Congratulations!" Bryne smiled warmly, but there was just the smallest tinge of sadness there, too. "It's about damn time, too, cause you weren't being fair to all those poor lonely les and bi chicks who actually felt like they had a chance with you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't act like you don't know that you were breaking hearts left and right. Always visible, never available."

Santana just shook her head. "So how are things on your end? How was…"

"Paris? Il était bon. Sans incident."

"Glad to hear that all was well. Are you back in Boston for good?"

"I'm in Boston for the moment," Bryne answered. "You know how this goes. I'm on my way to Tucson actually."

"Wait, that's you?"

"Paulson must have called you, then. You're not going?"

"No way; that's me and Quinn's honeymoon." Santana took a happy swallow. "We're going to Cabo."

"Now what made you do that?"

Santana frowned. "What?"

"Go somewhere nice? That's a waste of money if I ever heard of one; we both know that you're not going to leave the room."

They shared a laugh. "Oh, speaking of her andthat, I have to get back to the wife."

"It was good running into you. We should do it on purpose, sometime."

"We should. You have my number. Don't go ghost on me."

Bryne returned the smile. "I'll try not."

Santana turned away from the bar and surveyed the dance area, unsurprised that Quinn wasn't still on the floor; she didn't like to dance alone. Her eyes traveled down the bar, tensing when she saw a familiar head of curly, black hair, cringing when her voice carried, proving itwasJenna Healy. Fuck if she wanted the drama of dealing with her tonight. But she seemed busy talking up some poor, unfortunate blonde. Santana wondered if she could find Quinn quickly and then maybe they could sneak out…but wait, was thatQuinn? Oh hell, no!

Santana stalked over to them, interrupting what looked like an uncomfortable conversation between Jenna and Quinn. "What's going on?" Santana questioned. Jenna was standing way too close to her wife, and she really needed to back the hell up.

Jenna gave Santana a disdainful look. "Speak of the devil, and Satan will appear," Jenna said with an eye roll. Santana frowned. They'd been talking about her? "Why is it that you always seem to find yourself chasing after my seconds, Lopez?"

"The fuck you say?" Santana demanded. "It's Fabray-Lopez, and you really need to step back from my wife."

Jenna looked from Quinn to Santana and as comprehension dawned on her, she started laughing. "Oh, no fucking way! This is fucking priceless!Thisis your wife?" Jenna gestured. "Like, she'syours?"

Santana took a menacing step forward. "Yes, so back off before I backs you off."

Jenna took a jaunty step backwards in a way that said she was taunting her, throwing her hands up mockingly. "Down Kudjo; you're foaming at the mouth. I didn't realize that there was someone out there desperate enough to marry you, and I certainly didn't realize that this was your wife."

Quinn tugged on Santana's arm. "San, let's go."

"I mean, she wasn't acting very married when we met," Jenna added with that simpering smirk.

Santana ignored Quinn. "What's that mean?"

"Nothing," Jenna replied, "just that she was all up on this." She threw a look at Quinn, "Babe, when you were talking about that wife at home, I didn't know you meant Santana. Now I know why you were all on me." Her smug face turned back to Santana. "I mean if I was married to you, I would be pleading for someone else to fuck me, too. I always knew you couldn't handle your shit, Lopez."

"Santana, don't waste your time on this skank. Let's go home."

Santana's eyes simmered, her whole body tensing. "I handle mine alright, bitch, unlike you who leaves girls wondering if they've even been fucked after you're done. That is until they find out that you left them burning a few weeks later."

"Is that what the girls Idumpedsay? Pity that you always seem to find yourself picking up my seconds." Jenna turned to Quinn, before she looked Santana over, a nasty smirk curling on her lips. "I'm sorry," she said to Quinn.

"For what?" she snapped.

"That I didn't get to show you what it feels like to be with arealwoman." Jenna ran a finger along Quinn's jawline. "The next time you need a reminder of what you're missing, you know where to find me."

For a second, Santana thought about letting it go. She looked at the vice like grip she had on the two bottles. Her eyes flickered up. Took a mental picture. She sat her Sam Adams on the counter. The full Smirnoff bottle, stayed in her hand. With a cold calculation, she poured some of the Sam Adams into the Smirnoff bottle, wrapped her hand around the neck, and brought the palm of her other hand down swiftly against the top. The bottom of the bottle broke off, leaving a jagged edge behind. Santana shifted her hold on the broken bottle, jagged edge turned toward Jenna. "Touch her again, bitch!"

"San!"

Jenna's eyes widened suddenly, and she backed up, but she pretended like she was unconcerned with the weapon in Santana's hand. "What're you going to do with that, Lopez?" She taunted. "I know that's for show, because if you knew how to handle your business, you and I wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

Quinn quickly stepped between Santana and Jenna, or more specifically between the broken bottle and Jenna. "First off, bitch, it'sFabray-Lopez. Second, she knows how to handle her business, so I would recommend you picking your pride up off of the floor, and walking away before she goes off. And third, I wasn't about to go home with you. I told you to go, remember?"

Jenna scratched her head. "Now that doesn't sound like you…what was it that you said, Luce, something about you fucking me so good that I wouldn't remember my name?" Santana's eyes flickered, but she resisted looking at Quinn. "You didn't seem too concerned about yourwifethen, so keep telling yourselfthat,bitch."

Santana lunged at the word, but Quinn was in the way, and Jenna stepped out of reach, and a couple of threatening guys who looked like bouncers finally seemed to be getting the lead out of their asses as they realized they might have a situation. Santana didn't care, though. "Call her a bitch again, pinche puta, and you'll be picking your teeth up off the floor! I gots your bitch right here! No me jodas!"

"Oh, now there's that temper," Jenna taunted. "You really should learn somecontrol."

Quinn kept Santana pressed against the bar, trying to keep her from surging forward. "Santana!" Santana barely heard her though. She was aware enough of Quinn to not hurt her, but other than that, she had eyes only on Jenna. Bryne stepped into the small space between the three. "Santana, rührt euch."she said, quietly, before turning to Jenna. "You mustreallyhave a death wish, Jenna. And I mean, really, because you are honestly taking your own life in your hands right now, does she look like she's playing?"

As Bryne talked, Quinn's hands moved to cup Santana's face, forcing her to look at her. Santana gave Quinn a glance, but it was her smell more than anything that caused the red to recede. She looked down at the broken bottle in her hand, remembering how she had so carefully sized the girl up. She let Quinn take the bottle from her, and watched it drop to the floor before Quinn led the two of them out of the bar.

Outside, Santana jerked her hand from Quinn's grasp. "Mierda!" she shouted into the night. She started walking, not really caring about the direction, she just needed to be away right this second. She guessed that she was walking fairly fast, because she heard Quinn scrambling to keep up.

"San?"

Santana turned on her heels so quickly she almost ran into her. "Jenna, Quinn?" she shouted. Her whole body was shaking. She balled her fist just to keep them from trembling. She wanted to punch a wall. Better even, she wanted to fucking punch that damn bitch's face in. "You were going to fuckJenna Healy? Out of all the fucking…unbelievable." Santana pointed one of those trembling fingers at her. "You said it was a bartender. You didn't say that you almost went home with Jenna fucking-," she pressed her lips together tightly to keep from saying anything else, her fists clinching, unclenching, clinching at her side. She recognized she was in a rage, and she didn't want to say something that she'd regret. She counted down from five, and when that didn't work she counted down from 10. 20, but the rage just seemed to grow.

She dropped to her knees in a nearby alcove, and anxiously started chanting more than praying, "Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia." She paused because the words just ran off of her tongue, so she started her Hail Mary over again, but in a different language. "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

It took more concentration to finish the prayer in Latin. Concentration that diverted her attention away from the rage that was slowly turning to simple anger, which was something she could manage. Angry Santana didn't hold broken glass bottles in their hand as their eyes scanned over all the major pulse points in the body, and seriously considered cutting Jenna in a place that would assure she'd bleed out. Slowly. Santana couldn't remember the last time she'd actually flown into a rage; she didn't like it. Didn't like feeling out of control.

She silently said another Hail Mary in Latin. She wanted to laugh that this was what managed to calm her. She couldn't remember the last time she had done penance, much less gone to confessional. She wasn't sure why; that was always her favorite part of church. She used to happily spout off her transgressions, confessing them eagerly. She had been told more than once that she didn't enter confession with a humbling spirit, and sometimes got extra penance for being prideful, and yet she had always liked confession far better than she liked actually sitting through sermons.

Santana slowly opened her eyes and looked at her hands clinched and balled into her lap. She unclenched them, breathing out slowly. Her eyes flickered to her left, and was surprised to see Quinn was kneeling beside her. Even more surprised to find that Quinn was touching her, that Quinn had placed a hand on her arm. She watched Quinn's hand sneak to slip between her own.

"I'm sorry," Quinn whispered. Santana's eyes flickered up to catch Quinn's, to acknowledge her presence. "I fucked up." Santana couldn't bring herself to say anything, so she continued to stare. "I was going to go home with her, b-but only because she r-reminded me of you. And I was going to leave with her, but the bartender, who I'd been talking to all night, told me that I shouldn't, and that I should go home with her instead. Santana, I promise, I didn't kiss her, and I didn't have sex with her. Jenna or the bar tender. We had drinks, we flirted, and we danced. That's it."

"With Jenna?" Santana was surprised by the sound of her own voice. She sounded so very calm it was startling to her. Quinn nodded. Santana gave an abrupt laugh. "Out of everyone in this city…," Her mouth snapped shut abruptly. "I just want to go home. Can we do that?"

Quinn quickly nodded. "Please," she begged.

It was a very quiet and lonely ride back to Quinn's apartment. Santana held her hand and was gently rubbing her thumb against the back of it, but in a very absentminded way; like she didn't realize she was doing it. Quinn turned on the radio to help alleviate the noise that the silence created, but it did nothing to distract her from what had happened. Quinn had questions. She had never seen anyone break a bottle like that. Where did she learn that from? When did Santana learn Latin? Did she just know…what had she been saying? She caught the word 'father' and 'holy mother' and 'death', so…'Hail Mary' maybe? Did she just know that prayer in Latin, or could she speak it, too?

In less than two months Quinn had heard Santana speak five different languages. Where had she learned to speak all of them? Did she know more? What had that girl said to Santana? When she broke that bottle there was a cold, calculated look to her features. What did that mean? What did this mean for them? That was the real question. That was the question that wouldn't disappear, that kept peaking its head up at every other question, demanding attention.

She had messed up. She had really, really messed up, and despite Santana saying earlier that she wasn't going to hold her to something she already knew about, this wasn't the same because Quinn had lied. Well, Quinn told herself, she didn't lie, she'd shortened the truth, but it was what was missing in the abbreviated version of the story that she had told Santana that had almost caused her wife to go bat shit in a bar. Santana had told her just hours ago that she was going to fight, but then she wasn't as pissed off as she had been then, either.

Quinn couldn't say who attacked who, just that as soon as they were through the door to her apartment that they had affixed themselves to each other; their lips sealing to each other's, their hands attached to each other desperate for contact. There was one split second where Santana drew back, but when Quinn pulled her back to her she stayed. Quinn needed to be close to Santana in this moment, to know that Santana still wanted her, to know that Quinn hadn't lost her, to show Santana that she was enough for her, to try to erase Jenna's words because they flat out weren't true. Whatever else might have been lacking in their relationship, Santana had never left her unsatisfied when it came to their bedroom habits.

Quinn tried to relay this to her, as well as things that they hadn't ever said out loud. She wanted Santana to know that she was hers for the taking. That Jenna didn't matter, that no one actually mattered, because Santana was the only one who had ever got her heart beating like this, that she was the only one that made her feel like this, that they belonged to and with each other. (God she hoped that Santana still felt like they belonged with each other). That being with Santana was one of the best things she'd ever known.

They didn't make love. Not unless you took that in the literal sense, as if they were going at it in the hopes of manufacturing the emotion, because there was nothing sweet or tender about what they were doing. It was passionate, only in its intensity. It was very nearly violent. Santana slammed Quinn back into the wall, Quinn pushed Santana down against the counter, they rolled into the coffee table, ignoring the contents that fell down on top of them.

And it went on. From the door, to the couch, to the floor, to the kitchen, to the bedroom. Teeth bit into flesh, hands slapped against skin, barely a word was uttered; they communicated mostly through grunts. Orgasms were collected as trophies. Quinn lost count at how many she gave and received, and for once it didn't matter because not a single one of them was shared.

When they had exhausted themselves, they collapsed on their backs on the bed, breathing heavily. Their bodies were marked from their previous activities. Quinn's hair was a mess, her lips swollen, their clothes strewn about the apartment, ripped apart because actually taking them off had taken too much time. When Santana's breathing returned to normal, she slid underneath the covers, rolled over onto her side, and curled up on the far side of the bed, her back to Quinn. Cautiously, Quinn reached around to touch her. Santana flinched away from the embrace at the first feel of Quinn's hand, but then almost seemed to force herself to stay put beneath the touch. That hurt Quinn more than if she had just pushed Quinn's hand off of her. "I'm sorry, Santana."

"Good night, Quinn," Santana said stiffly.

The bed suddenly seemed very cold and unforgiving. Quinn felt almost as if something had broken between the two of them; something that she couldn't identify and therefore didn't have any idea on how to go about fixing it. "Good night, Santana," she said, softly, kissing Santana on her shoulder blade, before she got up from the bed, picking up her pillow on the way. She got a blanket from the closet and settled in on the couch, willing sleep to take her away from everything she was feeling right now.

But she had no such luck, because sleep evaded her. She couldn't help but think about the day through the lens of her parents' marriage. Quinn worried constantly about turning into the woman her mother had been (not new Judy, but the old Judy, the one who was so concerned with obeying her husband that she agreed to throw her 16 year old daughter out onto the street). She had spent so much of her childhood worried that she'd grow up to be that shell of a human, when it turned out that she was always more in danger of turning into Russell. Did that mean she was going to turn Santana into her mother?

Quinn wasn't sure what she was hearing at first, but then when she realized what it was, the sound broke her heart. Santana wasn't being loud, but in the stillness of the apartment, Quinn could hear her sobbing quietly into her pillow. This was by no means the first time she'd heard Santana cry. They had been friends for years and despite her hard exterior, she was actually far more sensitive than most gave her credit for. Hell, even when people saw her with tears in her eyes, they quickly forgot that she was just as sensitive, maybe even more, than everyone else. I mean this was the girl that cried over losing her tanning privileges despite the fact she had a permanent tan.

She had seen Santana in just about every state of distress before, but never before had she heardthiscry, and never before had she been the cause of it. She hadn't felt this bad since the day that she'd given Beth up. She never imagined that she'd feel that bad ever again. Santana hadn't wanted her to even touch her. And she was crying. Because of something she had done. Because she had gone out to a bar, and not forgot that she was married, but remembered, and brushed it aside. She gave Jenna the fuel to insert herself in her marriage this way. She had done this to them.

Quinn didn't know what she could possibly do to fix it. Her parents never got into fights, because her mom had always done what Russell had told her to do. Quinn had never been under the illusion that there was love in her parents' marriage, just a sense of duty. Russell was overbearing and inconsiderate, and Judy had survived by having no expectations and self-medicating. Quinn never really saw her mother as having feelings, of being a real person, but certainly she had once been, because she was now. She had gone from someone who had demanded the genealogy of every person she talked to, to pretending not to notice that her daughter's fiancée was going down on her while they were on the phone. But when she was with Russell, Judy had disappeared. Was she bringing out the very worst in Santana, just like her father had in Judy?

She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing when she got up from the couch an hour later, and went into the bedroom. From the sudden quiet that greeted her when she entered into the space she could tell that Santana was still awake. "Santana?" she called quietly. She got no response. "San?" She crawled onto the bed, and touched Santana's arm, felt her tremble beneath her. "Come here," Quinn coaxed.

"Quinn." God that sound in her voice. "Please, don't touch me. I just want to be by myself right now. Please just leave me alone?"

Quinn lifted her hand from Santana's arm, and started to back up off the bed when she stopped herself. The fact that the couch seemed so comfortable at the moment and that going back to itfeltlike something that she should do probably meant that it wasn't something she should do. Quinn lay down on her side, flush against Santana's back, wrapping her arm around her wife's waist. "No," she said stubbornly. "I won't."

Quinn's words brought out a choked sob from Santana's lips, a sound that hit Quinn in her gut. But she didn't try to extract herself from Quinn's grip, and she didn't pull away when Quinn tightened her hold, either. No other words were exchanged between the two. They both ended up crying themselves to sleep. But when she woke up the next morning, Santana was still locked in her semi-embrace, and Quinn was still holding on.