Chapter Text
It's one thing to be open and to let people in, but it's an entirely different thing to be vulnerable. Imagine ripping off a fresh bandage, only to have a riptide of blood gushing out of your wounds all at once, exposing every little insecurity and niggling fear you've ever had about life and the future and the past.
It's horrifying, to learn that people you don't even know can see everything you're trying to rid or keep hidden. There's your most precious dreams and embarrassing secrets being revealed for all to see without your permission, and that right there, impermissible exposure, is the scariest, most fucked up kind of exposure.
When letting somebody in mortifies you so much that it makes you run away and cry, does that say more about the kind of person you are, or the kind of people you let into your life?
Santana's been asking herself this for days now, but the answer still hasn't become clear.
Rachel looks at her now, with that same hope in her eyes, but the light behind them has dimmed into what Santana thinks is sympathy, or perhaps pity. "Did something happen that you want to share with me?" she keeps asking, because she cares about Santana more than any of her friends in high school ever had.
But Santana never has an answer for her, because she can't tell her roommate about what happened that night. She barely knows what happened herself. Some things just deserve to stay private, and this is one of those things.
--
It's the middle of the night and Santana's sleeping in her socks, because the heater has been busted ever since they arrived back in New York. Their apartment really sucks sometimes. There's a huge ass hole in the wall, the toilet runs unless you jiggle the handle, the drawer in the kitchen completely falls apart unless you know how to open it correctly, and there's a dark corner in the loft that's been totally isolated ever since the light bulb blew out two months ago.
It creaks in the middle of the night, scaring the shit out of Santana until she finds herself in Rachel's bed—not because she needs Rachel in order to fall back asleep, but because the nights are lonely sometimes, and Rachel's the one who said that whenever they were feeling lonely, they could be alone together—and their apartment is also super close to a hospital, which is kind of convenient—she lives with two of the biggest klutzes she knows—but it's also annoying to hear that damn ambulance siren every twenty minutes or so when she's trying to fall asleep.
She always sees the red and blue flashing lights reflecting against her window, and then the sound approaches, faint at first, but then the blast of sirens sneaks up on her out of nowhere, and Santana has to stuff her face in a pillow to withhold from sticking her head out the window and cursing out the entire city for being so damn loud for no fucking reason.
She's so used to the sounds of the city that she can easily distinguish the difference between police sirens and ambulance sirens, and yes, there is a difference. Coincidentally, it's a police siren blaring down their street now as Cole lies beside to her, resting sideways as she traces a loopy pattern up Santana's arm.
Cole seems to be lost in thought, as she always is, eyes blinking slowly as she thinks about who-knows-what. Santana can never manage to understand what's going on in that girl's head; not like she easily could with Britt.
Cole's cool though. She's nothing at all like the other women in Santana's life that she considers friends, so it's easy to keep from getting her feelings confused, which tends to happen a lot when it comes to girls. They're just so hard to get sometimes. They say one thing and mean another. They expect one thing and don't oblige. They take and they take and never even consider giving back.
(Well, some girls, that is. Cole's not like that. Santana wouldn't exactly say the girl is simple, because that's so very far from the truth. She just thinks differently, and that, Santana's used to.)
Cole's light touch against her skin tickles up and down, and Santana breathes out a sigh through her nose as she curls her toes in her socks. She’d put them on soon after their third round, because having sex with socks on is just—hell no. That's fucking unnatural.
The sheets are bunched up snug around Cole's waist. She's comfortable in her nudity—and she'd totally be lying bare on top of the covers if it weren't so cold in here—but despite what some may presume, Santana's not the same way.
After everything is said and done, lying around buck naked is not really her thing. It was something she was only comfortable doing with Britt, because she trusted her and loved her and Brittany would never judge her for the imperfections and flaws of her body.
It's these irrevocable vulnerabilities and frigid temperatures that have Santana tugging on a sweatshirt, along with some comfy ankle socks, right after every round. She knows it gets on Cole's nerves, her odd need to hide away and cover up whenever they're not in the act of passion, but if Santana doesn't feel fully safe and okay with whom she's with, there's no way she's going to bare her entire body to the world, or her entire soul to someone who doesn't truly deserve it.
The steady breathing, the rise and fall of Cole's chest, distracts Santana from her thoughts. She's been thinking too much lately. About stupid things; thoughts she probably shouldn't be entertaining. Cole doesn't care when Santana looks, but then her eyes lock and she's unwillingly staring at the other woman’s breasts every time an idea or memory captures her mind. Ideas and memories she wants to disappear and keep captive all at the same time.
It's not fair sometimes; how vivid and visual her sense of memory is. As soon as she allows her eyes to close, there's images of smooth skin and pink lips and doe eyes and soft hands and silky hair. There's a sexy voice whispering into Santana's ear, telling her what to do, where to touch, how hard, too much, not enough.
Santana breathes raggedly, haunted by these visuals that feel so distant, yet the memories aren't as old as they feel. The sheets bustle around her waist as Cole sits up slightly, eyes narrowed on Santana curiously. "Who do you think about when we fuck?" she asks, licking her lips as she fluffs up a pillow and holds it against her chest.
There's no use in even trying to deny it—because Cole's not stupid; she's actually unnaturally smart for someone who kills a billion brain cells a week—but Santana tries anyway, telling Cole, "I think about Rachel McAdams." There's a poster of the starlet hanging on the wall right behind them, so it's not severely out of the realm of possibilities, but Cole can smell the scent of lies like a greyhound senses danger.
"Bull," she drawls lazily, taking Santana's hand in her lap to play with. "Shit."
Rolling her eyes, Santana smiles and then flexes the muscles in her hand when Cole tries to interlace their fingers. She's not really into that hand-holding shit after sex. Cuddling either. Most nights, Cole doesn't really care, but tonight it's cold, and when Santana had resisted her embrace earlier there was a brief disagreement and then some whining.
Santana almost kicked her out, but they don't exactly live in the safest neighborhood. It'd be a bitch move to make Cole go home, so Santana had feigned exhaustion until the next wave of pleasure took over. They'd had sex again, which warmed them up a bit, and Cole had eventually dropped the cuddling and snuggling thing, thankfully.
Santana grasps a bundle of sheets in her fist and then says, "It used to be Brittany." She licks her lips as her thoughts wander, but she hastily squashes the memories bombarding her mind. Brittany is the last person she'd like to think about right now, especially after just fucking another woman. She sighs and rubs at her eyes. "But now it's no one."
That's a lie too. But it's one told in vain. Told with a purpose. Santana tells lies whenever she's uncomfortable, awkward, nervous, because the truth is, she does think about somebody else whenever they're having sex. Santana thinks about this—well, this beautiful girl who bites into her lip with a tempting gaze whenever she's in the conniving mood. Santana thinks about the rareness of her breathy laughter, the curve of her eyebrow whenever she's thinking, and that blunt honesty that is both incredibly irritating and endearing.
Santana thinks about it way more than she should, so she closes her eyes and tries to picture Rachel McAdams instead of—
"Fuck, dude," Cole mumbles, turning over onto her back, and Santana averts her eyes, because she can just picture the pity on Cole's pretty face without even looking at her. "That's sadder than imagining I'm somebody else." But is it? Is it, really? To be totally honest, Santana would much rather have sex for the pleasure of it than as a way to psychologically imagine she's with someone that she could never realistically have.
Cole blinks up at the ceiling, and Santana rolls over to mirror her position. "Sure. I guess. Who do you imagine?"
"Elise, mostly," Cole says, stretching her arms up with a drowsy yawn. Her light eyes go blank for a moment, mind lost in the memories of an unrequited love, but then a second goes by and Cole's back, all teasing eyes and curved lips. "She looks a lot like you, so it's not too hard to pretend. Except her boobs are bigger than yours, so there's that."
Santana elbows her in the side with a small smile. The teasing lightens the mood, and Santana tries not to think about how Brittany-esque that talent is—the ability to make strained situations into funny ones off the drop of a hat. Santana glances down at her sweater-clad chest. "Do you mean to tell me I got these knockers done just to fall short?"
"You're listening skills have become impeccable over the last few months, dude. I'm impressed," Cole jests, tugging at the rumpled sheets, while Santana tries to remember if Cole's ever used a word as big as impeccable before. "All you ever used to hear is the air between your ears."
Cole really has some nerve calling Santana an airhead, considering how many times Santana has to repeat a question whenever the other girl is still coming down from a high. She would make an argument out of it, but it's much too late for a debate, so she just agrees and says, "I had to gain some listening skills living with the Wonder Twins," she admits, trying not to smile too widely at the mention of the two people who have become like family to her. "I don't think they ever stop talking."
Cole laughs and then says, "I like your friends."
Shrugging her shoulders, Santana snuggles deeper into the sheets and covers the bottom half of her face. "I like them too," she whispers. It's not much of a secret, but an admittance of how fond she's become of those two dorks is kind of embarrassing sometimes, especially in regard to their more than sadistic past.
"Who do you like more?" Cole runs a hand through her curly blue hair and then props herself up on her elbow. "Kurt or Rachel?"
"Henry."
"He's not an option."
"Fine," Santana mutters, eyes focused sleepily on the ceiling, "Rachel."
"Because she's hot, right?"
Santana barks out a laugh. "Wha—no, Cole," she says, lowering her voice as not to wake up her slumbering roommates. "Rachel, because I'm closer to her than I am with Kurt." And because she's kind of pissed off at Kurt for a myriad of reasons she'd rather not get into right now.
Cole bites down on the corner of her lip. There's a teasing gleam in her eyes, but her voice is dead serious when she asks, "So, are you saying she's not hot?"
Santana traces the striped pattern on her sheet with the tip of her finger. "I didn't say that," she murmurs, crinkling her nose, because of course Rachel's hot—she would have to be completely blind not to have noticed, especially now with Rachel's whole New York makeover—but she doesn't tell Cole that. Cole would never let her live it down if she started gushing on about how tight Rachel's ass looks in those blue skinny jeans she wears now that the girl has started jogging in the morning.
She'll even admit to sneaking a peek sometimes—but only to herself, because that's kind of pervy—and imagining what Rachel's ass looks like without jeans or panties, but that's as far as her thoughts ever take her. Bare butts are the boundary line, because checking out your straight roommate is a big no-no, especially after drunkenly kissing the fuck out of her on New Years.
Cole's still staring at her curiously, waiting for a response, so Santana shrugs again, and then says, "I picked her over Kurt because she's just better than him in every way."
"Every way?" Cole drawls, pursing her lips. She's quiet for a moment, and then, "You fucked her, didn't you?"
Santana's face contorts painfully. She honestly can't think of anything she'd like to do least than have sex with Rachel. "I'd never go there with Berry," she scoffs, hitting Cole in the stomach with a pillow at the sound of her stifled laughter. "It's not funny. Rachel's my roommate, you sicko. She's my friend."
Cole continues laughing, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. "That didn't stop you from falling for Brittany," she says, but it's not done maliciously. Cole could never purposefully say something mean to a fucking fly, never mind a human being.
Santana groans, averting her eyes to the window. "I hate myself for telling you these things."
"You're quite the blabbermouth when you're drunk."
"I'm quite the kisser, too, apparently," she adds unthinkingly, and then wishes she hadn't gone for that extra glass of wine at dinner. What the fuck is wine anyway? A fucking truth serum, or some shit?
Cole looks at Santana, studies her. "You're...wait, what?"
There's no use in lying. Admittedly, Santana's getting kind of sick of it. "I kissed Rachel," she whispers, wincing slightly, because she still hates thinking about that night. The whole thing is a bit of a blur. All she remembers is peanut butter, soft lips, and Rachel's shocked expression that Santana obviously mistook as arousal in her drunken state. Mortified doesn't even begin to explain how she felt the morning after.
The perplexed expression on Cole's face is entirely warranted. After all, Santana totally just laughed off the idea of ever doing anything sexual with her roommate, and now this? Cole's upper lip twitches as a puzzled smile curves across her lips. "Rachel McAdams?" she inquires, and then rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "Santana, I know you're obsessed with the woman, but wet dreams are called dreams for a reason. They're not real, dude."
"Cole, no." Santana crinkles her nose, eyes squinted in annoyance. Pressing her lips together, she lets out a long sigh, and then explains, "I'm talking about Rachel Rachel. My roommate? We like—kissed, or made out, I guess. I was a bit tipsy and it was fucking New Years, you know, and Rachel was there, so I..."
"You mauled her mouth."
That's...actually a pretty good description of what happened. "Yeah. Basically."
"What did Rachel do?"
Santana rubs at her temple, suddenly exhausted with this whole conversation. "I don't know," she groans, running a hand through her messy hair. "That whole night is kinda hazy."
Cole smirks. "Hot."
"No. Not hot. Embarrassing. We didn't talk for like a month after that." Santana squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. "For someone with such a big mouth, Rachel sure knows how to give the silent treatment."
"Big mouth?" Cole drawls lazily. "Hot."
"Are you hearing anything I'm saying right now?" Santana asks, a bit annoyed, but then Cole just nods with this silly grin, and well, Santana's kind of gained a soft spot for sweet smiles ever since becoming friends with Rachel Berry. “Anyway,” she continues, sitting up against the headboard, "Eventually Rachel mentioned the kiss and we had the most awkward conversation ever. Like, it was really horrible, and I might have said something about a lesbian crush, which definitely doesn't mean what you want it to mean."
Santana's expecting a riot of oohs and aahs, because apparently Cole thinks she and Rachel would make the cutest couple ever, which—gag, ew, retch—will never ever happen as long as Santana's alive. Dating Rachel would be like, hard as shit. She's the definition of high maintenance, never mind completely loco about relationships. Of course Santana likes the girl—they wouldn't have become such close friends so fast if she didn't—but she doesn't like her like that.
To be honest, she's never even entertained the idea. Rachel is sweet, and has this infectiously bubbly laugh, and whenever she's sad it's the worst thing in the world, but there's a line you just don't cross when it comes to straight girls you're living with. Not only is it annoying when people don't think Santana can be just friends with a close girl friend of hers, but it's also been proven true circa Valentine's Day '14. Now, she's out to prove everyone wrong, and it definitely shouldn't be too hard with Rachel Berry as her friend.
Cole grins crookedly at the thought. "I would've paid money to watch that."
Santana ignores the comment, because there's a lot of things Cole would pay to watch (and only about half of them are legal). “So, yeah,” she murmurs, twisting her fingers together on top of the sheets. "Everything was finally back to normal, but then last weekend happened." Santana scrunches up her nose, and then pushes back a smile, because what she did was terrible, but it also kind of wasn't. "Now we're back to not talking and I feel like shit every time she looks at me with those eyes of hers, because I know she knows what I did, and I think she knows I liked it."
Cole's eyes go cross-eyed at Santana's explanation, and Santana almost feels bad about it, until she realizes that's just Cole's poor attempt at trying to roll her eyes. "You two have the most on and off relationship, I swear," she huffs, propping herself up on her elbow, but then pauses to lift an eyebrow in question. "Wait, what happened last weekend?"
It feels as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders as she clenches her hand into a fist and whispers, “I…had sex with Quinn." It's the first time she's said it out loud, and it leaves a strange taste in her mouth. Santana's still not really sure how she feels about it, but if the fact that the person she imagines when on top of Cole has hazel eyes with short blonde hair and a smirk so tempting she could sell oxygen to a dead man is any indication...well, then, Santana has reason to worry. Much reason.
Sometimes, Santana still can't believe it. She slept with Quinn Fabray. She stripped down, got naked, and had sex with Quinn, one of her oldest friends, and then snuck out of the hotel room like a little scaredy bitch. That's a Puck move right there, and Santana's so not proud of her actions, but then again, she had sex with Quinn fucking Fabray.
"Wait a second..." Cole squints. She obviously thinks she's onto something, so Santana gives her a moment, "Oh, you mean that repressed bitch you're always bitching about never calling you?"
That's one way of putting it, but Santana kind of resents that. She never bitches about Quinn's lack of communication; it's just, well, how is she supposed to feel when a whole three days go by without any signs from Quinn that what happened between them actually fucking happened?
"Fucking Fabray," Santana mutters under her breath, and then absently wonders when her chest got so tight. "Of course she doesn't fucking call after we fucked. It's such a Fabray move. The bitch."
She lets out a shaky intake of air and tries not to read too much into it. The past is the best thing to adhere to, as history has been known to repeat itself. Santana can already see sophomore and junior year of high school happening all over again. Sleeping with random people just to pretend they were the person she really wanted. Thinking longingly of how things would be if she was stronger, braver. It's the same thing every time Santana's confused about her feelings, and she's really getting annoyed with herself.
Cole tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay, okay, I think I get it," she says with this all-knowing look. "You have a very strange habit of sleeping with your friends, right? First Brittany, now this Quinn girl? The only best friend you haven't slept with is Rachel—"
"And Henry," Santana adds helpfully.
"—who doesn't count for multiple reasons," Cole says, smiling coyly. "Now, stay with me. I think I'm on to something here." Santana shifts sideways and waits, because this could be awhile. It's not everyday Cole has a revelation. "You know, it's actually quite simple if you really think about it. You're into Rachel, so you had sex with Quinn, hoping to squash the emotions you're obviously confusing as lust."
Santana laughs, but only because that's the most ridiculous explanation she's ever heard, and there's been quite a few too, from Kurt and Rachel, mostly. Kurt thinks she's dumb to feelings or something—which, fuck him—and Rachel likes to think Santana's just super sensitive and pushes people away because she's afraid of getting hurt.
Santana has the world at her fingertips. She's hot, so she uses it to her advantage. Women love her, and she loves women. It's not algebra or fucking rocket science. It's life, and just because she's not jumping out of her chair to start dating again doesn't make her emotionally stunted. Brittany is...well, she was the love of Santana's high school life, but high school is over. Everyone moves on in their own way, and this is Santana's way. Fuck going celibate. She's not Quinn fucking Fabray. Hell, Quinn Fabray isn't even Quinn fucking Fabray anymore.
"That was literally the worst psycho-analysis I have ever heard, Cole. I don't like Rachel, and I do not fall for every girl I kiss," Santana says, because it that were true, she'd be head over heels for at least a quarter of the lesbian population in Bushwick. "If I'm even into anyone right now, it’s…probably Quinn. She just—" Santana winces guiltily as her eyes focus on the hands in her lap. "I kinda can't stop thinking about her."
Cole looks like she wants to argue her point, but it's already three in the morning, and they're both tired, so she eventually drops it and says, "You gotta picture?"
Santana does have a few pictures of Quinn in her photo library, in fact. They've been building up over the years, and she's never gotten around to deleting them. Also, Quinn's not the ugliest girl in the world, so whatever; it's nice having pretty faces in her phone.
"Dude," Cole says, squinting her eyes against the brightness of the screen. "Dude, she is...I think...Santana, you lucky fucking bitch." She brings the phone closer to her face and stares for a moment, and then zooms into the picture. "Her eyes are like, sexy fireballs heading toward the moon."
Strangely, that's probably the best analogy she's ever heard in regard to Quinn's unique eye color. Santana cranes her neck to look over Cole's shoulder, and she swallows thickly at what she sees. Quinn's so naturally beautiful, and Santana wonders why she never paid much attention to it up until now. Probably too caught up in Brittany to give a shit about anyone else, but fuck, now that's Santana's had a taste, she wants more. It's a greedy type of hunger she feels as her eyes carefully analyze every picture of Quinn that Cole scrolls through.
"Yeah," she practically whispers, mouth dry. "Quinn is a bitch, but..."
Cole nods blankly in agreement. "I mean, damn, if she were my friend, I'd be into her too," she laughs, smirking as she hands the phone back over. "In more ways than one."
A blush heats up Santana's neck as she looks at a picture of herself and Quinn together. In the photo, Quinn is in the midst of rolling her eyes at Santana as she holds up bunny ears behind Quinn's head. Leaning back against the pillows, Santana smiles crookedly and then shuts her phone off.
She is going to be so tired in the morning.
--
Today is a real shitty day, because Rachel is mad at her, still, which kind of happens on a regular basis now. The annoying thing is she doesn't even know what she did wrong this time (or at least she pretends not to know).
Admittedly, Santana's starting to get used to Rachel's mood swings. The girl is on top of the world one minute, and then the next she's closing up or pouting about something, and Santana knows it's about her, that she's the one who did or said something wrong, because Rachel's salty attitude is always aimed at her.
She wants to make Rachel feel better, because it's fucking hell when the girl isn't singing or baking or smiling around their apartment, but Santana's learned there's not much she can do about Rachel's hissy fits than let a few days go by where they can both cool off and go about their business until Rachel's Rachel again.
Rachel's been in one of those moods for the last five days, ever since they got back from Lima. Santana refuses to tell Rachel what happened—the reason why she was crying outside her house in the freezing cold—but she did apologize over twenty times already for ditching her at the reception, so what's the fucking problem? Kurt has no explanations, and it's not like he's around anyway to enlighten Santana on what she's so blatantly missing.
Against every argument in her head telling her not to, Santana tries to create peace one more time this morning, but Rachel's having none of it, refusing to even lift her head as she writes out their grocery list at the kitchen counter. Santana stands behind her, rolling her eyes in frustration, because this, this is what she's had to live with for five months now.
On normal days, where Rachel doesn't act like a diva, it's great. They get along without a problem, doing basically everything together, but then Santana makes one wrong move, like flirting with a hot girl at the register, and Rachel goes into scary mode with a whole rant about how treating women objectively is a double standard, and how can she, being a lesbian, stand to objectify girls based on their boobs and ass when what's inside is so much better?
Bullshit.
Santana knows that's a non-issue. Rachel's a fucking hypocrite, because even she has made comments in the past about her classmate's less than stellar appearances. They're mostly said to make herself feel better (remember The Gap?), because not even Rachel Berry is immune to insecurity, so Santana tries to reel it in and actually think about what could really be bothering Rachel.
She's got nothing.
Sliding a stool back, Santana sits down a seat away from her disgruntled roommate. "Rach?" she tries.
It's like she's not even here as Rachel continues to scribble down a bunch of nonsense on one of her ripped out floral stationary papers.
“Rachel.”
"Santana, I'm busy," is all she says, without even looking up.
This is getting exhausting, and Santana's done with waiting it out. "Funny, because it seems like you're somehow always busy whenever you're mad at me," she quips, but Rachel doesn't even look her way at the annoyance in her tone, so Santana grabs the grocery list out of Rachel's hand.
She stands and holds it up out of Rachel's reach. This isn't the first time she's played keep away with Rachel, and Santana knows how much Rachel hates it when she does this, but there's no way Santana's going to feel bad about it this time.
But Rachel doesn't even move out of her seat. Folding her arms over her chest, she peeks up at Santana from under her lashes. "This behavior is incredibly immature, Santana," she huffs, arching an eyebrow, "and I would greatly appreciate it if you'd give me back my list."
"You're one to talk about immaturity, Berry. I said I was sorry," Santana repeats for the nth time, and it's kind of annoying how Rachel's more upset with her over this than Kurt. He left her stranded more than anything since he was the one with the keys. Sighing, Santana lowers the grocery list back down to the counter. "What else do you want from me?"
Rachel averts her eyes as she grabs the list and stands up from her stool. "I'm going to the grocery store."
Oh, so that's how she's going to play it. Okay. Whatever. Santana can play too. As Rachel grabs her coat from out the closet, Santana rushes to sling her messenger bag over her shoulder. "Cool. I'm coming with."
"No, Santana. I think..." Rachel runs a hand through her hair, looking unsure and a bit tired of arguing. Her breath catches in her throat when Santana traps her against the counter, but Rachel manages to get her words out, whispering, "I think we need to stop being so co-dependent on each other."
"You realize you're doing that deflecting thingy again, right?" Santana says, completely ignoring Rachel's last comment, because hell if she's being the clingy one. Rachel's the one who said they're best friends, and this is just how Santana is with her friends. She's either all in or all out, and it kind of hurts to discover Rachel's second-guessing their friendship. "Look, if you're tired of being around me, just say it, because all of this avoiding shit is pissing me off."
Rachel scrunches up her nose and then brushes her bangs to the right side of her face. "Santana, I love your company, but I think Kurt was right about the way we're always together," she admits, and Santana won't pretend it doesn't bother her that Rachel wants to get away from her. She thought they were finally okay after clearing the air about that whole kiss debacle, but it looks like Santana was wrong by the weird way Rachel's acting, still. "We're becoming too needy for each other, Santana, and I don't mean to be rude by saying this, but you have a habit of doing that with the women in your life."
"Wait," Santana murmurs, subconsciously taking another step forward. "Doing what?"
Rachel steps away, her back flat against the counter. "I, um...I'm a naturally independent person, Santana. I had to be that way because of all the trials and tribulations of high school, but you..." Rachel winces apologetically, but Santana doesn't want her pity. She wants the truth, and that's exactly what Rachel gives her. "In high school, you and Brittany were practically attached at the hip, and I am a little concerned that I'm becoming your new Brittany."
Santana tries not to laugh, but it happens anyway, and Rachel looks so taken aback that Santana almost laughs again, because that is the dumbest thing she's ever heard. Santana's used to girls being jealous of her relationship with Brittany. Hell, she's even used to girls being jealous of the crazy sex she's had with her ex, all thanks to that stupid sex tape, but this is the first time a girl has been afraid of becoming Brittany.
Santana feels bad for laughing as soon as she sees the downtrodden look on Rachel's face. Shit, now Rachel's sad again, and that's even worse than a hell-bent Rachel. Santana knows how irritating it is to not be taken seriously, so she hurriedly swallows her laughter and takes Rachel's hand in her own. Rachel flinches at the sudden contact, and Santana almost thinks she made the wrong move until Rachel finally relaxes and squeezes her hand tightly.
"Don't compare yourself to her, Rach," Santana says softly, ducking her head down to catch Rachel's eyes. They're so dark and heavy as they come up to meet Santana's, and the sight kind of breaks her heart. "That relationship is in no way similar to what this is. You're my only true friend right now. You like me for me, not because I'm good at sex, or because my dad is a plastic surgeon, or because I can get you free coffee." Rachel smirks at the mention of free coffee, and Santana feels kind of awesome for finally making her girl smile again. "You're my friend because we somehow just click, okay? So fucking sue me for wanting to be around you a lot."
Rachel nods with a timid smile. She gingerly takes Santana's other hand and wraps it around her waist so that they're hugging. It's a little awkward having her arms around Rachel's waist with her being so much shorter, but she adjusts and rests her chin on Rachel's shoulder with a smile.
Rachel breathes in against Santana's neck. "And I'm sorry for implying our friendship is a replacement for what you lost with Brittany," she says, practically whispering the words into Santana's ear. "After listening to how you feel, I now know that what we have is different from what—"
Santana cuts her off with a snort. "Can we just go grocery shopping already?" she asks, rolling her eyes as she pulls away. "All of this sissy shit is making me nauseous."
Rachel blushes in embarrassment. "Then imagine how I feel," she shoots back, letting go of Santana's hand in order to pull on her jacket.
Santana's fingers feel bare and naked without Rachel's touch, but she doesn't mention that. They just had a whole five minute discussion about being too co-dependent. Talk about regression. "Bitch," she says, under her breath, but loud enough for Rachel to hear. "You know you love me."
Rachel pauses before looking over her shoulder as she slides the metal door open. There’s an odd quirk to her upper lip as she smiles and says, “Maybe a little."
--
Food shopping with Rachel is an olympic event. Their list isn't even that long, but Rachel's Jewish, so bargain shopping is a must. There are coupons involved, and 2 for 1 deals, and weekly specials, and this scanner thingy on Rachel's iPhone app that she uses and abuses way too much.
By the time they get to the counter, Santana is so exhausted from their journey down every fucking aisle that she's ready to go home and hibernate, but then they run into Kurt and Henry outside where the shopping carts are parked, and Santana absolutely sees red when her eyes land on Kurt.
Ever since they got back from Lima, he's been practically non-existent. He spends so much of his time at Henry's place that it wouldn't be much of a surprise if Kurt told them he was moving out of their apartment to live with his boyfriend sometime in the near future.
No matter how nice the idea of inheriting Kurt's room in the loft is, Santana can't really find it within herself to smile; not while in the incredibly compromising position Kurt's put her in.
Kurt was her friend first, technically, so she can't go breaking those confidentiality rules, but Henry is her homeboy, and keeping this secret from him is fucking killing her. She'd tell Rachel what she knows, but it sucks being in this position, and with Rachel trying to concentrate on school and auditions, Santana knows her roommate really doesn't need the extra stress.
Basically, Kurt is a fucking cheater who cheats, and it makes her furious, because Henry is a prince, and he doesn’t deserve shit like that. Henry’s like, a million and one times better than that greased garden gnome will ever be, but Kurt wants to throw all of that away for a fucking one night fuck?
Henry's been doing this weird thing lately where he's trying to become a vegetarian, so when he and Rachel start talking about the benefits of a meat-free diet, Santana grabs Kurt by the collar and brings him close to whisper, “Listen up, Elton, because I'm only going to say this once—"
"Santana, what in heaven's na—"
"I’m not going to tell Henry, but I hope you feel like shit for what you did.”
Kurt pauses and looks at Santana as if she's the one who's crazy. Sighing, he pries each and every one of her individual fingers off of his shirt before straightening his posture. “And what did I do, exactly?”
Santana feels bile rising in her throat just thinking about it. “Don’t play dumb, Porcelain. Tina told me all about your sizzling night with Blaine.”
Kurt makes a face at the mention of Tina. “I swear, that girl is trying to sabotage my entire life. Her delusional obsession to 'hag the fag' is getting extremely ridiculous.”
Santana blinks, because what the fuck does that even mean? "Speak English for once, Pansy Boy."
“I didn’t sleep with Blaine, Santana. Perhaps you should check your sources better next time," he says huffily, peeking over his shoulder to make sure they're a fair distance away from Henry and Rachel. They are, but he lowers his voice into a whisper anyway. "If you must know, Blaine and I snuck away to a stairwell and had a very long, heartfelt discussion about the future. I needed closure, and Blaine needed to realize I wasn't coming back to him.”
Santana purses her lips and then glances over Kurt's shoulder. Behind them, Rachel's gesturing her hands around all excitedly, mouth moving at a hundred miles per second, probably explaining how being a vegetarian will improve Henry's digestive tract, or something like that. Santana glances away before she can smile at the sight. "So, you didn't do the dirty with Blaine Warbler?"
"Santana, I would never do anything to jeopardize what I have with Henry," Kurt exasperates, seemingly frustrated with Santana's inability to mind her own business. She's been working on that, but it's not easy. When nothing exciting is happening in her own life, she has a bad habit of meddling into everyone else’s. “I never used to believe in silly things like fate, but Henry is my soulmate,” Kurt says, practically glowing like a firefly. “I love him."
Santana can't pretend not to know what Kurt means. Henry's amazing in every fucking way possible. If the both of them weren't gay, she would have married him ages ago. That boy is like her spirit animal or something.
Santana smiles and tries to withhold from tenderly punching Kurt in the shoulder, because that's way too butch for her style. Instead, she says, "That's so cute it's almost disgusting."
Kurt rolls his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment, I guess."
“Then say thank you, you mannerless whore.”
There’s a slow eyebrow raise that tells her Kurt is not impressed, but she knows he loves her anyway. That’s just how things work around here.
--
When Santana thinks about stupid things for too long, she obsessives over them. It takes over her mind, and she eventfully finds herself thinking about it all the fucking time. It’s a basic instinct she didn’t even know she acquired until the very first (and only) time she fell in love.
People think she’s incapable of feeling things, because apparently she’s a cold-hearted bitch with no consideration for anyone’s emotions except her own, but that’s not completely true. Maybe a little true, sure, but not completely.
Santana cares. She cares about a lot of people, and she is not dumb to feelings, no matter what Kurt says behind her back. She takes care of her own and leaves the rest of the fuckers behind, but why should that make her a bad person?
Just because she doesn’t give a fuck about shit that other people care about doesn’t make her heartless. She’s a good person. She gives her seat up to elderly people on the bus. She drops a quarter into that stank, homeless man’s jar every morning on her way to Cobblestones. She memorizes her regulars’ coffee orders and even adds some extra cream to their frappes whenever she’s in an extra cheery mood.
Now, do bad people do that? No, they don’t. Bad people kick puppies and shit, and Santana would never kick a fucking puppy, so there. Not a bad person.
Actually, if anyone ever asked her straight up, Santana would tell them she was the best person she knew (right behind Berry, of course, because that girl donates to about a million animal charities a year, and once went overseas during the summer to help rebuild abandoned homes in Africa or something).
But Kurt has some nerve to fucking judge, saying she’s dumb to feelings. Like, what does that even mean? She’d never outwardly admit it, but she cries just as much as the next person. She’ll never let anyone see her cry (unless they’re Rachel, of course, because who else is going to hold her when her nose starts running?). That’s just fucking embarrassing, especially when she gets caught crying over stupid shit, like sleeping with one of her best friends.
It was an emotional night, okay? What do you want from her? She didn’t get her heart broken or anything like that. That’s not even close to what happened. She cried because she was overwhelmed, and when she’s overwhelmed, weird chemical reactions start going on in her body, and she does crazy things, like escape from hotel rooms as soon as Quinn falls asleep, and then call Puck to pick her up and drive her home, but not before stopping at the hotel bar and knocking back a few.
It wasn’t one of her proudest moments, but she remembers every second of it. She remembers the flirting, the touching, those hazel eyes tempting her, those pink lips curving suggestively, practically begging Santana to follow her upstairs. She remembers Quinn’s gentle touch, the press of her fingertips against Santana’s cheek as Quinn caressed her face in the palm of her hand to bring Santana closer for their first of many kisses.
She remembers every single moment of that night, and it haunts her. But in a good kind of way, you know? She ran because she was freaked out, but the experience was amazing. Long ago, Brittany said it was better with feelings, but maybe she was wrong; maybe it's just better with the people you trust most.
That night—before their one time thing became a two time thing—Santana had made a joke about U-haul trucks. She’d promised Quinn that she wasn't going to be that type of girl, and it was an easy promise to make, because she's never been that type of girl before (unless Brittany was involved), but now Santana's slowly starting to realize that maybe she is that type of girl; the type who waits by the phone after a first date, wondering if the other woman will call first and ask her out on second. It's pathetic, how both exhilarating and draining the thought of waiting for Quinn feels.
The've been back in New York for almost two weeks now, and Santana’s still stressing over what all of this means for herself and Quinn. Santana checks her phone, but there are no text messages from her. She goes online, but her inbox is void of emails from Quinn. She logs into Facebook, but Quinn's never online. Skype is a no-go as well.
Santana even drops so low as to ask Kurt if he’s heard from Quinn, but he just gives her one of these looks with a shake of his head, like he knows something she doesn't. That cautious expression always seems to be on his face whenever Rachel is in the near vicinity, and Santana wonders what that's all about for all of four seconds before she has to leave for work.
Rachel grabs her stuff and comes with her, and on the way there, Santana sucks up her pride to wonder, "So, I never got a chance to ask. What went down with you and Hudson at the reception? I don't need to bust any balls, do I?"
Rachel's fingers turn white as she grips on tighter to the strap of her bag. "We...we didn't really talk as much as I think he would've liked, but we finally got the who-broke-up-with-who debacle straightened out." Santana nods as they squeeze through a crowd of people watching these break dancers roll around on top of a thick piece of cardboard. The music is too loud to continue talking, but once they turn a corner, Rachel asks, "What about you?"
Santana looks at her sideways. "What about me?"
"Are you okay?" Rachel arches an eyebrow, but Santana doesn't get it. Why wouldn't she be okay? "Brittany and Sam?" Rachel reminds her, and oh. "How are you dealing with the fact they're together now? I know it must be hard for you."
"Um." Santana breathes out a sigh into the cool morning air. She had almost forgotten all about that, her mind so distracted with thoughts of Quinn recently. Her expression is stony for all of two seconds before she tries for nonchalant. "If Sam ever hurts her, I'll stab him in the face, but other than that, I hold no anger towards them. I still love Britt, but it's been six months. It's about time I let go and move on."
Rachel looks surprised at her response, and Santana kind of resents that. She knows how to be mature about awkward situations. It may not always be easy looking at things from an unbiased perspective, but she tries, and it's important to her that people know that.
"That's..." Rachel begins, smiling weakly. "That is a very good way of looking at it, Santana."
Santana shrugs. "Just don't say you're proud of me, because I heard enough of that from you when I first moved here."
"But I am proud of you." Rachel glances up at her shyly as she moves closer to Santana and loops their arms together. "You've grown up so much and you're about to apply to one of the best schools in the city. How could I not be proud? I'd be a terrible friend if I wasn't."
Santana knows a little something about pride. She used to have way too much of it, that's for sure. It's never a good idea to have too much of anything, especially when it's too much of the wrong kind of pride. Santana has a different kind of pride now, and Rachel's the person she has to thank for showing her how important it is to have pride in yourself. To believe in yourself.
"Fine," Santana drawls, pushing down the urge to smile "Then let's be proud of each other, because you're doing awesome shit at NYADA and together we're going to fuck things up real good."
Rachel laughs as she leans her head against Santana's shoulder. "We'll takeover this city yet."
--
So, basically she’s fucked, and it really takes no genius to figure out what she does next. Quinn's not calling her, and it's been another three days, and Santana's never been known for her patience. She's tired of looking at her phone, waiting for Quinn's stupid face to pop up on the caller ID, so Santana does what she promised she'd never do in a zillion years.
She makes the first move.
It’s stupid and dumb and she once promised herself she’d never make the first fucking move, gay or straight, but here she is anyway, picking up her phone to dial Quinn’s number.
She's at work, about to take her lunch break, and Rachel hasn't shown up after her noon class yet, so Santana figures now more than ever is the perfect time (although there will probably never be a perfect time to call your one night stand and talk to them about what the fuck happened that night).
She steps out through the front entrance and smiles at a regular—this wavy-haired guy named Dennis who reminds her way too much of Mr. Schue—and then leans up against a cool, brick wall before dialing that familiar number. Her thumb is on auto-pilot as it slides across the touch screen.
“Hello?”
A breathy voice answers on the third ring, and Santana's immediately brought back to that night.
It was the most nervous she'd been in a long time, but Quinn had had this look in her eyes that Santana had never seen before, and more than anything she needed to find out what it meant. Quinn was the one who'd gotten the key and led Santana upstairs, while Santana inwardly panicked, unsure of whether this was really happening or not.
She can still recall every hungry gaze and lip bite and lingering touch. She remembers the way Quinn flirted with her, complimenting her dress and asking her to dance and eyeing her chest as if she wasn't standing right there. It was all deliberate, Santana knows, but the real question is why.
It's freezing out here without a coat, and she contemplates hanging up to run back inside and pretend like none of this ever happened. But Santana's tired of running. She's not going to be a coward anymore.
Her eyes dart sideways as she breathes out a ragged, “Hey, Q."
There's an airy chuckle through the line, but Santana can barely hear it when a symphony of taxi horns start blasting as a biker cuts right through the intersection. Santana watches the chaos ensue, though she's not really seeing anything, too distracted by Quinn saying, “I expected this call to take awhile, but surely not two whole weeks, Santana."
Quinn's response makes Santana frown in confusion. “What?”
There's a lot of noise in Quinn's background too; people laughing and singing (not very well either), the sound of a television humming, and what might be a Madonna song playing, but then a door slams, and there's complete silence other than Quinn speaking again. “You really thought I was going to call you first after you left me alone in that hotel room?”
Suddenly trampled by incertitude, Santana moves her lips wordlessly, stumped on what to say next. Her upper lip twitches. She could really go for a smoke right about now. Her fingers itch for something warm to hold in her hand. “Quinn, I...I'm—"
“Don’t apologize, San. I understand," Quinn cuts her off, sounding tired, and Santana pauses, unsure of whether to smile or frown.
She coughs into her fist instead. "I, um..." she mutters, puzzled, because who said she was about to apologize? She probably should, because leaving Quinn alone in that hotel room was really shitty, but she was feeling so claustrophobic and panicky that she just had to escape. Crying and sobbing into Rachel's shoulder was only a side effect of how overwhelmed she'd been. “What is it you understand, exactly?” Santana asks slowly.
“What this was," Quinn clarifies, and she says it as if Santana has a fucking clue what she's talking about, which, nope, Santana has no idea. It's the reason she's calling—to find out why this happened and whether it was a mistake or not. Santana's about to ask for more clarification, but Quinn shuts her up when she says, "I had a really great time, S. We should…I don't know, do it again.”
Santana presses the phone closer to her ear. Quinn had a great time? She wants to do it again? Santana bites so hard into her bottom lip that she tastes blood. The contrast of cold air against her hot cheeks cools the burning blush heating up her neck. "You’d...want that?” she asks, scratching at the tip of her eyebrow.
“I mean, well..." Quinn tries for nonchalance, but Santana can easily hear the shakiness in her voice when she says, "Sleeping with you wasn’t exactly horrible or anything, so you know, why not?"
“Fuck you," Santana mumbles, embarrassed, because she doesn't know what else to say. "Of course it wasn’t horrible. I’m a fucking goddess in bed.”
If there's ever been anyone to see straight through all of her vibrato, it's Quinn Fabray. Quinn hums, obviously not convinced nor moved by Santana's act of levity. “Yes, Santana. That you are." There's a ring to Quinn's voice that suggests sarcasm, but Santana's heard the tone a million times in high school, so it's not too hard to ignore. "Look, S," she says, her voice lower, gentler this time, and Santana's lips twist at the sudden seriousness in her friend's tone. "I have some very skittish memories when it comes to sex, but with you—let’s just say it didn’t scar me for life, so if I can have more experiences like that...well, I wouldn’t pass it up, okay?"
Santana shuffles her feet against the pavement. That was...a big confession. Especially for someone like Quinn, who likes talking about feelings just as much as a brick wall. Santana knows that, which is why she stays quiet over the line for a good thirty seconds, only breathing in and out as she tries her best to block out the rest of the city.
Quinn doesn't need her sympathy right now. She also doesn't need Santana to stroke her ego by telling Quinn that the sex was good for her too, because Quinn already knows that. What she needs is a friend, and as everyone knows, Santana's awesome at offering up friendship in disguise of what she really wants.
--
Santana's stuck at a certain point in her screenwriting, and she doesn't care what Henry says; writer's block fucking does exist.
It's frustrating, to say the least, staring at a blank page as the black line in the top left corner blinks mockingly at her, basically telling her she's a loser with no creativity or interesting ideas or purpose in this world, and she knows it's extreme, but that's where her mind goes when she feels uninspired, and then she starts to doubt herself, because if she's really considering a career in this field, she’s going to have to come up with some kind of plan to withhold from getting depressed every time she lands in a writer's funk.
Rachel walks past on her way to the kitchen and must notice Santana's frustration, because she pauses beside the couch and looks at her for a long time. Santana doesn’t look away from her screen, because then she’d lose her entire train of thought. As if she’s not distracted enough, but Rachel’s wearing her Cheerio running shorts, which just barely cover her ass cheeks, and it’s totally not Rachel’s fault, because Santana told her she could have them, though she had no idea how good they’d look on Rachel when she originally gave them up.
She gets caught staring sometimes, which really shouldn’t happen, because she’s Rachel, and the last thing Santana needs on top of her lack of inspiration is shame. The second to last thing Santana wants is for Rachel to think she likes her just because she’s been caught perving. This friendship between them; it’s different than most. Not only are they living together, but Santana being gay has never been an issue, and she doesn’t want to make it one by forgetting to keep her eyes above the neckline.
Rachel plops down next to Santana and ask what's wrong, and after a weary sigh, Santana explains the problem. They can do this thing now, where they talk to each other without making it into an argument about fuck all knows. Rachel giving advice used to sound condescending, but it’s just a know-it-all tone that Santana’s gotten used to and kind of admires, because Rachel can easily get her point across without sounding snide, dishing out insults, or using every curse word that fits within the context of the discussion.
“Draw from experience,” Rachel advises, glancing up with a smile. “It's what I do whenever I act. When I'm lacking passion or inspiration, all I do is recall events in my life that made me really feel, and then I feed off of that.”
It’s truly uncanny how good Rachel’s advice can be on any given day, because it’s like, just those words have new life breathing into Santana’s lungs. She nods at Rachel’s words, lips twisted into a thoughtful frown as she begins to type, her fingers gracefully flowing across the keyboard.
By the time she glances up again, Rachel is gone, and Santana realizes she’s been lost in her world of words for at least four hours.
The apartment is basically mute, so Santana quickly saves her work and then calls out, “Rach?”
After a moment, a head peeks out from behind a blue curtain. Rachel’s hair is a mess and her eyes are all squinted drowsily, and Santana feels a little bad about waking her up from out of her nap, but she just had to say this. “Thanks, babe.”
Santana doesn’t have to explain. Rachel knows what she’s referring to. “You’re welcome, hon.”
--
Santana doesn’t feel like one of those losers anymore, because Quinn texts first the next time they talk. She waits about ten minutes before responding. It’s probably ridiculous, but she doesn’t want to seem too eager.
Rachel asks who she’s texting, and Santana tries not to smile, but it happens anyway. “My mom,” she answers, tucking the phone back into her pocket and only feeling a little bit bad about lying, because she and Quinn are just starting to get close again—flirty-friend wise close, not sexy close, because Quinn is busy in New Haven while Santana's busting her ass trying to figure out the NYU application process before the due date—and she doesn't want to jinx it by telling Rachel about it, of all people.
She still has some time before she has to start getting down to business in terms of college, but having Quinn's help is definitely a plus. Quinn gives Santana a lot of good advice about what the admissions people are looking for in an applicant, what they're looking for in a person, and what they're looking for in a student—because apparently they are three different things—and Santana's glad she has Quinn backing her up in all of this.
(Of course she has her mother's good word and her father's money, but that won't get her everywhere in life, and Santana's just now starting to realize that she's going to have to start making it on her own.
Kurt and Rachel have done it—pretty damn seamlessly so far—and Quinn is practically Miss Yale over in New Haven if her bragging has any truth to it, so now it's Santana's turn to make her mark, but she can't do it on her own. At least not yet.)
The application process is a daunting task, so Quinn sets up Skype sessions where they can go over everything Santana needs to know from recommendations to cover letters to sending in her SAT scores on time.
When she was applying to Louisville, Santana didn't have to worry about any of this shit. Coach Sylvester's people—whoever the fuck they are—handled everything from her resume to her college essay. It was easy—since she didn't have to do much except show up on time to take her SATs and ACTs—and Santana definitely didn't know how lucky she was to have high priority in that high school because of the Cheerios.
There's no high priority in New York unless you're the mayor, or like, Sarah Jessica Parker, so Santana already knows she's going to have to work her ass off if she's ever going to make a name for herself in this town.
Quinn was surprised when Santana told her about her desire to study EMF as a major, probably thinking Santana would much rather be in front of the camera. "I wouldn't say it's shocking, but it's definitely different, seeing as how fame was your mistress in high school," Quinn had teased, and Santana had laughed dryly at that comment, but then Quinn eventually said it made sense, just like Rachel had told her in Lima.
Santana's always been into movies and TV shows and how they're made and what goes into making them. It didn't just come out if nowhere—like Quinn's crazy senior year makeover—and that's exactly what she had told her mom over the phone before heading to the airport.
It was an annoyingly energy-draining conversation, but Santana's mother had cried and said something about only wanting the best for her, so they made a deal and came up with a compromise. Santana can study EMF as long as she picks up business administration as a minor, which, whatever, it'll probably be instrumental in her quest to takeover the city, so Santana's not complaining.
--
It's nice being on Rachel's good side. Santana may never know why the girl's mood is always so rollercoast-y, but she's not going to spend too much time dwelling on it.
Girls are just weird sometimes.
Their normal routine continues without a hitch. Rachel comes into the bathroom to pluck her eyebrows while Santana's in the shower; they stop by this awesome bagel place on the way to Cobblestones, because Cobblestones' food is shit; Rachel acts like a brat until Santana sneaks her a free coffee; then they hug goodbye before Rachel leaves for dance class.
If they look like a couple to any outsiders, that's just them reading the situation incredibly wrong.
Work is annoying and kind of lonely, especially because her co-workers are all idiots who're going nowhere in life, and her boss is an anti-feministic pig.
When Santana's supposed to be doing inventory, she checks her messages and texts Quinn about how stupid this job is and how she totally would've quit by now if she didn't get a good caffeine fix out of it.
Quinn texts back, you'll beat the system yet. ever think about pre-law? not too late to restart that app
Santana smirks at the message before sending out, arguing my point is fun, but it'll get tiring after awhile. just look at you and i ;)
They go back and forth like this for awhile until her boss catches her lollygagging and makes her takeover the register to keep a close eye on her, the perv.
It's about an hour before her shift is over when Rachel shows up, and thank God, because her co-worker, Pat, is talking her fucking ear off, and she was literally two seconds away from punching him in the face. Rachel comes to the counter with this tired smile and starts talking about her day, and Santana totally stops everything she's doing to listen.
They're both exhausted and stinky from a long day in the city, but Santana missed Rachel, and it'd be stupid if Rachel didn't feel the same way, so Santana listens patiently, adding in her two cents every now and then until it's her turn to whine and complain.
Santana's on the part of her story where she's telling Rachel about this damn fly that her boss tried to make her catch when her phone beeps and vibrates against the counter. It's only an anxious reflex when she quickly reaches for it and turns the phone over.
Rachel looks at her strangely, and Santana feels like she just swallowed a bug, but surprisingly no questions are asked, and before Santana knows it, her shift is over and she's taking off her dumb apron and then they're walking home together, eating a TV dinner on the couch, catching up with Breaking Bad, and falling asleep strewn all over each other until Kurt comes home and makes them go to bed.
It's a good day.