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purrpickle · 4 years

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Random Pezberry Thought of the Day #333

A/N: So this is a fic I started with someone back in March of 2013. As we’re sadly not in contact anymore, this fic won’t ever get finished, but gosh, it was so exciting when we were writing it. But as it got so far (to where I definitely think it’s worth sharing - and it’s certainly long enough), I’m going to go ahead and post it. Just be aware that, to make it even more emotionally impacting, I included a kind of ‘behind the scenes’ thought at the end. Enjoy the angst!

(By the by, the *s denote the switch from writers, while the ------------s mean a time lapse.)

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Santana finds Rachel alone on the couch, crying, when she gets back from the grocery store. She throws the burlap grocery bags that Rachel made her take down on the counter carelessly, but then walks slowly towards the crying brunette in front of her.

“Rachel?” She’s never been great at dealing with tough emotions. Her first instinct isn’t to comfort or console, but to make harsh witticisms and enraged insults. She tries her hardest not to be herself for once, if only because Rachel needs someone. ”What happened?”

Her voice is gentle, even soft, and Rachel shoots her a look of surprise. “When—when did you get here?” Rachel mumbles out, turning away from her and grabbing a tissue. ”I—I thought you were out.”

“Yeah, well, the thing about going out is that you have to go back in at some point.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and attempts to hide a small smile playing at her lips.

”So… What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Rachel says quietly, wiping at her tears. ”I mean, it’s something, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Santana frowns and places her hand gently on Rachel’s knee. “Please tell me? I want to help you.”

Rachel glances down at Santana’s hand, but looks away quickly.

Santana strains to hear her, but she’s positive of what she’s heard: “I think I might be pregnant.” The words are so simple, but the implications of those words are nothing but complicated.

Santana doesn’t know what to say. And in reality, what can she say that will make her pain disappear?

Instead, she hugs Rachel, pulling her close and letting her cry again.

“Did you go to a gyno yet? Maybe… Maybe it’s a false alarm. Brittany once thought she was pregnant—and guess what? She wasn’t.”

“You know as well as I do,” Rachel says through tears, “That there was never a chance she was with child.”

That was fair.

Santana frowns. "Well, why do you think you're pregnant? Aren't you, like, Prophylactic PowerPoint Berry? Or is Brody buying the cheap shit? Do I gots to pull out my razor blades on his ass?"

Rachel's small shoulders shake in Santana's arms. "No, no, I think it might have been a f-freak torn condom. And," she presses weakly against Santana's arm, pushing back to glare at her with red, swollen eyes, "I'm insulted you'd automatically think this was my fault."

"Well, you are the one letting Little Brody near your lady bits," Santana drawls before she can fully think about what she's saying. She's already acknowledged the fact she's bad at doing the gentle thing.

Rachel's response, however, isn't what she immediately expects. Instead of throwing an angry defensive outburst back at her, the girl pales and sags back into herself, looking down. "It... It may not be him."

What? Someone else is digging in the berry patch? "What?" Santana hopes her expression isn't completely stupid looking. Instead, while waiting for Rachel to respond, she pulls the girl back into her arms as she dissolves into quiet cries again.

"At the non-wedding," Rachel takes in a huge breath, hands curling in the sleeves of Santana's dress, "I... Slept with Finn."

Santana blinks. The Finncredible Hulk? There could be a baby whale brewing in Rachel's stomach? "I..." She swallows, "Wow. I didn't know you had that in you. Does Brody know?"

Rachel lifts her head a bit, and Santana can feel her nod her head. ”Yes,” she mumbles, “I told him, though not until he questioned me. We’re in an open, Sex and the City type of relationship, because apparently that’s what New York girls do.”

Santana can’t help it; her mouth drops and she bites back a gasp. ”I thought… I mean, you were always little miss monogamous back in high school. We all thought you’d hogtie Finn and stick him in your trunk… You were that girl, Berry.”

Rachel looks up at her with wide, horrified eyes, and Santana realizes she may not have been the kindest. She clears her throat awkwardly.

“Well, I’m certainly not that girl anymore. Brody can sleep with whomever he wants,” Rachel says, sniffling.

Tears pour down Rachel’s face again, and Santana’s at a loss of what to do yet again; Rachel’s mouth says one thing, but her tears say another.

“We need to take you to a doctor before you cry a river, JT,” Santana says, rubbing her back. ”But until then, I can pull some Lima Heights shit on Brody for this Sex and the City garbage you’re spewing. The Rachel I know would gag at the thought of some other skank hopping on her man’s—”

Rachel stops her. “Don’t, Santana!”

Santana can’t help but laugh just a little at Rachel’s innocence. “I thought you were some high and mighty New York seductress… I thought you were Samantha, Berry. I don’t think she’d have a problem saying ‘dick.’”

Rachel’s mouth goes slack and Santana’s happy to have her focused on something other than the parasite that may or may not be overtaking her uterus.

“Okay, okay,” Rachel grumbles, sitting up and avoiding Santana’s playful gaze. ”You know very well I don’t like this situation. But it is what it is. Brody likes sex and our dance teacher, and I like Brody, so it’s…”

“It’s fucked up, Berry, that’s what it is.” Santana doesn’t sugarcoat the truth; she never has, and she isn’t about to start to. ”It would be fine if you were fine, but you’re not. You’re not even close to it.”

“What do I do?” Rachel says after a couple of minutes of silence pass. ”Who do I tell?” She bites her lip. ”And who’s going to come with me to the doctor? I can’t go alone!”

Santana can see a panic attack rising and she quickly comes to Rachel’s rescue.

"Whoah, whoah, calm your tits." Pushing her hands down on either side of Rachel's shoulders, Santana looks her straight in the eye. "Berry. What am I? Chopped liver? I'm not gonna just let you turn into a pathetic statistic." She shrugs, smiling, "What kind of friend would I be?"

Rachel's eyes are wide and very, very dark brown as she stares back at Santana. "What...?"

Santana barely holds back an eye roll. Pulling her hands back, she flips her hair back, behind her shoulder. "I. Will. Go. With. You," she sounds out slowly, overly obvious. After a second, she can't help adding, "Duh."

A giant, slow-growing disbelieving smile grows on Rachel's face. Her body wavers, and Santana sighs sufferingly, opening her arms; Rachel jumps into them. Her chest smacks into Santana's, cheek sticky against Santana's neck.

"You know," Santana smirks as she rubs Rachel's back, "I'm insulted you completely forgot about me." She really doesn't mean it. She knows how crazy Rachel gets, and how oblivious that craziness can make her. God, part of her hopes Rachel's not pregnant just for the sake of not having to deal with a hormonally crazy Rachel in the future.

But she pushes that thought away. Pregnant or not, Santana knows she's at least willing to try to be there for her friend. Since she'd moved in (or, if Santana was completely honest with herself - since the last third of senior year), she and Rachel had come to more of an understanding about how the other worked and how to deal with each other. And with that understanding, a pretty strong friendship had been flirting with becoming reality.

"Well, to be truthful, I had hoped you would want to go with me," Rachel murmurs, "...Even if I didn't initially wish for you to walk in on me." Settling more of her weight onto Santana's thighs, she gingerly sits back; Santana immediately slides one hand down to support her lower back, "Thank you for that."

Rachel looks terrible. Her cheeks and nose and eyes are red, tears still clinging to her eyelashes. Santana makes a face, stretching her arm sideways to bat the tissue box Rachel had been using closer to her until she can grab one. "Here," she proffers the tissue, smirking at the blush that causes, "You look terrible. You should fix that."

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Rachel manages to make an appointment with a gynecologist the next morning, but the earliest the doctor can see her is next Tuesday—a whole week later. Santana swears she can hear Rachel grinding her teeth from across the room.

“They shouldn’t be able to do that to a potentially pregnant woman!” Rachel complains, her eyes still slightly swollen from the late night tears. She pushes her hair back behind her ear while pursing her lips.

“Well, when we get in there we can steal a plastic vag if it’ll make you feel better,” Santana says as if it’s the only logical solution. ”Lord knows we could teach our girl Hummel a thing or two with it.”

Rachel chuckles a little, and throws herself on the couch, exhausted. Santana follows suit. “Maybe even Brody.”

Santana laughs. “I knew it; my dick’s probably bigger than his,” she jokes.

Rachel blushes, and Santana smirks.

“Anyway,” Rachel says loudly, awkwardly changing the subject, “The appointment’s at 9:15 in the morning.”

Santana’s not done though. ”Have you ever liked sex before? I mean, I’ve been tackled by that ex-quarterback of yours and I know that’s no picnic. And then with Grody and his—” Santana stops abruptly when she sees the look of embarrassment on Rachel’s face. ”Sorry,” she says, not really meaning it. ”But I’m just saying. You sound like Quinn at the non-wedding.”

Rachel's eyes widen. "I sound like Quinn before she slept with you?"

Santana pauses, then smirks. "Well, yeah, but that wasn't what I was meaning. Still, wanky. Coming onto me, Berry?" Enjoying the look on Rachel's face, she chuckles and flops back, sliding her arm around Rachel's shoulders, "No, no, not gonna let you change the subject. Tell me. Do you even like sex?"

Fidgeting, her hands picking at the bottom of her sweater, Rachel licks her lips. "It's... Fine. I've heard that it's supposed to get better, and so what if I have to wait until my thirties to get into my prime? It's not like sex is that important." Her voice is getting steadily louder and more like she's trying to convince herself.

What the fuck is this shit? Santana stares down at the top of Rachel's head. Involuntarily, her arm tightens around Rachel's shoulders. "Rachel," she says lowly, moving her hand to lift up Rachel's chin. "Are you going to start telling me that it must be something wrong with you? Because if you are," she narrows her eyes, "Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear it."

Rachel looks away. "But what if..."

"No. Cállate. Tell me who I have to bitch slap."

“You don’t have to do that to anyone,” Rachel says shyly. ”I mean, Finn tried his best, and Brody—well, he’s… I don’t know… I think he’s trying?” Her face is sweetly innocent, her eyebrows furrowed, and Santana shakes her head.

“If you have to ask, then he’s not. He’s playing on your naivete and getting his rocks off without doing any work for you. It’s like an unaired scene from an episode of The Donna Reed Show,” Santana says. ”And Chubby Checker can try all he wants, but when he thinks the word ‘clitoris’ is French for butterfly, there are bigger issues.” Santana takes a breath and tries to gauge Rachel’s reaction.

She twiddles her thumbs nervously, but shakes her head. “Like I said, it’s fine. Sex isn’t everything.” Her voice wavers, but Santana can’t help but notice the facade of confidence she puts on.

“You can’t tell me that after dressing like a sexually frustrated schoolgirl all these years, you’re perfectly satisfied with a sexless relationship?” Santana imagines her briefly in one of her short, plaid skirts that fly up with any and every small movement. It sends a shiver up her spine, but because it’s Rachel, she pretends to ignore it.

"Our relationship isn't sexless, Santana. I would think - I would think this... Drama," Rachel's hand trembles as she sweeps it up and down over her body, "Would make that obvious."

"It's sexless if you're not getting off." Santana shifts so she can hold up her hand, wiggling her fingers. "And if this and Vibrating Velma is the only way you're Slip n' Sliding, you're getting short shafted. Pun definitely intended."

Pulling away, Rachel swivels enough so it's obvious she's attempting to give Santana her back without moving from her embrace. "That's really none of your business and I don't know why I'm entertaining the notion of continuing to talk to you." She tilts her head back, briefly meeting Santana's eyes, "Besides, I know everything I say you will twist into diatribes against Brody and men in general."

Santana smirks and leans back into the couch. "Your choice in men, and I use that term loosely, definitely. All men?" She looks at Rachel still turned away from her again, "Nah." She lowers her voice, making it as suggestive and coaxing as she can, "You wanna hear about the rest of the guys in glee in case you want to move up? I can tell you length, width, average time devoted to foreplay, and degree in cunni - " She laughs when Rachel's hand whacks her thigh. "You're still so innocent, aren't you?"

“I think I’ll always be that innocent girl,” Rachel says, sighing. ”It’s ingrained in me. I might even be typecast into the role.” She fingers the edge of her shirt.

Santana shakes her head and smirks, tilting her head and scooting a smidgen closer to Rachel. “The day I hear you through that curtain screaming someone’s name because you can’t not, then I’m pretty sure the Vestal Virgins take your membership card away.” Her voice is sultry, and she knows it. She can see Rachel swallow, and maybe Santana’s imagining it, but she’s pretty sure she feels her move closer, too. ”I guarantee, once you dump your drug dealing minuteman, we’ll find you someone who will make you feel just as good as Barbra does when she’s belting ‘People.’” Her voice turns into a near whisper at the end; she knows Streisand is the only way to sell Rachel on anything.

“Well, if I’m pregnant…” Rachel says, “How can I dump him?”

Santana smiles, realizing Rachel’s at the very least entertaining the idea. “You don’t need to be together to pop out a baby. And why would you want someone around your kid who’s snorting coke off the stomach of some prostitute and then selling the leftovers to anyone looking for a dime?”

In reality, Santana thinks, the baby would be better brought up by Rachel, Kurt, and herself. Really, between the three of them, that baby would be incredibly well cared for.

“I’m pretty sure you’re exaggerating, Santana,” Rachel mumbles, glaring. ”We have no idea what Brody’s doing with his time; that pager was purely coincidental. Maybe he’s starting up an a capella group of gentle old men who don’t know how to use cell phones?”

"Right, and I'm Jimmy Kimmel in drag. The sooner you accept that your Grody ain't so pure, the better you and that possible bean in your belly'll be better off."

Honestly, aside from a somewhat attractive face, Santana doesn’t understand the appeal of Brody Weston. It was becoming increasingly obvious Rachel had the worst choice in men.

Santana frowns. Maybe it had to do with whoever showed her attention.

That was sad. Really, really sad.

Sighing, letting out a big breath of air, Rachel suddenly leans her head against Santana's shoulder. "Do you really think he's doing something so... Uncouth... And irresponsible?"

Uncouth. Santana shakes her head. "If you gotta ask, it means you're suspicious of him anyway. Don't you guys ever talk? Or is it all grunting and fake orgasms and walking around naked like he really thinks he's got the goods?"

Rachel's shampoo smells really nice and floral. It's incongruous to the whole situation, but it's so normal and Rachel that she'd have really nice smelling shampoo that Santana doesn't blame herself for dipping her head to get a better sniff. Girl practically offered it, after all.

Rachel sighs again. Shoulders and chest and neck relaxing, like she's too exhausted to keep herself up anymore, she settles more against Santana. Her voice is small and resigned as she lifts a hand to rub her eyes, "At least he liked me. Not many people... Guys... Do. I'm particular and severe and controlling and crazy. Who would want to put up with that?"

Santana pauses, more because it stings her to hear such a harsh statement, (especially since her personality is just as strong and just as severe), than because she doesn’t have a response.

“You’re being too harsh on yourself,” Santana says, leaning into her and pulling her a bit closer, trying to provide some sort of comfort. She takes another whiff of her hair, and then continues. ”You just know what you want. And yeah, sometimes you can be an ambitious bitch about it, but that’s a good thing, Berry. You’ve got balls and you’re not afraid to go after what you want. You’ll find someone who loves that.”

Rachel sniffles, and shifts herself so that she can look into Santana’s eyes. ”Do you really think so?”

Her eyes are so hopeful and it touches Santana that she holds her opinion so highly after everything that’s happened between them, after everything she’s put her through. It hits her, yet again, that they really are friends.

“Yeah, I do,” she mumbles, hugging her closer. She’s not sure what else to say, so there’s a silence, though it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Rachel snuggles into her a bit more, and Santana squeezes her gently.

“I think that’s one of my biggest fears, beside becoming a star,” Rachel says after awhile. ”Not finding someone who’ll put up with me.”

“I think that everyone’s got that fear; it’s human,” Santana mumbles. She feels Rachel nod against her. She’s not sure when their conversation got so heavy, but she feels somewhat closer to the girl in her arms. ”But you don’t have to cry out in fake ecstasy in order to keep a guy, Babs.”

Rachel's silent for a long time. Santana, almost counting the seconds, finally forces herself to ignore it as her ears attune to listening for whatever excuse her friend will come up with. She expects one.

Instead, Rachel relaxes even further in Santana's arm. Her voice smiles, "I like it when you compare me to Barbra."

Santana is honestly shocked. "Uhm... Yeah," she says like it's obvious, and it really is, "It's not like you're secretive about your worship of her. And I have ears." Shrugging, Santana's arms tighten around Rachel; even if she's not attracted to the smaller girl - she's really not - she's not going to deny there's an obvious and noticeable parallel between Rachel and her idol.

"You mean that or you're just trying to butter me up?"

"For what?" Santana laughs. "Like you need a bigger ego. I calls it like it is, kay? And you're boss. So?" she continues, nodding her head and tapping Rachel's thigh, "Shuts the fuck up and listen to me when I tells you you're worth so much more than what you're settling for. Preggers or not."

Uncharacteristically again, Rachel's quiet for a couple of minutes. Her body doesn't move; Santana's beginning to wonder if she's broken her somehow. "Why are you doing this?" Rachel finally asks. It's like she's not even sure she's supposed to be able to say what she is.

Santana stares down at the top of her head again. "What?" For some reason, no matter what, she can't get Rachel's shampoo out of her head. That's just too strange and not supposed to happen. At all.

"Why are you being so nice?"

...What? That's ridiculous. "I'm not being nice."

"You are." Pressing lightly against Santana's forearm, Rachel's hand suddenly curls around Santana's wrist. "With this whole thing. With me. Where... Where is this coming from?"

Santana doesn’t exactly know what to say, so she rolls her eyes dramatically and says, “It’s not like I was going to verbally beat down a girl who’s preggers; we’re not on Teen Mom.”

Rachel smiles, shaking her head, and Santana raises an eyebrow. ”What?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I think you’ve got a bit of a soft spot for me,” Rachel mumbles happily, a twinkle in her eye.

Santana pretends to gag, more to hide the blush rising to her cheeks then anything else. “God, no, no, no,” she denies adamantly, but Rachel keeps smirking, and her voice becomes weaker. ”I mean, we’re friends, right?” Santana’s voice cracks. ”That’s all. Friends. This apartment has turned into a gay, overemotional version of that stupid show.”

“You know, I’m actually named after Rachel.” Rachel shrugs. ”My dads had a thing for that ‘stupid show.’”

They grow silent again, because really what is there to say?

“So,” Rachel starts after a few more minutes pass. ”You like me. Who would’ve thought you’d be friends with a girl you called Chevy Chase for her entire freshman year of high school?”

“That was a mistake; Chevy Chase has bigger tits then you nowadays,” she says and Rachel laughs. Santana grins at her throaty, and even somewhat beautiful chuckle. It’s like she throws her whole heart into it, Santana thinks. She wants to make her laugh again, just so she can hear it, and just so she can make her smile.

God, Berry was right. She was being nice. Too nice.

"So. Right." Squinting her eyes, Santana pretends that she's trying to remember something. In actuality, it's more like she's trying to forget something. No matter how - surprisingly - nice it is to have Rachel in her arms and close like this, it's still Rachel. Definitely not the time to start perving on not only a straight girl, but one possibly pregnant as well.

"Take a shower," she suddenly pushes Rachel off of her as she rises from the couch, smirking at her and raising her eyebrow, "It's time to gets ready."

Rachel stares at her. "For what?" she asks huffily, propping herself up on her elbows. Her bangs have fallen over her eyes, and it's entirely too humorous because it makes Rachel look like a petulant girl.

Santana rolls her eyes, chuckling. Crossing her arms, she pops out one of her hips, continuing her teasing smirk. "Like you really don't know."

"I don't."

"I'm hurt. Truly." Chuckling again, Santana shakes her head and heads to her section of the apartment. "Dress warmly," she calls back, "I'm sure if you think hard, you'll remember. It's not like we hadn't had this planned for weeks." She pauses, tapping her fingernails on the lamp next to her futon, "You wanna meet Kurt, or should I brave the pervert and homeless infested subway alls by myself, grab him, and come back?"

She hears Rachel rise from the couch. "Oh my god! The art show! How could I have forgotten? No, no, I can meet you guys - "

"Yeah, no way." Pushing back out of the curtain, Santana waits until Rachel meets her eyes to give her a pointed look. "Not gonna let you be at the mercy of pregnancy fetishists."

Rachel opens her mouth, eyes darkening. "We don't even know if I'm... Or not, and besides. I wouldn't even hardly be showing!"

"Don't care." Santana raises one of her fingers, cutting the girl off again, "You've gotten lucky so far, but look at you, Berry. No matter the rape whistle, you're tiny. Not gonna happen. Got it?"

”Yes,” Rachel says, her cheeks flush, clearly flattered by Santana’s gesture, but perhaps maybe even embarrassed by her absent-mindedness. ”Got it,” she mumbles, rushing to her room to put on something a bit classier, and a bit warmer, than the furry slippers and pajama shorts she is wearing.

Santana waits on the couch, silently, trying not to think about anything in particular. Of course, she thinks, that always backfires; when you want to think of nothing, you end up thinking about everything you were avoiding. An image flashes in her head of a nude Rachel, scrambling to put on a bra and fresh underwear. She shakes the picture out of her mind, and tries to replace the scene with another, only to find a naked Brittany in her place.

“God,” she whispers to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. ”It’s like I’m fucking Callie Torres.” She folds her arms over her chest, leaning back on the couch. ”Come on, Dawn Wells, you can put your hair up in pigtails on the way there.”

“Give me a minute, I want to look halfway decent; I’m pretty sure Brody said he was coming.”

Santana sticks her finger in her throat and pretends to vomit when she hears his name. “Like you should care what that prick thinks; he’s balls deep in fairy dust,” she remarks. ”And if I remember correctly, we already had this conversation. Get a move on.”

Rachel stumbles into the living room, her purse swinging on her shoulder as she puts in her left earring, and then the right.

“How do I look?” she says, rather breathlessly.

Santana raises an eyebrow. "Not bad," she finally drawls, trying not to show how Rachel's new wardrobe is actually kind of really sexy and not helping with the thoughts of naked her and Brittany floating in her brain. Yeah, it's probably a good thing she's supposed to have the apartment to herself for the evening, with Brody doing whatever the hell it was he did that probably involved gallons of lube and burning nasal cavities, and Kurt and Rachel off to a NYADA party. It's definitely time that she gets her lady jam on.

Beaming, Rachel walks over and takes Santana's arm as soon as she's done straightening herself up. "I'll take that," she smiles and turns Santana towards the door, patting her forearm and pressing close to her side, "Ready to go?"

Clenching her jaw to keep her expression neutral, Santana lets out a put-upon sigh, lengthening her stride to take the lead and pulling away slightly to push open the door for them, "For ages, Berry. You know, I'm convinced that if you were set on fire, you'd stop to stare at yourself in the mirror before you jumped into the shower."

"Thought often about setting me on fire, did you?" Rachel smiles up at her. Preceding Santana out, she waits for her to join her, once again automatically retaking her arm.

Well. Not really surprising she'd be clingy, Santana tells herself. It's kind of nice having a sizzlin' hot babe on her arm, anyway. 'Bout damn time. People might think Santana's lost her mojo, and that's fuckin' ridiculous.

When Rachel's hip softly brushes against hers, Santana realizes the girl's still waiting for her response. She smirks. "Practically every day during sophomore year, and those oh so rare times during the years whenever your righteous brand of crazy got too much to stand."

And now it’s Brody you want to set on fire,” Rachel says, smiling. ”Oh, how things have changed.”

It’s true, Santana thinks; she doesn’t think as much about the ways she can torture the girl who’s fingers are brushing oh-so-subtly against her wrist. She’s pretty sure the roles are reversed—but Rachel doesn’t realize just how torturous her unintentional grazes are.

“As if,” Santana retorts. ”While setting you on fire is no longer a wet dream of mine, it still occurs to me when you spend an hour trying to look nice for Bruce Bigalow.”

Rachel blushes, but protests as they walk down the steps to the subway station. “Last time I checked, ten minutes does not constitute one hour,” she remarks smugly. She pulls Santana a little tighter to her side, and Santana wonders if it’s intentional. ”And I might be in your wet dreams, but I doubt it’s you setting me on fire,” she whispers, her voice a little shaky. The words are bolder than Santana ever imagined Rachel would go, and she must say she’s a bit floored.

It takes her a moment to compose herself.

Did Rachel just insinuate that it was her getting Santana riled up in her own dreams? She turns to look at the girl beside her, and Rachel has the courtesy to look at least somewhat embarrassed.

“Touche,” Santana utters. Rachel’s toying with the master; two can play this game. ”But when I think of you,” she mumbles, getting closer to Rachel’s ear, “Brody’s not even a part of the conversation.” She’s so close to her, she can feel her throat contract as she swallows.

Santana smirks, pulling away slightly, and dragging Rachel into the subway train that stopped before them only seconds earlier. ”Come on, you can continue to reenact the start of The Bare Bitch Project on the way to the art show.”

“Is that a—”

Santana cuts her off, laughing, “It’s a porno, Berry; deal with it. You mess with Snixx, you get it back in spades.”

Leading Rachel to the free seat in the corner of the car, Santana takes the standing spot in front of her. Normally, she would have glared at the person unlucky enough to sit where she wanted to be, but it was, surprise, surprise, a pregnant woman - either that or oddly fat. Either way, Santana doesn't want to give Rachel the wrong idea about how she'd treat her in the future.

Besides. This way, Rachel's face is perfectly positioned to get an eyeful of Santana's waist and thighs and hips and everything else Santana knows how to work. She smirks down at the red cheeks and wide eyes glowing up at her. Maybe this subway trip won't be such a goddamn drag like so many of them.

Rachel tugs on her hand. "You're liking this," she whispers into Santana's ear as she lowers herself, making sure not to flash the sketchy looking businessmen behind her. The small girl sounds more amused than anything.

Santana smirks, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I have no idea what you mean," she replies, "But it certainly seems like you now have your heart set on reenacting Subway Hos 6."

"Subway Ho - " Rachel cuts short her loud, strangled exclamation, eyes darting around. "Subway Hos 6?" she stage whispers. Obviously she stage whispers too enthusiastically, because the pregnant woman next to her stifles a cough. Blushing brightly, Rachel's eyes skim along Santana's thighs as she sways provocatively and very on purpose.

"Right." Smirking, Santana places her free hand on her hip. If the trip was going to be longer, she might be entertaining the idea of pushing their luck. But she's not and she's really not an exhibitionist no matter the amount of times she'd been caught doing the beast with two backs in the past. Doesn't mean she's going to pull Snixx back yet, though. "If you were scooted any closer to the edge of the seat, we'd be well on our way into the second act."

Rachel’s face flushes again, the girl purposely scooting back a bit on her seat.

Santana smiles, her tongue between her teeth, and Rachel looks away, embarrassed. It’s easy to make the girl sitting before her red in the face, but she still finds it oddly pleasing when she does. It’s as if the stuff she dares joke about could happen, and though Santana hates to admit it, the idea of getting off at the hand of Rachel Berry in the subway is exciting, to say the least.

“I want no such thing,” Rachel mumbles, clearly entranced—and lying through her teeth—and she turns her head to look her straight in the eyes.

Santana licks her lips slowly, moving her hand down her hip and a smidgen closer to center.

”But it would seem,” Rachel says, breaking their stare and gazing at the placement of Santana’s hand, “That you’re… Interested in a certain subway seduction.” She scoots closer again, and mimics Santana by swiping her tongue over her full lips.

Santana gulps. She doesn’t expect such blatant flirting, but after the conversation she and Berry have had today, she’s not sure what to expect anymore. She quickly recovers though, placing her hand on Rachel’s shoulder, her fingers lacing in her hair.

“I’m not sure if you and your lovely lady lumps can handle it,” she says, leaning down to whisper in her ear, it just a plus that her cleavage is perfectly aligned with Rachel’s gaze. It hits her, just for a moment, that this is supposed to be a game—just a game—and she wonders briefly if it’s turned into something more. But it flits from her mind when she sees Rachel’s eyes turn instantly from playful to lustful.

They remain quiet until the subway stops; Santana leans closer to Rachel as the throngs of people make their way on and off, and Rachel says, just loudly enough for Santana to hear, “That’s what you think.”

Rachel stands up as the subway starts up again, preparing herself for their departure at the next stop just minutes away, and their bodies brush against each other with the sway of the car. Rachel avoids Santana’s eyes, but she doesn’t try to move away; instead, she lets their bodies touch, graze, and she lets her eyes linger.

Santana doesn’t know what the hell she’s playing at, but she can’t say she doesn’t like it.

Reaching past Rachel, taking hold of one of the vertical poles, Santana makes sure her arm brushes along the smaller girl’s waist. Not even pretending that it's for support, she enjoys the little shiver Rachel does that's only helped by the sway of the subway car. Slitting her eyes, lips curling up, Santana takes the moment afforded to her by Rachel looking up, meeting her eyes, to think over things.

Rachel's possibly pregnant.

Santana's the only one who knows.

Santana's maybe sorta strangely developed a soft spot for the hobbit. And maybe even honestly attracted to her. Somehow.

But weirdest of all, Rachel's possibly attracted to her and openly, in her crazy midget way, flirting back?

Okay, no, maybe weirdest of all, Santana likes it. Likes this. Likes this side of Rachel. It’s refreshing and appealing and new and…

Why is it happening? Because Rachel’s possibly pregnant and Santana’s the only one who knows?

Frowning, tilting her head away, Santana moves her gaze to the doors of the subway. She can feel Rachel’s curious gaze along the side of her face, but she ignores her. This is insane. And aside from Quinn, Santana’s always told herself to never get emotionally invested in straight girls. And goodness knows she and Rachel are friends, so that side is unemotional, no matter how hard she’d like to fool herself.

Santana shifts. Why did she start to think about these things? Hadn’t she just been thinking about public subway sex and how much she can continue teasing Rachel with her body? Why can’t she go back to that, dammit?

As if feeding off Santana’s thoughts, she and Rachel are silent for the next couple of minutes. But as soon as they’re off, Santana automatically making sure Rachel’s in no danger of tripping or being bowled over by a fuckin’ asshole like that one guy tried to do, Rachel tugs Santana’s arm into hers again.

“Santana?”

Santana gives in, looking back down at her. “C’mon,” she rolls her eyes, smirking, tightening her arm muscles to make Rachel glance down, “Let’s go be the hottest mothers at this art show. But I’m telling you now – gives me wine to make this worth it or I’ll hold this forever over you.”

Rachel’s fingers brush along Santana’s wrist again. “Over me?” she says, smiling, barely loosening her grip as they climb the stairs to reach street level, “I think something can be arranged…”

Santana bites her lip, torn between her recent thoughts and the clear sexual innuendo in front of her. Rachel’s eyes are playful, and she can feel the brunette tighten her grip around her arm. Santana doesn’t respond to Rachel’s remark, but instead smirks at her (figuring it is, perhaps, a safer option) and they walk quietly down the sidewalk.

“It’s not far from here,” Rachel murmurs, looking up at Santana. Her eyes are wide, as always, and her bangs are just brushing the tips of her eyelashes, and for just a moment, Santana admires how beautiful she is.

But when Rachel looks away, the moment passes, and she can feel herself being dragged by the gnome across the street. It’s enough to make Santana roll her eyes again. But this time, she’s not sure who she’s rolling them at—herself, or Rachel.

They stay pretty quiet until they make it to the art show. The building’s tiny and the lighting’s dim, with the exception of the lighted pieces, and Santana can already tell it’s not her scene. There’s a painting of what she can only describe as an abstract dick, and she makes a face. Of course this would be Kurt’s scene.

Rachel’s grabs her a glass of red wine off of a tray and Santana gulps most of it down pretty quickly. It’s been a long day and she needs a buzz. She glances at Rachel, who seems to be looking at the picture of the cock with befuddlement and she sneaks up behind her and whispers, “Pretty sure that’s meant to be a one-eyed snake, Berry.”

Rachel jumps, putting her hand on her chest, and turns around to face her friend. “And you would know this how?” she asks with a raised brow, folding her arms over her chest.

“I’ve had quite a few cocks in my henhouse,” Santana replies, taking another sip of wine.

Rachel blushes, clearly looking around to make sure there are no professors or dignitaries anywhere close. “Well, aren’t you quite the expert,” she mumbles, looking back up at the painting. ”What I don’t understand,” she nearly whispers, “Is why it’s blue.”

Santana snorts, but revels in her curiosity, and even in her innocence. There’s something so magical about it.

But then there’s a flash of sadness as she wonders briefly if she’ll lose it when (or if?) she’s a mother.

Deciding to let the girl have that momentary innocence, Santana fades back into the crowd, swiping another glass of wine from a passing waiter. Taking her time with this one, she watches Rachel move from the blue dick to another abstract painting, one Santana’s pretty sure is fellatio in progress. She doesn’t know when her mind became attuned to this particular painter’s psyche, and if she cared enough to think about it, she’d probably find herself disturbed, but it’s more like a passing thought, one in the back of her mind as her eyes take in the petite form she’d surreptitiously admired for years.

Right now, that petite body could be getting ready to expand for new life.

Hissing her breath out of her mouth, Santana clenches her jaw. At the least the girl’s not drinking herself. No, she’s just standing in front of god awful “art”, being the dutiful friend and waiting for the other friend who set up the whole evening to get there. Sometimes, Santana rolls her eyes, Rachel’s way too lenient.

“Oh god, sorry, sorry,” a very loud effeminate voice sweeps up to Santana’s side, Santana turning to find a flurried Kurt pulling off his jacket and scarf, an equally hurried Adam behind him, “But at least I’m here now!”

“Joy,” she replies, giving the two unimpressed looks. “Tell me,” she says over the pulsing faux-club music that seems to be the norm at stereotypical art shows, “Why am I being subjected to Clay Aiken’s mushroom induced wet dream?”

Kurt adopts a pouty look of self-suffering, exchanging a barely restrained rolling of his eyes glance with Adam. “It’s not that bad.”

Adopting her version of the disinterested, almost judging ‘mmhm’ comment as an expression, Santana waves her hand at the wall of paintings in front of her.

“Oh god,” Kurt’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open, “It’s worse.”

Santana nods, hiding her biting remark behind her glass of wine. Her eyebrows quirk up. Watching the bright blush and almost hyperventilating panic cross Kurt’s face before he hurries over to Rachel’s side with a tossed, “I’ll… Be right back!” she turns her gaze to a laughing Adam.

Seeing her looking at him, he grins, shrugging.

Santana’ll take that. Tilting her head, she smirks back, then knocks back the rest of her wine. “So tell me,” her lips quirk up, fingers fluttering at the wall of gay porn, “Got any comments on Fellatio #6?”

Adam bites back laughter, subtly snorting into his drink, and Santana places her empty wine glass on a table nearby that holds information about the artist. As long as Kurt doesn’t notice, she’s sure she’ll get away with it.

“When Kurt told me this was a sexual exhibit, I thought it would be tasteful, but…” Adam’s voice trails off, and the two stare at a painting that Santana can only understand to be a hot pink cock sitting atop a set of incredibly muscular man boobs. Adam cocks his head to the side, and Santana shrugs.

“Whatever,” she grumbles, glancing at Rachel and Kurt talking intimately in a corner by a glass dildo on a pedestal. ”It’s not as if dicks are foreign to any of us, anyway—as flamboyant as this show is.” She looks around. ”I wonder if Elton John’s here.” She grabs another drink from the waitress passing by, and saunters over to Rachel and Kurt, leaving Adam without another thought.

“…And so we’ve just been flirting non-stop, Kurt, and I’m just—”

It’s all Santana can hear before Rachel stops mid-sentence and looks up at her like a tarsier. She smirks, but pretends not to hear the beginnings of Rachel’s new book, Confessions of a Questioning Jew. “How are Glinda and Elphaba enjoying the colorful cocks of the 21st century?”

Rachel rolls her eyes, while Kurt throws a hand in the air.

“I was told by the artist that it had something to do with pride and the intimacy of the political agenda to the personal sphere, but let’s be real—it looks more like a sex circus featuring Andy Warhol and Samantha Jones,” Kurt huffs out.

“At least it’s got a meaning,” Rachel says, glancing timidly at a painting of the purple dick again. ”Without it, it just seems trashy and…”

“Ridiculous?” Santana asks. The emphasis makes Kurt raise an eyebrow and Rachel furrow her brow. ”Sorry for trying to put a little fun into this cocks-only orgy. If I knew it was going to be a dickfest, I would’ve worn my strap-on for good measure.”

Kurt’s mouth opens as his Adam’s apple bobs. “Santana...” he clears his throat, shaking his head and purposefully not looking at Rachel next to him, “Please. We both know your ensemble would not support such a bold accent.”

Taking note of Rachel’s aghast expression, Santana gives her a quick wink before turning her attention fully to Kurt. “Really?” she asks, raising her eyebrows, “Because I’s pretty sure I’s can get away with whatever the hells I wants to get away with.” Smirking, she allows her mouth to be covered by her wineglass.

“I don’t doubt that you have that expectation about yourself,” Kurt rolls his eyes, suddenly reaching over and grabbing a glass of what is probably champagne from a passing waiter; offering it to Rachel, he barely reacts when she immediately shakes her head, eyes flitting to Santana’s, “But that isn’t taking into account how your... Shall we say, action would be received by your audience.”

Surveying the crowd of mainly flaming RuPauls, Santana snickers. “Lady Hummel,” she reaches out, snagging his arm and lacing it through hers, barely remembering not to pat him with her hand full of wine, “Look at these queens. Frankly, I’d be surprised if they didn’t want to have a contest of comparison.”

“Santana.”

Rachel’s voice is high and almost squeaky, so full of mortification that it automatically makes Santana want to press her luck even more. “What?” she asks, making sure to keep a hold on Kurt even as she turns her attention onto the other girl in their group - hell, practically the only other girl in the whole damn place, “Or, wait, I’m sorry, am I leaving you out?”

Rachel’s mouth clacks shut.

“I get it. You want a private show - “

“As I was saying,” Rachel suddenly throws out, practically yelling over her, “If this show does, indeed, have a meaning, no matter how... Uhm... Ineffectually presented it is...”

It’s obvious she’s searching for a change of topic, and, for once, Santana decides she’ll allow it. Poor little virginal Rachel. It’s almost sad. Knocking back the rest of her wine, deciding it would do no harm to have another one - or two - Santana waves at the same waiter she’s already stolen two drinks from. “Fiiiiine,” she sighs after replacing her empty glass with some champagne, “Let’s pretend this isn’t just filthy smut.”

“I don’t know why Rachel is acting as though this is a new scene for her,” Kurt mumbles, waving his hand as to brush Santana off. Santana can see Rachel glaring at Kurt out of the corner of her eye as he continues. “I remember Finn telling me about a little party your fathers hosted about a year ago...”

Santana snorts, choking slightly. “I’m a little offended that Finn was invited to this little soiree and I was left to fiddle with my fake schlong all by myself.”

The heat rises to Rachel’s face. “Finn was not there! And I... Holed myself up in my room.” She folds her arms over her chest protectively. “And the image of you and... And that--” her voice lowers to a whisper, “--Fake penis is just--”

“--The reason why you holed yourself up in your room in the first place?” The words fumble out of her mouth before Santana realizes it, and although she knows she should stop making Rachel completely uncomfortable, she’s instantly pleased with her insinuation when she sees Rachel’s stunned and perhaps slightly horrified reaction.

“No!” is all that Rachel can bring herself to utter. She runs her fingers through her hair, fidgeting, and Santana can tell she’s looking for another way out of this dreadfully embarrassing conversation.

Kurt doesn’t notice--or pretends not to. He ignores Santana’s latest remark, and continues with his story. “Finn admitted to me that you, my dear Rachel, may have bought an item or three at this little shindig.” He raises an eyebrow at the petite girl, and says, “And I don’t blame you; I hear he was quite the minuteman.”

Rachel groans, her cheeks flushing even further. She looks around the room anxiously, and then holds her wrist up. “Oh my gosh, look at the time!”

“And where exactly am I looking, Rachel?” Kurt says, chuckling. “At the beautiful Michael Kors diamond-studded titanium wristwatch on your arm? Oh, wait--no--that would be my arm; yours is bare. Are you trying to look like a hag? No jewelry? And what’s with the shaved arm? Should I be worried that it’ll be your head, next, Sinead?”

Santana takes another sip of champagne, feeling slightly buzzed, and interrupts. “It really is a shame, you know; that ex of yours was no Andy Hardy. He came, he came, and the case of ‘where’s the clit?’ was never resolved.”

“I think it’s about time we go to that party, Kurt!” Rachel squeals, her voice pitchy, and Kurt rolls his eyes.

“Excuses, excuses.” Kurt points to the glass dildo nearby. “Was that one of your purchases?”

Rachel pouts, and Santana finishes off her drink and grins, “I think it’s time Charlotte and I hit the ladies room, bitches!” Shewatches Rachel visibly gulp and cackles, dragging Rachel behind her.

Rachel’s wrist is small in her hand, and Santana does her best not to focus on that fact. She’s betting, by the way the crowd has been in the past half hour, that the bathroom will be practically a graveyard, and as soon as she pushes the door open, she ignores Rachel’s protest that there’s no reason she needs to visit the ‘powder room’ anytime soon. “Barbra, chill,” she gives the smaller girl, pushing her farther into the bathroom when she hesitates near the door as soon as Santana lets go of her wrist, “Or did you want to continue hearing the Lady Gay talk about your toy collection - which, I might add, I am beyond curious about.”

Staring up at her, eyes wide and dark and suddenly blinking when she realizes what Santana means, Rachel’s cheeks darken. Her hands sliding up along her arms as she moves to the side of the bathroom as Santana turns to squint into the mirror, making sure her makeup is still flawless, it’s the obvious the girl wants to say something by the way her mouth opens and closes.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Yes, Berry?” she asks, meeting her gaze through the mirror, “Spit it out.”

Rachel sighs. “You’re really uncomfortable here, aren’t you?”

A loud bark leaves Santana’s mouth before she can stop it, and she turns around, shifting her weight onto the sink via her hip. “‘Scuze me? No. Shirley Temple. You’d have to be the one uncomfortable for this world to make any sense.” Like, what?

Rachel’s hand is waving in the air. “I just.” The girl takes a deep breath. “I mean. Lesbian?”

Santana squints at her. “Okay...” she starts, “Either you’re suffering from a stroke, or you’re speaking in tongues. Dammit, spit it out already.”

It legit seems like Rachel’s in the process of swallowing her tongue. Her arms are crossed protectively in front of her stomach, as if she’s already in the habit of protecting a baby, and Santana can’t deny it’s kind of creepy. That had to be evolutionary, or some such crap. Fuck, she is far too tipsy for this.

When she looks up again after shaking her head, Rachel is suddenly in front of her, and it takes all of Santana’s Lima Heights Adjacent cool to stop herself from jumping. Her forehead furrowing, Rachel’s reaching for Santana’s arm, and, for some reason, Santana lets her make contact.

“I just...” When Rachel sighs, her whole body practically deflates, fingers curling into her palm on the sleeve of Santana’s blouse. Her eyes flit up, meeting Santana’s, “I’m not comfortable here.” Her smile is small.

“Right, and you wanted to use me as an excuse even with your past adventures, huh?” Pursing her lips, Santana rolls her eyes again before she lifts her hands, curling them around Rachel’s waist. Ignoring just how small it really is, she waits until Rachel faces her fully. “Berry. Rachel. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there’s nothing wrong with telling, well, more like insisting to Kurt you want to hurry up and head to the NYADA party.”

“Wha - oh. Right.”

Santana frowns. “You are still going to that party, right?” she practically demands, not sure if it’s because she knows she needs the time to herself in the apartment more or because she’s trying to foster more independence in the other girl so she can continue to give herself more time. Though, fuck, what would Rachel have to do if she wouldn’t be drinking? Wasn’t that the whole point of parties like that?

Gritting her teeth, Santana tries to ignore that train of thought. She needs the apartment to herself. She does. Alone time. Brittany naked thoughts and Rachel - oh god. Santana growls imperceptibly in her throat. No. No Rachel thoughts. She just needs this because.

“Uhm, yeah, I guess,” Rachel mumbles, looking down at her feet.

Santana’s eyes flit to Rachel’s hand, which is yet again cradling her might-be-preggers stomach, and she can’t help but sigh at the sight in front of her. She wonders when she became such a fucking pansy. She decides not to give into the girl, if only on principle.

“Look, I know it’s been a long night, Babs, but I think you and Judy need a night to yourselves.” Santana brings a finger to Rachel’s chin to lift her head up slightly. “Go sing a duet, or have a Pitch Perfect-esque show-off where Kurt ends up bawling because you’re just that awesome, Berry.” Santana drops her finger and smiles at her, adding, “Worse comes to worst, I pick you up early and we’ll go get some vegan dessert afterwards, okay?”

Though she offers, Santana internally reprimands herself; with her luck, Rachel would be calling while one hand was down her pants, jerking off to the image of Brittany in her sexy Catwoman suit from two Halloweens ago.

But Rachel smiles broadly, giving Santana a gentle, easy hug, and Santana can’t help but be pleased she made an effort.

Twirling her finger in her brown locks, Rachel turns back to look at the mirror and decides to add another coat of her clear gloss.

Santana simply stands back and watches closely, eyeing Rachel’s lips with interest and--though she’d hate to admit it--attraction. It’s neither here, nor there, however, because Rachel smacks her lips and tosses the tiny tube back into her purse before she has a chance to truly fantasize--which is all for the better, Santana thinks.

“I guess I’ll tell Kurt I’m ready to go, then,” Rachel says, a little more cheerful than she was only minutes before. “Do you think he’ll really be okay leaving?”

Santana smirks, locking arms with Rachel as they begin to strut towards the door. “I don’t care how many hundreds of dicks he’s surrounded by, he’ll always choose you over them.”

Rachel turns pink, and then chuckles, realizing the double meaning.

When they join Adam and Kurt again, Rachel exchanges Santana’s arm for her friend’s slightly bulkier, paler one. Leaning into his side, she looks up and says, “Time for the NYADA party, isn’t it? I think I’m ready to go.” Kurt nods, and then Rachel turns to look at Adam. “Are you coming?”

Adam shrugs and shakes his head ‘no’. “Not really my scene, to be honest. But you two have fun.” He smiles wholeheartedly, and Santana almost gags at his kindness.

“See you later, Santana,” Rachel mumbles, waving her hand quickly, and Kurt lifts a hand, bidding his roommate farewell.

“Go find yourselves some nice cocks of your own, ladies,” she says, winking. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she calls out as they roll their eyes and turn to leave.

Santana swears she hears Kurt yell back a reply of, “I have Adam--and last time I checked, ‘cocks’ are not on your list of things to do!”

A smooth, pleased smile on his face, Adam rocks back and forth on his heels. Looking at Santana, he raises his eyebrows.

Rolling her eyes, Santana doesn’t hold back her smirk as she whacks his arm. “Well?” she verbalizes for him, “Yeah, shut it.”

Pushing her hair behind her shoulders and straightening, peering back over the crowd to see if any other helpless lesbian or bisexual or questioning girl is there that she can conscript into a satisfying quickie in the empty bathroom, she tries to ignore the nagging loss of a hug that hadn’t happened. It’s fine. It’s not like she and Rachel hug every time they say hello or goodbye to each other. In fact, it would be an anomaly if it happened. So she should just ignore it and continue...

There.

Zeroing in on the sinfully attractive redhead laughing across the room, Santana takes a couple of seconds to make sure this won’t be another mistaken bad lighting moment.

Adam’s presence moves closer to her side. “Santana.”

“Hmm?” Narrowing her eyes, Santana taps her fingernails against her champagne glass.

A smile curls around Kurt’s boyfriend’s words, “That’s Charlene. Don’t worry. She’s gay and looking.” An infuriating smile easily crosses his face. “Want me to introduce you?”

Santana shakes her head, only to find herself agreeing a second later. It’s not that she needs the help; it’ll just make it easier to get to the tasty payoff...

One she’s been sorely lacking in.

---------------------------------

Charlene is hot and sexy and interested and responding in exactly the perfect way. She’s fit and barely taller than Santana, skinny in that dancer way, and her lips promise hours of pleasure. Her hand has been hot on Santana’s arm for ten minutes now, her voice pretty and laugh not annoying as they make their way around the art show for Santana’s first in-depth time, and Santana knows for a fact that if she just says one word, smiles that smile, they’d be in the bathroom or in a cab heading back to the loft lickety-split. It should be easy. It’s not like she’s a prude and she’s certainly no stranger to casual sex, and it’s obvious Charlene isn’t either.

The words are practically on the tip of Santana’s tongue, the fire a second away from erupting within her lady loins. It should be so easy.

But it’s not.

For some infuriating reason, Rachel and her sweet innocent look of confusion keeps on playing in front of Santana’s eyes. No matter how many fake phalluses she looks at, it’s Rachel’s dark gaze that looks back at her. No matter how many suggestive words Charlene whispers to her, it’s Rachel’s innocent comments that echo in Santana ears, the faint memory of Brittany swirling behind a second later. Though that’s not unusual, the inclusion of Rachel is, and the end result is that it’s not comfortable.

Finally, unable to find anymore reasons she can put off dragging this sinfully sexy woman around the show, Santana stops them in front of the same glass dildo she’d been with Rachel and Kurt. “Okay,” she forces a smile, lowering her voice and meeting Charlene’s bright green eyes, “I think we both know what’s going on. And as exciting this exhibit is, I’m thinkin’ it’s a bit... Counterproductive to me sayin’ I’m attracted to you.”

Charlene’s lips curl up. “That’s good,” she laughs lightly, moving her hands to Santana’s hips, teasingly dragging her thumbs up and down, “And bad. I guess.” She shakes her head, teeth white as she grins, leaning in, voice lowering as well, “But, I can assure you, you won’t be disappointed because the feeling is very mutual.”

“Good.” Agreeing, Santana lets an alluring smirk play with the corners of her mouth. It’s almost too easy how this is a sure thing. Almost... Off putting.

Which is ridiculous, Santana chastises herself. This whole reluctance thing? Ridiculous. Charlene is hot and ready to go and practically - is exactly what Santana needs.

So Santana steps forward.

Santana laces her fingers with Charlene’s, reminding her almost immediately of how she held Rachel’s wrist just minutes before. It’s different, though, this time around. Rachel’s hand was smaller, and Santana’s grasp was less intimate, less sensual. She can feel Charlene’s thumb gently stroking her own, and it’s... Nice. Really nice. But nothing else. She waits to feel a shiver of delight down her spine, or perhaps a spark of desire in the pit of her stomach; all she ends up feeling, though, is the desire to bolt.

Of course, she doesn’t. She walks to the subway with Charlene’s soft, bony hand clasped in hers, not entirely sure of herself or the situation she’s put herself in. When they get to the subway, she pulls away, but only so that she can wrap her arm around Charlene’s waist and whisper delicately in her ear, “I’m not too far from here; just a few subway stops.” Santana wonders why she doesn’t add something dirtier, something seductive and tempting, but she decides to make up for it by sliding three fingers into the waistband of her jeans. Charlene’s skin is smooth and... Nice.

Santana pulls her fingers back and she’s thankful that the subway is close enough that she can begin to fiddle with her purse and pull out her MetroCard and do something productive. Charlene does the same, and when Santana looks up at her, she winks and a smile plays at her lips--it’s almost overwhelming, how unfazed she feels.

She puts on a smirk, takes her hand, and bounces down the stairs. At the bottom, she pulls Charlene close, pressing herself against the girl, and licks her lips with a certain confidence that sends noticeable goosebumps down Charlene’s arms. Santana places a chaste kiss on Charlene’s lips, then mumbles throatily, “That’s not the only place I want my mouth right now.” The line is cheap, and not Santana’s best, but it’s the best she can muster up in the moment.

The subway is nearly empty, which means Charlene is more than happy to nuzzle Santana’s neck, nibbling and sucking gently, uttering words that Santana’s usually the one saying. Not to be outdone, Santana moves her hand beneath the girl’s shirt, feeling the expanse of her stomach, inching upward dangerously. She can hear a breathy moan escape Charlene’s mouth, but Santana doesn’t feel the lust that usually overpowers her.

When they stumble off of the subway and up to the apartment, her hand is in Charlene’s back pocket like some sort of teenager, and it’s already nothing like her other hookups. She tries to inspire a little more excitement on her end, walking backwards into her apartment, Charlene’s lips attached to hers, their tongues brushing. Santana pushes her onto the couch, and then straddles her, grinding her hips against Charlene’s and cupping her breast while planting open mouthed kisses on her neck. Charlene tangles her fingers in Santana’s hair and Santana wants to feel something, but what it feels like is forced.

She pulls back to study Charlene’s face, just for a moment. Her skin is pink, her eyes are dark with lust, and her nose is just a little too perfect.

“What?” Charlene murmurs. But when Santana begins to respond, her phone vibrates against her hip bone.

Doing her best to ignore it, figuring it’s a text from a drunken Puck or someone as so not important at this moment, Santana leans forward again, heading past where Charlene’s eyes can follow her. Opening her mouth, she’s just about to latch back onto the already reddening neck, palms once again heading to slip under Charlene’s shirt when her phone vibrates again.

“You’re vibrating,” Charlene laughs huskily. Her fingers grip Santana’s hair, a hand sliding down her shoulder. “Is that a special talent or...?”

It’s obvious she’s teasing, and Santana suddenly starts to feel bad for her. Forcing a groan, she sits up and back, resting more on her heels than Charlene’s knees. “Sorry,” she grunts, smiling faintly as she digs into her pocket, “Depending, I can throw it away.” Digging the phone out, she shoves her hair behind her shoulder before pushing her hand into the back of the couch, above Charlene’s shoulder to keep herself balanced.

She doesn’t know who she wants it to be. Part of her hopes it’s Rachel or Kurt, meaning she’d have to bow out, while the other, more stubborn and forcibly oblivious part of her hopes it’s someone she can blow off. No matter her annoying misgivings about this whole thing, sex is sex and would be good for something.

Mamí Lopez glares up at her.

Groaning for real, it’s like a wash of cold water, and Santana rolls off and to the side of Charlene. “Sorry,” she puts her hand on the girl’s thigh, “Just a, gotta take - hello?”

“Santí! ¿Como estas?”

“Bien, Mamí. What is it?” Seriously? Now? Out of the corner of her eye, Santana can see Charlene doing her best not to make it obvious she’s listening as she shifts, fingers opening and closing in her lap. If it isn’t so awkward already, Santana would be laughing. Instead, she’s wondering if this’ll completely drain all the dregs of her libido still trying to stay involved.

“Hopefully I’m not bothering you, but do you remember where your Papí left his toolbox?”

A bark of laughter leaves Santana’s mouth. “Really?” she practically matches Rachel’s level of energy at any given time of day, “You’re calling - you’re honestly calling your so not butch daughter to ask her where the toolbox is? Are you - I bet you don’t even know what time it is here, do you.”

Charlene stifles a laugh, and Santana turns, meeting her eyes to share her look of disbelief. Oh yeah. This is sexy. Shaking her head, she sighs.

She’s not sure what her mother says next, but she knows there’s an apology in there somewhere, so she groans, “Okay, Mamí, I’m in the middle of something, can I call you tomorrow? I don’t know where the toolbox is.”

“Okay, Santí. You take care. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” When she hangs up, she sighs and rolls her eyes, then shoves the phone back in her pocket. “Sorry about that.” And even though she’s not sure she’s even enjoying the sexy time she’s created for herself, she means it.

Charlene smiles at her, and it’s this small, genuine grin that turns her stomach just enough to make Santana want her, right here, right now, only for tonight. So Santana finds her way back on the girl’s lap, her knees sinking into the couch cushions, the edges of her mouth curving upward. Her hips find their groove again, and Charlene places a hand on the back of Santana’s neck and pulls her down to kiss her.

Santana can sense a smirk growing on Charlene’s lips, and it riles Santana up more than she’d care to admit. She pulls her mouth away from Charlene’s just long enough to mumble, “Bed. Now,” then plants another kiss on the girl’s lips and strips herself of her shirt, throwing the thin fabric to the floor without a second thought, before sliding off of Charlene and taking her hand, pulling her gently toward the bedroom. Charlene releases her hand only to shimmy out of her own blouse, and Santana’s impressed. Her tits are bare for her to ogle, no bra to be seen.

Santana can’t wait until the bedroom. Pulling Charlene flush against her, Santana kisses down her chest slowly, passionately, and palms her breast easily. When Charlene sighs to herself, practically inaudibly, Santana pauses only to unhook her own black lace bra. It’s only when their jeans and panties are off that Santana realizes that they’ve left a trail of clothing from the couch all the way to the bedroom door. She gazes at the path, cringing slightly, thinking for a moment about Kurt and Rachel--Rachel--but then Charlene clears her throat and Santana turns around and suddenly her brain is void of any logical thought.

“Come here,” Charlene says huskily, her legs parted, her pink thong hanging from her index finger. Santana’s throat goes dry as she gazes at the girl laying so hungrily on her bed. In the brief second before she positions herself between the girl’s legs, Santana can hear a phone vibrate against the wooden floor. It’s a few feet away, and she knows it’s Rachel. She knows in her gut that it’s the girl that has taken a small place--a really small place, mind--in her heart. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t allow herself to get it. Instead, she steps out of her boy shorts and crawls onto the bed. She crawls onto the bed, between this stranger’s open legs and doesn’t think. She can’t think.

If she stops to think, she’ll stop altogether, and she deserves this.

She licks her lips and grasps Charlene’s thighs and ignores her. She slides her tongue to meet Charlene’s desire head on, and just gives in to the feeling of lust overwhelming her. The smells, the sounds--the taste of her skin and her sweat and her arousal--it surrounds her, it engulfs her, and she can’t help but indulge.

Charlene is a practiced lover, responsive and delicious, full of moans and heat and not afraid to use her fingernails. She grips Santana’s hair and neck and ears as she goes down on her, rolling her hips and making noises that makes it obvious she’s very appreciative of what Santana’s doing. It feeds Santana’s ego, which in turn fans her libido.

Yes. This is exactly what she’s been missing, hanging out with Miss Priss Virgin Mary One and Two: sex. Scratching an itch. Because if the way Charlene is reacting is descriptive of how she’ll reciprocate, Santana’s set.

God, she slowly licks up, swirling her tongue around the hard point of Charlene’s clit, she missed this.

Charlene’s trembling, chest heaving, the scrape of her fingernails sharp along Santana’s skin. She’s mewling, head twisting back and forth as she arches up, taught on her shoulders. “Oh,” she gasps, “You’re good at that.”

Chuckling, Santana dips back down. Damn well better should be, she thinks, but doesn’t verbalize it. Instead, with a quick glance up at Charlene’s pleasure stained face, she pushes two fingers into her, curling them up. She tells herself she can’t surely be hearing her phone vibrate on the floor from here, with what’s overwhelming her senses and ears.

She has to convince herself she can’t hear it, at least. An uncomfortable pit in her stomach she can’t fully refute tells her it’s so she’ll be able to look Rachel in the eye when this is all said and done again. To force that away, she pushes herself up, swallowing a pert nipple.

God she loved women.

It’s getting more intense by the second. Charlene’s cresting, getting hotter and wetter each passing moment, and it’s all because of Santana. Her lower stomach is pulsing, tensing, hands grasping around pale thighs to keep the girl open. Maybe she’s actually achieving this. Maybe she can - no, she is losing herself in this girl. She - Charlene shudders, comes undone with a high-pitched, tight whine, clamping down around Santana and sucking her in, crashing Santana’s mouth to hers with a jerk of her hand and forcing Santana to splay out on top of her, covering her, pressure on where she needs it most - and with a gasp and a large juddering hunch of her hips into Charlene, groan and tensing core, she finally achieves what she’s been trying to do. There’s no way she can concentrate on her phone now.

In her last few moments of lucidity, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that she has to tell herself she’s still doing the right thing.

--------------------------------------

When she wakes up, groggy and naked, it’s nearly one in the morning. Santana momentarily forgets Charlene, forgets the pleasure she’d felt just hours before, and searches blindly for her phone. She stumbles out of bed, wrapping a sheet around her body, her legs a tad weak from sleep, and uses the moonlight shining into her bedroom to seek out her lifeline.

After a minute or two, she hears a buzz come from the living room, and dashes (as quickly as she can, given her current, rather sleepy state) to retrieve it. When she finally picks it up and turns it on, what she sees makes her stomach sink and her throat turn dry.

Eight missed calls. Twelve new text messages.

Before she hears them, before she reads them, she knows they’re all from Rachel. Rachel, who’s stuck at the NYADA party with Kurt. Rachel, who Santana promised to pick up and grab ice cream with. Rachel, who could be preggers... Rachel... The girl who was and is so much more than nice.

Santana calls Rachel back immediately. She hears it ring, and after a moment, she hears Rachel’s angered, but somehow still soft voice. “I thought you were going to pick me up.”

“I’ll be there, Rach, just give me a few minutes, I’m on my way.” The words are rushed, and Santana can barely keep herself from shaking. She hears Rachel hang up, and then bolts to her room to change. She throws on sweats and a pair of sneakers, her mind focused on Rachel, on how she’s surely miserable, drinking a soda and pretending to be interested in the throngs of drunken girls and twinky guys and the lame ass Once soundtrack that Rachel only admitted she didn’t like after intense prodding. Santana’s thoughts are deluging her, ransacking her mind, and it’s only when she’s on the subway, watching a man grind up against one of poles, that she realizes she’s nearly there.

It hurts her to think Rachel’s hurting, and although she’s rarely the sentimental type, Rachel’s her friend and she knows she may have fucked up. Just a tad.

Maybe a little more than just a tad, she thinks.

Rachel’s sitting outside the apartment building when Santana arrives. She looks... Well, angry. And cold. Her hands are wrapped around her upper arms, and Santana takes off her sweatshirt and hands it to her. Rachel doesn’t meet her gaze, but accepts the article of clothing and shimmies into it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Santana barks, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re by yourself on an empty street where the next up-and-coming Ted Bundy could kidnap you.” As Santana hears the words stream out of her mouth, she knows they’re harsh, but it’s easier to get mad at Rachel than be mad at herself.

Rachel glares, standing up from the stoop. “Yeah? Well maybe you should’ve thought about that when you ignored my cries for help.”

Santana watches Rachel huff off in the direction of the subway, and follows behind her, carefully keeping an eye on her, but giving her the space she needs before the all out brawl she expects to take place at some point tonight or tomorrow manifests.

In her head, she tries to justify it one more time. I needed that time to myself, she thinks, but even she knows it’s a weak defense. She’s no longer able to believe it, not without the post-coital daze she was in before, and not while Rachel walks in front of her, venomously kicking stray pebbles that are seemingly in her way.

Frowning, starting to feel the cold on her now that Rachel was wearing her sweater, Santana realizes she is walking around New York in nothing but a white tank top, and swearing under her breath, she brushes her hair over her shoulders before crossing her arms. Good thing it isn’t anything that could get her arrested, but not that she’d ever let it get that far, anyway.

Shaking her head, looking back up to Rachel, she notices they’re approaching the entrance to the subway. Not sure if the still tightly walking girl had noticed or already knew that, Santana groans and steps up her pace. “Berry. Hey.” She isn’t sure if the girl freezes or just jerks at her words, and Santana rolls her eyes; what now?

“Oh, Berry is it?” Rachel snaps as soon as Santana meets up with her, whirling around so fast Santana actually has to reach out to try and catch her because it looks like she’s going to fall, but all that happens is Rachel whacks away her hands, stepping closer to hiss out as she searches Santana’s eyes, wild and hard and hurt all at the same time, “Want to fall back into our original roles to distant yourself from your humongous screw up?” She then honest to god throws her hands up in the air in the most dramatic expression of fury in the history of Rachel Berry freak outs, and it erases all the effect her eyes may have started on Santana’s state of mind. “Want to forget what you said - what you promised me you’d do?”

Okay. No. Now? Feeling her own anger start to curl in her stomach, Santana for once tries to push Snixx back into her very thinly restrained box. “Fine, Rachel,” she manages to make Rachel’s name a step up from the spat expletive it almost was. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, like you suddenly care about what I call you, yeah, Miss Only Place You Belong Is On A Stripper Pole, Santana,” she continues, staring at the very angry, very almost scary small girl in front of her, tossing her head back in one of her practically patented Lima Heights Adjacent moves, “And right, yes, I fucked up. Newsflash, it’s not like you’re so perfect, either.”

“Me?” Rachel blinks. Her mouth drops open. “This is suddenly about me?”

Does she really want to go there? Santana’s not sure it’s so smart to answer affirmatively, so she defers the question. “This is about the fact that everyone makes mistakes, Rachel. You’re not fucking Mother Teresa, Jesus.” Santana glares, but her facial expression softens slightly when she spits out, “And neither am I--I made a mistake.” She swallows hard, and avoids looking at the girl in front of her. There’s guilt and regret sitting on each of her shoulders, and she can’t bear to see the disappointment plaguing Rachel’s face.

She hears Defying Gravity blast from Rachel’s pocket, and she watches as Rachel pulls her cell out. “This, Santana, is what you do when your phone rings. You pick. It. Up.”

Santana scoffs and listens to Rachel’s annoyed, “Hello, Kurt?”

The street around them is eerily quiet, and it makes it rather easy to hear the sounds of assholes making fools of themselves by singing a rather strange, a capella version of “Party Rock Anthem”. Santana can’t help but snort.

After a moment, it occurs to Santana that Kurt’s the one belting the shitty song, and she figures Rachel’s realized seconds later when she hangs up without another word. Kurt is rather notorious for his butt dials, Santana thinks. She remembers one time, when she overheard his rather breathy moans that she could only assume were sex sounds. She’d hung up before she could be completely sure, thank GOD.

She wishes she could mention it to Rachel with a smile and a chuckle, but Rachel begins to walk towards the subway again, as if nothing’s just gone down on the corner of Motherfucking Hell and Why Didn’t I Just Pick Her Up. She knows the fight is far from over, but she’s rather content with the silence for now.

When they get into the subway car, there’s one seat, and Santana lets Rachel take it (though she suspects Rachel would’ve put up a fight for it, had she not) because she does feel sorry, even if she’s shit at showing it. Rachel gazes out the window across from them, and Santana watches her stare at the tiles, which are blurred from the speed of the car, clearly lost in the easy, monotonous motion of the train.

When they walk back to their place from the station, Rachel walks five feet ahead of her, and Santana lets her, because, just like before, the silence is sweeter than the cacophony of angry noises they had joined to compose before.

It’s that silence she misses when they trudge back into their apartment. Rachel’s keys hit the coffee table with a thud, and her own sneakers thud quite nicely against the wood floor when she kicks them off. These little noises, which seem to be nothing more than white noise, end up being, perhaps, Santana’s worst nightmare. It’s only when Rachel slams a cup down on their counter, that Charlene steps out of Santana’s room and makes herself known.

“Mmm, babe, come back to bed,” she mutters, dragging her feet as she saunters over to Santana. She’s in nothing but a bed sheet--the same sheet Santana had wrapped herself in to call Rachel back.

Santana can’t believe she forgot about Charlene. She wants to bury herself in the ground, or stick her head in the sand, like an ostrich, just like she saw on the Discovery Channel when she was a kid. She wants to escape, she wants to be anywhere but in the middle of this mess.

Santana hears the cup Rachel had just slammed down on the counter rattle as if Rachel’s hand had jumped and taken it with it. No, well, Santana would bet that it was her whole body that jumped.

Fact was, she hadn’t told Rachel there could have been the smallest chance that someone would be in their apartment. But of course, she thought, staring at Charlene with wide eyes, unable not to see how appealing and, yeah, well fucked she looked, she hadn’t even noticed the girl when she’d woken up. Maybe somewhere in the back of her head she’d hoped the girl would have left, but obviously, that hadn’t happened.

“Oh?” Charlene’s husky, sleepy and sated voice sounds too loud in the silence of the apartment. Pausing at Santana’s side, her hand warm and kind of familiar after their earlier activity on Santana’s arm, the girl who felt too much like an interloper looked Rachel up and down. “Is she joining in?”

“What?” Rachel strangles out, sounding both close to tears and close to overloading again, “How, how dare you - “

Santana slaps her hand over Charlene’s mouth. Fuck fuck fuck. It isn’t clear who Rachel addressed that to, so it just feels hurtful. Better to get out of there, both of them, before the building storm in Rachel’s body she can see again erupts.

Taking the corner of the bed sheet closest to her so she won’t flash Rachel, Santana pulls Charlene back towards her room. She wants to demand to know why the girl is still there, really just wants to get her away from Rachel. “You,” she hisses, almost unconsciously meeting Rachel’s betrayed gaze from over Charlene’s shoulder, “My room, now.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Charlene purrs as soon as Santana pulls her hand away, shifting so she can thread her arms around Santana’s neck and pull her into her even as she pushes forward. It’s like she doesn’t care Rachel’s there or isn’t aware of how awkward this whole thing was. Normally Santana would find that sexy as hell, knowing how god damn irresistible she is - like, duh, but this is just... Somehow, it’s weird. Argument and her fuck-up aside, it’s still...

“Oh, great, no shame. No shame,” Rachel’s voice rose, “And no wonder you didn’t pick up the phone, huh? You, you’re, I can’t believe you!”

Anger had replaced all the hurt in Rachel’s voice, and even though Santana knows how this looks, knows how it is, and very aware of Charlene’s hot breath on her neck and body arching into her, mumbling, “Is this your girlfriend? No wonder you went after me,” she still has no fucking clue what she should do at this moment. Her body, almost guiltily, is starting to respond to Charlene’s presence, memories of their previous fuck sparking inside her. It’s true she’s still a little cold from her practically half-naked trek across town, and it’s always been helpful for roiling emotions to get herself off. Which she knows Charlene can.

She certainly can’t say she likes what Charlene’s implying about Rachel, though.

But, Rachel, her girlfriend? That was something Santana really does not want to think about. Like, ever.

“Santana!”

Oh fuck. Of course Rachel had heard that. It’s like she has ears like a bat.

Rachel’s face is red, lower lip trembling as her jaw works in her mouth. Her eyes are big, dark, stricken, and one of the greatest betrayed expressions Santana has ever seen is swirling inside them. Her cup is now clutched in her hands, the sleeves of Santana’s sweater almost but not quite covering the white of her clenched knuckles.

Fuck. “Rachel.”

Shifting, now more awake, Charlene seems to have suddenly realized that there is actually something going on.

The three girls stand silently and Santana can feel the tension hovering between them. She eyes Rachel, staring at the way her fingers curl tightly, almost painfully, around the glass, how her eyebrows furrow and her forehead creases... And the seconds that pass by them feel more like minutes... Agonizing, soul-numbing minutes. She’s a fucking asshole, and it takes all she has not to throw the ugly vase on the coffee table.

After a moment, Charlene clears her throat. “I think... I think I should get going.”

She looks between the two girls, her eyes wide with uncertainty, and then shuffles back to Santana’s room. Santana can hear her getting her shit together, and she wishes she could fast-forward the process, because Rachel’s glaring at her fiercely, unabashedly. It’s infuriating, really, but she knows she deserves it, so she keeps her mouth shut and attempts to push away the urge to roll her eyes. It wouldn’t help her case, to say the least.

Santana sees a flash of red hair out of the corner of her eye, and turns to see Charlene, clad in only a bra and jeans, scamper towards the couch and retrieve her shirt.

Santana pinches the bridge of her nose. Fuck. What a fucking mess.

As Charlene slides her shirt on over her head, Santana swears she hears a low growl come from Rachel’s direction. And then she realizes... Fucking shit. Rachel can see Charlene’s fucking back, covered in scratches, in physical evidence that they did the nasty.

It’s almost too theatrical for Santana to bear. She sneaks a glance at Rachel, whose fiery eyes are glued to Charlene, and she’s just not sure how she can make it out of this situation alive, her friendship with Rachel still intact.

Charlene mouths the words, “I’m so, so sorry!” to Santana before she slips out and leaves the two girls alone.

Santana turns towards Rachel again, audibly sighing.

Rachel scoffs and, with the glass still attached to her hand, moves into the living room, looking a bit like a predator about to attack its’ prey.

“What was it, Santana?” Rachel hollers, her tone somewhat amused. “What was it that made her so irresistible?” Rachel twists the cup in both of her hands as tears threaten to fall. “Was it the red hair? I bet it was the red hair.”

Santana can feel the rage rising, and before she can stop herself, she fumes, “Actually, it was her tits that really did me in. Nice, perky handfuls. I just couldn’t help myself.”

She watches as Rachel glances down at her own breasts, though only for a second, then folds her arms over her chest protectively, her glass accessory still attached to her hand, resting on her upper arm. Guilt creeps up on Santana, inching its way from her stomach into her chest, but she ignores it, letting the fury control her.

“Well, good then,” Rachel fumbles out, her eyes thinning, “I’m glad you ruined a friendship for a nice rack! If they were a couple of B cups--well, then I’d really feel sorry for you!”

“Ruined a - ruined a friendship?” That’s it. Santana’s seeing red. “Friendship?” she repeats, voice low and sharp as ice, cold, colder than she’s heard it in a while since she’d left the halls of McKinley, taking a step forward to get both parts equal of a better look at Rachel and forcing her backwards with sheer fury. “Wouldn’t we need a friendship before it could get ruined?”

Even with Rachel’s immediate, instant gasp and tears to her eyes as she takes in what Santana’s just said, Santana doesn’t care. “So what the fucking hell if I wanted to get lucky? What - you can but I can’t?” Still shouting, she slashes her hand up in the air, pointing at Rachel, “Oh, you’re such - you threatened to kick me out and we’re friends?”

------------------------------------------------------

And one last bit that has ALWAYS stuck with me, years later: the insider knowledge that, Santana having run out of the loft without showering, and with giving Rachel her sweater... Rachel could smell her. Her and Charlene.

#pezberry #rachel berry #santana lopez #thought = headcanon = almost complete fic/drabble inspiration = if i had energy to flesh it out more #rptotd #333 #i did some editing #forgive me if i missed anything!#(and pooh on the italics causing spacing issues!)#(i also wonder if you guys can tell which parts i alternated writing compared to what my co-author alternated writing :D)#though a lil' warning #six year old statements/writing - almost seven year old statements/writing by now oy - within #and to my co-writer: i hope you're doing well :}#thanks for the memories and fun times

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lobsters-on-their-heads · 7 years

Text

A Galaxy of Women, Chap. 4

The entire work can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11836590

The creators are looking for more contributors to this story, so if you’re interested, contact @afrenchclone or @salixsericea.

As always, I love me some feedback.

On their third morning in San Juan, Puerto Rico, around four o'clock, Delphine's phone rang. It was set to receive calls and texts from anywhere in Latin America, and the number calling was Costa Rican.

“Sí, hola?” Delphine said, pushing her hand through her hair and squinting at the sudden light as Cosima switched on a lamp. Her Spanish was good, but she preferred to have a little more warning before embarking on a conversation.

The woman on the other end said she was Marta, a bartender from Cahuita who'd gotten Delphine's number from Cosima several days earlier, when they were looking for Erika Maria Santos. Erika Maria, Marta told her, was in the hospital, and the prognosis was not good.

“Your friend, she said she was Erika's sister,” Marta said.

“Sí,” Delphine said, still reeling from sleep. “Sí, gracias.” She got the name of the hospital and confirmed that Marta was calling from her own personal phone and could receive calls. “One more thing,” Delphine said. “Does Erika know we're coming? Does she know about Cosima?”

It had been tricky figuring out how exactly to present themselves to all of the unaware Ledas. For those not presenting symptoms, it was simpler because they didn't have to rush. First, they got in touch with their medical providers and explained that they were conducting research on women with certain characteristics, and provided a financial incentive to women who participated. They were as specific as possible without identifying individuals, but in addition to the Ledas, they still ended up with a number of non-Leda women getting placebo injections, some money, and a pleasant smile from Dr. Cormier. It didn't catch nearly as many Ledas as they'd hoped, though, so they moved onto other tactics. They stalked the Ledas' social media sites, looking for signs of symptoms, and tried talking to friends and family members. If the Leda had a job that made them available to the public, like saleswoman or waitress, either Cosima or Delphine tried observing them that way, to determine the best ways of making contact. It was not so different from Delphine's early days as a Dyad monitor, a fact not lost on either of them. Of course, no matter how hard they tried, some of the clones were slipping through their fingers. In cases like Erika Maria Santos, slipping through could mean dying.

So, on the search for Erika Maria Santos, they had told everyone that Cosima was her long-lost sister. It wasn't wrong, and it was likely to get people's attention.

“No,” Marta said. “She's been unconscious since they brought her in. You're the only people I know to contact. She....” Marta's voice broke. “She needs to have her family here. In case... in case...”

“I know,” Delphine whispered. “We're on our way. Thank you.”

Beside her, Cosima sat up and yawned. “Lemme guess. We're going back to Costa Rica?”

“Sí,” Delphine said, forgetting her English for a moment. “To Limon. She's in hospital there.”

“Oh shit. Okay.” With that, Cosima was up and out of bed, turning on lights and gathering belongings even as she made her way to the bathroom.

* * *

“Out of curiosity,” Cosima asked, “how much did this flight cost?”

“All together? Just over $1,400 for us both.”

“Shit.” Their tickets from Toronto to Cartagena had been less than that. Cosima settled into her seat on the Copa Airlines flight Delphine had booked a few hours prior. She'd packed their bags while Delphine handled the travel arrangements, putting everything onto the debit card linked through the Sadler and Daughters Foundation, funded by Rachel Duncan. Cosima decided not to ask how much their bus trip from San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica, to Limon would cost, or the last minute hotel room. Their trip to San Juan had been last minute, too, but not nearly as close to the wire as this.

“We don't know how much time she has,” Delphine said softly. “It's worth the extra money.”

“Oh, no question. We're lucky we could even get a flight this early. And sitting together, too!” She tucked her hand into the side pocket of Delphine's pants and peered out the window at the lightening sky over Puerto Rico. “Too bad we couldn't get a direct flight, though. That's my only complaint.”

Delphine kissed her temple, knowing the complaint was minor, but that they would be exhausted by the time they reached Limon that evening. “Try to rest. We'll have to run once we get to Panama City for the layover.”

* * *

Cosima didn't remember falling asleep, but then Delphine was nudging her awake, and she found herself tucked against Delphine, her legs cramped and her chin damp with drool. “Mmpph,” she said.

“I know. Come on.”

Delphine wasn't wrong about needing to run in Panama City, either. Their layover was all of fifty-five minutes long, not even giving them enough time to use the bathroom between finding the connecting terminal and fighting through other travelers. Once they got to their gate, they had to stand in line behind gaggles of enthusiastic English-speaking young people with bulging hiking packs and loud voices which, in a more charitable mood, would have reminded Cosima of herself ten years earlier. Behind them, a family squabbled in Spanish while their toddler played a video on a phone with the speaker on. Cosima put both hands on top of her head and took a deep breath.

Erika Maria Santos is dying, she reminded herself. Her lungs are filled with blood, her kidneys have stopped working, and she's been unconscious for... how long now? Too long. She's dying. With that focus, it was a little harder to be upset by her fellow travelers. Just a little.

Delphine, meanwhile, took it all in stride. When they'd exited their last plane, Delphine had set a pace to their next terminal that nearly left Cosima in the dust, but now Delphine had settled into a practiced, empty state of indifference. Her face was blank, her posture relaxed, and her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. For all Cosima knew, Delphine had fallen asleep with her eyes open, and even the sudden scream of the toddler or burst of laughter from the college kids did nothing to rouse her. Cosima had a feeling that pinching her would get a reaction, but it was neither the time nor the place for that sort of brattiness.

To keep herself sane and her hands to herself, Cosima pulled out her cell phone and took it off airplane mode. A few seconds later, a string of messages from Sarah popped up, starting almost an hour prior.

These kids are driving me fucking nuts. I'm going to kill them. Srsly. Alison's useless. Felix is gone. Send help.

Despite herself, Cosima laughed. Sarah had custody of Charlotte for the summer, since the arrangement with Art and his ex-wife had run its course. Charlotte was a great kid, but it still meant that Sarah had two prepubescent girls under her roof. She remembered driving her own parents crazy at that age when they'd spent weeks out to sea together, and there'd only been one Cosima.

You'll be fine, she texted back. Put them outside if you have to.

Five minutes later, the line began inching forward, and Sarah replied. Fuck that. I'm going to kill both of them.

Don't. Skype later? Flight's right now.

Before she got a response, the check-in line picked up, and she and Delphine shuffled onto the plane back to Costa Rica.

* * *

Twelve hours later, they finally collapsed onto a hotel bed in Limon, their luggage dropped carelessly at the foot of the bed, medical equipment set a bit more carefully upon the luggage rack.

“Tomorrow's better,” Cosima murmured. “Fuck today.”

Delphine didn't respond, but turned her head to look at Cosima. They'd visited Erika Maria Santos in the hospital, long enough to determine that she was stable and for Delphine to show the staff her medical credentials. They would return the next day to begin treatment.

“I don't think the doctor had any idea what you were saying there towards the end,” Cosima said. “I think half of it was in French.”

“Probably.” Delphine couldn't remember what she'd said, either, but it was enough to convince the doctors to let her come back tomorrow. Rolling over, she scooted towards Cosima and wrapped an arm and a leg around her. “I was hoping we could begin treatment today, though.”

Cosima dropped a light kiss onto her nose. “Yeah, but if you’re too tired to figure out how your phone works, you probably shouldn't be sticking needles in someone's uterus.”

“Mmmf.” When she closed her eyes, Delphine saw Erika Maria on her hospital bed, hooked up to a nasal cannula, heart monitor, neural electrodes, and kidney dialysis. The yellowish tinge on her skin indicated liver problems, as well. The only other patient she'd seen with such an advanced case had been Jennifer Fitzsimmons. At least Erika Maria hadn't her lost her hair; it lay in dark, matted clumps around her head and shoulders. She wore traces of makeup that no one had bothered to wash off since her arrival. She could have been Cosima.

That was the thought Delphine couldn't shake. It could have been Cosima dying there, her body turning violently against her, her family more than a country away. No, she thought, Cosima would have had her family there, just not her parents. Her sisters would have been there. Siobhan would've been there. She tightened her arm around Cosima's midsection and pressed her face into the crook of her neck. Cosima smelled like stale sweat and public bathroom soap, but that was all she smelled like. There was no blood, no bile, no hospital sanitation odors to be found. A moment later, Cosima shifted and took a deep, untroubled breath, and Delphine sighed against her skin.

“Are you gonna fall asleep like that?” Cosima asked.

“Maybe.”

A silent laugh shook Cosima's body. “You'll be uncomfortable when you wake up.” She reached a hand around to unhook Delphine's bra through her shirt, then wiggled her hand under Delphine's twisted torso to undo her belt, rather a more difficult feat from this angle. “Come on, roll over. Let's get you undressed.”

Delphine smirked as she rolled onto her back. “If that's your idea of a come on...”

In response, Cosima reached up under Delphine's shirt and pinched the underside of her right breast, making her squeak and jerk up from the bed. With a pretend scowl, Delphine propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at Cosima, who gave her a pointy smile from her position above Delphine's hips.

“You look a little more awake now,” Cosima commented, unfastening Delphine's pants and tugging down a bit to kiss her right above her pubic hair, then dropping light kisses up to her navel. Delphine whined and fell back onto her back.

“Barely.” She stroked her hand over Cosima's hair. She wanted to undo the bun Cosima'd had her dreads in all day, but she lacked the energy. If Cosima tried going down on her now, she would probably just fall asleep.

Luckily, Cosima saw the same eventuality. Nudging Delphine to raise her hips, she pulled Delphine's pants down and off, and folded them neatly beside their suitcase. She needed more help to get Delphine's shirt off, but within a few minutes she had Delphine in nothing but her underwear. Once her work was done, she sat several inches away, looking down at her with that side smile of hers. Delphine tried meeting her eyes, but her eyelids kept closing. Soon, Cosima was tucked a blanket up around her shoulders, though Delphine didn't remember getting under the covers.

“You'll be here in the morning,” Delphine murmured.

“Yes, I will, love.” Cosima kissed her and stroked her cheek. “I promise.”

* * *

They gave Erika Maria the first treatment early the next day. She had woken up long enough to be introduced to Delphine and to consent to the treatment. Her friend Marta was there for part of the day, holding her hand and reading to her from a trashy romance novel they both loved, while Delphine and Cosima sat nearby and monitored her progress.

“Will she be okay?” Marta asked.

“Sí,” Delphine assured her. “The treatment's had a 100% success rate so far.”

As a scientist, Cosima worried about claiming such a high rate, but she knew it was true. After all, the only two subjects who'd been treated after showing serious symptoms were her and Charlotte, and they were both fully recovered. Thinking of Charlotte reminded her of Sarah's text the morning prior. Once she and Delphine made sure Erika Maria wasn't having any immediate reactions to the treatment, they headed out into the city, and Cosima texted Sarah back.

Skype tonight?

Sarah replied much later in the day, after Cosima and Delphine had strolled through most of the town and bought a few souvenirs to send back to Toronto. YES, Sarah said. Please.

“Uh oh.”

Delphine looked back at her from the rack of skirts she was looking at. “What's the matter?”

“Sarah's struggling with the girls. I'll Skype with her tonight.”

“Mmm. Sarah's not used to being a full-time mother.” She turned back to look at the skirts, so Cosima couldn't see her face, but her tone was neutral.

“I guess not. She's doing her best, though. Probably doing better than I would be in her position.”

“Did she get the presents you sent?”

“I guess so. She didn't say.” Charlotte's birthday had been a week earlier, and Cosima had sent her a small gift from Brazil as well as a large rock collection from an online science store. It was Charlotte's first birthday with her clone family, and Cosima felt bad being away for it. The least she could do was send her a nice birthday present.

That night, Delphine settled onto a chair on their third-floor hotel balcony with a novel and Cosima's shawl wrapped around her shoulders while Cosima Skyped her sister back in Canada. While she waited for Sarah to answer, Cosima watched Delphine stretch and prop her slender feet onto the rain-spattered-railing.

The computer blooped and bleeped, and Sarah's face appeared on the screen. “Hey, Cos. What country are you in now?”

“Costa Rica. We've been bouncing around a lot recently, though.”

“Recently?” Sarah asked. “Since you left Canada you've been bouncing around a lot. You and Delphine aren't sick of each other yet, are you?”

“No.” She glanced back at her girlfriend on the balcony and smiled. “No, I don't think we're in much danger of that right now. Still very much in love.”

“Good.” Sarah sighed and leaned back in her chair. She was sitting in the kitchen of her house, and behind her Cosima saw the drawings from the girls, mostly Kira, she suspected, on the refrigerator. “How's everything else?” she asked. “You curing a lot of sisters?”

“Yup. Eleven vaccinations, one treatment. The girl we saw today was in pretty bad shape. Worse than I was, but she'll be okay now.”

“You're saving lives out there, Cos.”

“Yeah.” Cosima grinned at that. “Yeah, we are. But tell me what's going on with you.”

Sarah pushed her hands through her hair and looked past the laptop, then shook her head. Dropping her voice a bit, she said, “Charlotte's not doing well.”

“No? What's wrong?”

“I dunno. Hormone stuff, maybe, but I think it could be more than that. Kira's being a little brat, too, so that's not helping.”

Cosima nodded sympathetically. Kira was nine now, nudging up into puberty, and Cosima suspected that some of the hormone treatments she'd gotten at Dyad still had lingering effects. Charlotte was eleven. Just before they left, Art told them that Charlotte had started her period, but she didn't want anyone to know about it. Cosima remembered well how she'd felt at that age, when a slight correction from her mother could send her running away sobbing and slamming doors.

“Thanks for the presents, by the way,” Sarah went on, but Cosima caught a note of something other than gratitude in her voice.

“Did Charlotte like them?”

“Well, she liked the wooden puzzle thing and the map of the Amazon.”

There was a pause, so Cosima prompted, “and the rock collection?”

Sarah sighed again. “When she opened that, she ran up to her room crying and didn't come down for the rest of the day.”

“Oh, shit.” As soon as she heard that, it made sense. Charlotte had loved her rock collection on the island, when Cosima first met her and she was living with Susan Duncan, but she wasn't able to bring it with her when they left. The gift had been meant as a replacement, but now Cosima could see that it was a reminder of what Charlotte had lost.

“Yeah, I dunno. She hasn't looked at it since. I thought about sending it back, but I figured I'd talk to you about it first.”

“Don't send it back. Give her a little time. Maybe put it somewhere she can't see it, but she knows where it is. If she doesn't want it in a couple of months, we'll find someone else who does. It's okay.”

“Yeah.” Sarah smirked then. “Maybe I'll give it to Helena. She can give the boys fancy rocks to play with instead of regular ones.”

“There you go. Great plan.”

Sarah picked up a mug and looked into its depths before speaking again. “Charlotte wants to live with you. She's said that a couple of times. She's gotten Kira saying that she wants to live with you, too, a couple times.”

“Really?” Cosima looked around the hotel room. It was nice, though not as nice as the price would suggest, and small. When they showered, the entire bathroom floor got wet no matter how careful they were, but it did have a nice heated towel rack. Regardless, it was a fine room for a pair of love-struck scientists on a mission, not for an eleven-year-old. “Charlotte knows that Delphine and I aren't really living anywhere right now, right?”

“Oh, yeah, she knows. She wants to be out traveling with you two, instead of stuck here, going to middle school orientation next week.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, nobody likes middle school. She's got a lot to be nervous about.”

“She doesn't have to yell at me about it, though.”

Charlotte yelling was a difficult picture to imagine, but she took Sarah's word for it. “Maybe we can Skype with her. We're heading back to Brazil tomorrow afternoon, so maybe the day after that?”

“Sounds good to me.”

After closing Skype, Cosima stepped out onto the balcony. “¿Todo bien?” Delphine asked.

“Mmm... Charlotte says she wants to come traveling with us.”

“Please don't tell me you told her yes.”

Leaning against the railing, Cosima took Delphine's big toe between her thumb and forefinger and gently wiggled it. Delphine's feet were just as graceful as her hands; she was the only woman whose toes Cosima enjoyed sucking on. “I did not. Don't worry. I would be happy to have her once we've settled down and cured everybody, but until then...” She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

“No, it's not.” Delphine closed her novel and set it in her lap as Cosima moved on to wiggle each of her toes in turn, then ran her thumb up the sole of each foot, firmly enough not to tickle.

“Whatcha thinkin' about?” Cosima asked.

“After we've cured everyone. What we'll do then.”

“Yeah?” Cosima moved her hand to Delphine's ankle, stroking the tendon above her heel up to the lower part of her calf. Delphine was wearing a long flowy skirt, and in this position, Cosima could reach over and reveal most of Delphine's legs with just a flick of her hand. She held back, for now. “What about that?”

She propped her head in her hand and watched Cosima play with her feet some more before answering. “We'll have to get real jobs. Every time I start working on my CV, it's gets too complicated, so I stop.”

Real jobs. Cosima had not thought about getting a real job since she left Dyad. Staying alive, finding a cure, finding Delphine, and caring for her sisters had always been more important. She didn't really want to start thinking about it now, either, so she slid her hand farther along Delphine's calf. “We've got time later to worry about that.

“Yes, I know.” Delphine sucked her lower lip in between her teeth and worked on it for a moment. “We could live together,” she said.

Even just hearing her say those words made Cosima's heart melt. A smile spreading across her face, she said, “We could. I was kind of hoping that we would, actually. I don't know where we'll be, but I want us to be together.”

Delphine's large dark eyes softened, and she took her feet from the damp railing to lean towards Cosima. Taking her by the waist, she tilted her head up to kiss her, then pulled her down into her lap. Cosima pushed her fingers through Delphine's still-damp curls and tasted the residue of the beer they'd had with dinner on Delphine's tongue. “Come on,” she whispered, “there's a bed inside that's a lot more comfortable than this chair.”

#orphan black fanfiction #post-canon #cophine

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