Chapter Text
1.
So.
The weather's taking a turn for the really-goddamn-cold early this year, and Santana thinks about quitting the Cheerios at least five times a day because really, there is no way to keep warm in just a tiny-ass skirt and skimpy spanks. Quinn's forbidden them from wearing tights even to practice, which is like-she's not even captain, but whatever. Santana concedes that they might as well get used to it, because it's not like the games are going to be taking place indoors, either.
By the middle of October, they've set up some electric storage heaters in the locker room and pile around them like puppies when they get inside. Post-practice turns into sort of an impromptu massage hour until they're all off either home or to glee practice; the cold is hell on their muscles, and it's necessary, but when Quinn first brings up the idea of just giving each other massages now that the budget doesn't cover massage therapy anymore, some part of Santana expects that shit to get really awkward really quickly.
Of course, she completely underestimates Quinn, who (while rubbing her shoulders) gives everyone else some really acerbic speech about how being gay isn't the same thing as being a predator.
"Yeah, she's not Puck," Brittany chimes in from where she's stretching her hamstrings out, at which point the entire locker room just starts bitching about what a dick Puckerman is.
After that, the first of her last two semesters is just a collection of routines; Cheerios and massages first, then back to glee to work on a few numbers for sectionals, but they pulled that bracket with the deaf school again and so nobody (not even Rachel) is freaking out about their chances. Instead, they mostly are just testing the waters with their new members-a bunch of freshmen recruited by Mr. Schue in preparation of most of the club graduating at the end of the year.
The freshmen are just such fucking babies. The old New Directions all stare at them with horror until Rachel pulls some unexpected team spirit from nowhereand welcomes them all to the choir.
"You're not going to get solos this year; first of all, seniority is important for both the chances of the club at competitions and the overall morale of those of us who started this club up from the ground. Secondly, your vocal chords are not yet done developing so you will thank me years from now for not allowing you to over-exert yourselves. That said, we are very happy to have you as backup singers," she says, somehow making that sound like it's praise. Either way, the guppies buy into it. Santana swears two of the new girls actually worship the ground Rachel walks on.
They've come a long way, somehow. All of them.
...
Part of 'coming a long way' involves Kurt being a pain in the ass about homo-inclusion.
He corners Santana by her locker, giving her a brief once-over, and says, "You are possibly the only well-dressed lesbian I've ever met. What's your secret? You owe it to the community at large, as well as my eyes, to share."
"No secret; just a question of taste," she responds, shoving at the contents of her locker again. Her Bio textbook keeps falling out of her locker, which is still crammed full of things like spare outfits and study notes for the SAT. She just can't bring herself to clean it out; that day is coming soon enough. "What's up, Lady Di?"
"Just wanted to see when a good day for GSA meetings would be for you," Kurt says, breezily.
She doesn't really know why she spasms at the words; it's not like she's not super-out (like really, if there was such a thing as medalling in being out, she'd be scooping up at least a bronze by now) but she's also not really political about the whole thing. Nor is she active. Since Brittany-
She shoves at her books again and they relent, disappearing further to the back. The locker's slammed shut a moment later, and then she gives Kurt a slightly displeased look. "I thought we were past needing that. Queerios, and all that shit."
"The Cheerios will disappear with you," Kurt says, crossing his arms. "I'm sure it's occurred to you that our chances of finding another lesbian to captain are nil in this town. There isn't much of a legacy to create there."
"What about winning Nationals isn't a legacy, exactly?" she asks sharply, also crossing her arms.
Kurt sighs. "Santana-I'm thinking about the rest of the school. Karofsky won't be the last bully to parade around these halls, and I won't be the last boy with impeccable fashion taste to be tossed into a dumpster every day either, unless we do something."
"Yeah, well, suit yourself, Hummel. I think I've done enough for one fucking year," she says, when he stares at her for a few seconds too long.
...
Two days later, one of the new meat in New Directions comes and stands behind her when she's busy packing up their sheet music for the week and clears her throat gently. It's some girl - Ashley, Ashlyn, she has no idea - who looks like she's going to faint as soon as Santana turns around and actually looks at her.
"Yes?" she drawls out slowly, when the girl just won't stop staring at her with Pillsbury eyes.
"I just-I wanted to say that I think you're really awesome," the girl says, haltingly. "And that-I mean, you're the only … you know..."
It's almost impossible not to crack a smile, but somehow she manages; she has a reputation to keep up, for God's sake. "No, I don't know. So how about you come back and tell me when you've learned to develop your ABCs, or whatever."
The girl blushes, but doesn't run off like a scared little bitch, to her credit. "You're the only like... gay girl," she says, almost in a whisper, "that I know. And you're-I mean, everyone loves the Cheerios, so that's really kind of amazing. Especially here."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever." She doesn't point out that a lot of people actually hatethe Cheerios now, or that at the end of this discussion lies only the Road Most Slushied; fuck, she's not made of stone.
"Was it hard? To tell people?" the girl asks, softly.
"No," Santana lies, because Ashley or Ashlyn or whatever will find out for herself soon enough.
...
She finds Kurt twenty minutes later and says, "I'll do it, but it better not turn into some pathetic one on one counselling session with like, those two queerer-thans we have in glee now."
Kurt smiles. "There will be plenty of people present, don't worry."
...
He's not lying. Next Thursday, the choir room is full of most of glee club. Quinn and Brittany are playing with a rubber band near the back; Mercedes is texting someone (probably Kurt, even though he's five feet in front of her); Mike and Tina are talking to some boy that Santana can only think of as baby Kurt; and Ashley-or-Ashlyn is sitting next to Rachel, who is probably giving her an impromptu lecture on nurturing the glottal voice (or what the ACLU can do for her-it's hard to guess.) Finn's at the back, looking equal parts confused about what is going on and bored.
Kurt pulls up two stools near the front and gestures for Santana to sit down on one of them. She can't really roll her eyes enough, but then sort of lamely sinks down onto it anyway.
"We need a name," Kurt says, when everyone looks to the front expectantly. "Santana here has some … objections to calling it a Gay Straight Alliance, for reasons she will now explain."
"It's a dumb fucking name for a group that's not just for gays, or for straight people," she says, when all eyes are on her. Everyone murmurs for a moment, and then she adds, "I mean, everyone thinks I'mgay but that's just what other people call me. I don't really know if it's what I would call myself."
"Even though I myself proposed forming a GayLesbAl with Kurt two years ago, I would actually like to go on the record to say that I have changed my mind. Labels are very limiting," Rachel chimes in, after clearing her throat. "Studies have shown, actually, that developmentally, most of us will not be sure of our ultimate sexual orientations until we are well within our twenties. And I for one have no intention on closing a door that is intended to be open."
Kurt exhales audibly. "Thank you, Rachel. Your desire to be a part of all minorities all at once is, as always, inspiring."
The rubber band that Quinn and Brittany are playing with snaps audibly when Quinn sits up and says, "I'm obviously here to represent the straight part of the alliance, regardless of what we call it, but maybe Santana has a point. Calling it a GSA is about as sensible as clinging to a celibacy club in which all the members except me are having sex."
Miniature Kurt raises his hand tentatively. "How about we call it the Gender and Sexuality Alliance?"
It's not the worst idea, and a quick show of hands approves it.
"Excellent," Kurt says, taking out an incredibly small notebook and jotting down a few notes in it. "Now, for the sake of demonstrating that this is going to be an open space, I think we should all say a few words about why we're here."
"You made me come," Santana says, when he raises his eyebrows at her and motions for her to proceed. "No, seriously. That's why I'm here."
Kurt rolls his eyes excellently and then points at Tina. "Go ahead."
"Two of my closest friends are … gay," she says, after hesitantly glancing at Santana. "It would be great if people at this school would stop caring about that so much, and if they could just have normal lives."
Kurt nods and writes something else down; Santana looks at Mike, who shrugs and says, "I still remember everyone on the team calling me a fag when I first joined glee, and even though I'm not, it still sucked pretty hard. So, I'm here for support, I guess."
Miniature Kurt takes a deep breath when Santana levels a look at him, and then says, linking his fingers together over his crossed knees, "This may surprise all of you, but despite my outward heterosexual demeanor, I'm really gay."
The entire room bursts out laughing, and the meeting immediately takes on a different note, even though what people are saying is no less important. Quinn subconsciously fingers the cross around her neck when she talks about acceptance and who her real friends are, but her eyes drift between Kurt and Santana and she sounds like she means every word.
Finn awkwardly says, "Um, you're like, my brother now. So I'm here for you and stuff." It's almost sweet, and Santana knows Kurt looks faintly pleased. Mercedes just says, "I'm down with the gays. It's all good as far as I'm concerned" and goes back to her BlackBerry without even glancing up.
Santana takes a deep breath and then looks at who's next in line, willing herself not to look too interested in whatever Brittany is going to say.
"I love boys, but I also really like sweet lady kisses," Brittany says, at her nod, before looking at Santana in confusion. "So I guess that makes me gendered, right?" Quinn leans in to whisper something in her ear, and then Brittany laughs. "Oh, okay."
Santana's stomach flutters at that for just a moment, but then she looks at little Ashley/Ashlyn, who stares straight back at her and says, "I like girls. Exclusively."
"Whatever," Santana says in response, but in a fairly mild tone of voice; the girl sort of half-grins at her and then Santana looks at Rachel. "In five sentences or less, Berry; if Kurt's hand falls off from trying to write down your blabbering, Blaine might cry."
Rachel looks incredibly affronted, but then straightens and says, "I love the gay community, and the gay community loves me, what with my astounding knowledge of Broadway musicals. It has already become clear to me that when my future career takes off, I'm destined to date hundreds of gay men before finally finding someone who shares my interests and wants to have sex with me. I may not have any current desire to sleep with women myself, but that does not negate that I feel like I am among family here. … there, three sentences."
Santana tries not to laugh at the deadly serious look on her face, but then Rachel catches her eye and they end up chuckling at each other.
Kurt scribbles furiously but then sits up and says, "Thank you, everyone. Now-does anyone have anything they want to talk about in particular today?"
...
The meeting disbands a quick fifteen minutes afterwards, when nobody seems to have any pressing issues, and Kurt looks incredibly pleased about it.
"There, sugarplum; that wasn't quite the root canal you were expecting, was it," he says to Santana, when everyone is filing out.
She still doesn't really get the point, but he's right-it wasn't as bad as she was expecting, and maybe something good will come out of it for those two baby geeks.
...
She and Brittany go out ice-skating together shortly before Thanksgiving.
It's sort of a tradition, or maybe a Cheerio thing, because Quinn is also a beast on skates-but really, this is something that's always been about the two of them. The fact that they didn't do it last year was equivalent to being shot in the chest, really, and so when Britt shows up with skates draped around her neck and says, "Come on, please?", Santana can't really see any reasons to say no.
Brittany's amazing on ice. Or well, on her legs, period. Santana knows she looks like a fucking fool next to her, but it's fine, because somehow they end up having fun together. She goes and gets them peppermint cocoa when Brittany's trying to do a triple Axel for the fourth time, and they drink it while huddling next to each other-just like old times, really, except without any of that worried, nervous bullshit from before: what if someone notices there's something going on between us?
"I loved you a lot, you know," Brittany says, unexpectedly. Santana's heart twinges at the past tense, but then Brittany sighs and says, "I mean, I still do, but sort of like I love Quinn. Although Quinn doesn't know what I mean most of the time, and you do, so I guess it's not like Quinn."
"I know what you mean," Santana says, softly. Their hands gravitate together almost naturally, and even though they can't link pinkies with Brittany's mittens on, their palms press together. It's a new thing, and maybe that's not a bad thing either.
"Yeah, see?" Brittany agrees. "Quinn totally wouldn't. She's not as smart as you are, I guess."
Santana smiles unwillingly and uncaps her cocoa, blowing on it gently.
"It would mean a lot to me if you could, you know, talk to Artie sometime," Brittany says softly, just moments later. "It's not his fault that I made you talk about feelings and things got weird after that."
The cocoa burns her bottom lip when she drinks it too quickly, but Brittany's mitten tightens on her hand for a moment, and the look on her face is serious.
"I mean it, San. It really sucks that my best friend and my boyfriend can't be in a room together. Because it's like, I'm always going to need two rooms, and I can't ever be exactly where I want to be, and not just because it's really hard to get a wheelchair up stairs by yourself."
She wonders when, or how, exactly, she missed Brittany growing up this much. It's a lot to take in, but the look in Britt's eyes is pretty much the same it's always been-a little bit of admiration, a lot of uncertainty.
"I'll try, okay?"
"And will you come visit, in Boston?"
Santana's chest turns on itself at the idea of being in Artie and Brittany's apartment, which will be full of shit they have done together and like, ramps, model buildings and dancing trophies, but she swallows hard and says, "Only if you come and see me and Q in New York."
"Totally. You know how I feel about apples," Brittany says, serious as she's ever been.
Santana can't help but laugh.
...
The feeling that she's finally getting somewhere with Britt again has her in a good mood until Thanksgiving-well, at least until her mother pulls her aside two days before the big day and somewhat haltingly explains that she's going to be alone for it. Again. (She's stopped keeping track, but it's definitely not the first or the fifth time.)
"However, I've spoken to your friend Rachel's dads and they are very happy to have you," her mother finishes, tentatively. "I know it's not the same, but-"
It's actually more than she's ever bothered doing before, so Santana heads her off with a grudging, "They're Jewish-do they even do Thanksgiving?"
...
That turns out to be probably the dumbest question she's ever asked; if there was something like Thanksgiving decorations, the Berry house would be covered in them.
Rachel is wearing some sort of feathered headdress when she opens the door and hands her a black and white little head cap thing of some kind, and says, "I hope you don't mind; you strike me more as the pilgrim type."
Santana almost turns around on her heels, but finally just rolls her eyes and says, "I know you're just fucking with me."
Rachel's acting is getting better or something, because she's only about three percent sure that this isn't in fact going to be some sort of bizarre theater reenactment night until she sees that Black Berry is just wearing his I love the Chef apron. He beams at her and says, "Oh, good, you're here - I've attempted some non-vegan gravy to go with the tofurkey, but none of us can taste it, so-"
"I liked you better when you were cloyingly nice all the time," Santana informs Rachel, flicking her in the forehead. "And you look even more ridiculous than you normally do, take that shit off."
Rachel just laughs and, of course, annoyingly keeps on wearing the headdress for at least another thirty minutes.
...
She's not sure why she didn't expect Sam to join them; he came from some sort of boarding school or something (he hastold her where his parents are, she just totally wasn't listening) but it's still a surprise and, honestly, it feels like it might cramp the entire night.
A normal night at Rachel's involves some lame ass boardgames that Santana does not enjoy and then a movie that's usually a little bit better. But when Sam's around, Rachel is a little different-just not as relaxed as she is when it's just her and her dads. Plus, she's like Quinn levels of insanely attentive. (The only good thing about Sam is that he rolls his eyes when she offers to refill his water for the fifth time and goes and does it himself.)
"So, Rachel tells us you two used to date," Berry White says.
It's like spending time at Rachel's is turning her entire fucking family evil or something, because Sam almost chokes on the sweet potato he's trying to process (really, he should be able to chew faster with that vacuum mouth of his) and it's only years of trying not to flinch in the face of Sue Sylvester that stop Santana from giving any sort of reaction.
"I wrote an awesome heterosexual song about his lips. He didn't like it very much," she says, batting at her lips with a napkin.
Sam finally swallows and glares at her. "The awesome song in question was called Trouty Mouth."
Black Berry smothers laughter successfully once, but then can't help himself the second time.
"Whatever, Sam. That shit was amazing, and you know it." Santana says, before glancing at Rachel. "At least it had a point, unlike My Headband."
"I'm sorry - what?" Berry White asks, looking at his daughter. "What's My Headband?"
Sam and Santana finally seem to agree on something when they both look at Rachel and say, "They don't know?"
Rachel tries to stare everyone at the table down, but-nice try, obviously. "I kept my … earlier song writing efforts a secret."
"Oh, God, you guys really need to hear this," Santana says, laughing. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I know all the words because Britt listened to it on repeat for like five weeks when you first uh, 'composed' it."
"Sam-help me," Rachel grits out, but he just laughs and says, "For a change, I think agree with Satan-this is too good to not be shared."
By the end of the second verse Rachel's dads are almost crying with laughter; Rachel's starting to look pretty pissed, though, so Santana pretends she doesn't know the rest of the words and just plates some more tofurkey and mash instead.
"I didn't know you had such strong feelings about headbands, sweetheart," Black Berry says, wiping at his face.
"I thought Thanksgiving was about being grateful," Rachel says, pointedly.
"I think we're all very grateful you wrote that song," Sam replies, still not able to stop from grinning.
Rachel's glare is joined by a pout, and of course that shit works magic on her dads. They're unbelievably wrapped around her fingers, it's crazy that she doesn't take more advantage of it.
"All right, sweetheart, enough," Berry White says, and then looks around the table. "And you're right. Time to be grateful. Let's do it."
Rachel says, "As everyone else is still dying from laughter, I will go first." It sounds so prim that it just sets Santana off into another round of near-giggles. "This year, I am thankful to have friends. Real ones."
The laughter stops almost abruptly; Berry White just says, "Oh, honey" and reaches for her hand across the table. Santana doesn't honestly know where to look, and studiously continues cutting up some of her turkey.
"I'm thankful that Santana bullied me into taking you to prom," Sam says, easily. It's somehow exactly the right thing to say, because it gives her a chance to say, "Just because you're a pushover when it comes to good ideas doesn't mean I bullied you, Frodo", and everyone else to stop thinking about what Rachel said, which was just-too much.
"I'm thankful that that bullying problem at your school seems to finally be under control," Black Berry says, before adding, "And that Matt Damon is finally back to making action movies."
Berry White rolls his eyes and says, "I'm thankful that my lovely husband is finally learning how to do laundry, after twenty or so years..."
Santana knows she's smiling kind of dumbly, but they're just fucking unbelievable. Her own parents are getting better-her dad actually patted her on the shoulder the other day, after they got the invitation to Cheer regionals-but they'll never be like this. It's probably for the best; she barely knows what the fuck to say when they're all looking at her.
"I'm thankful for being both super hot and super smart. It's pretty awesome," she finally says, just because she doesn't have anything sensible to say that she'd be comfortable saying in front of Sam (who is still a little afraid of her, and she'd like to keep it that way) or even Rachel's parents.
"I suppose we should also both be thankful for our plentiful modesty," Rachel says, elbowing her in the side gently.
"I think it's everyone else that should be thankful for that," Berry White says, rolling his eyes.
...
All in all, Thanksgiving at Rachel's is pretty much exactly the weird fucking night she was expecting, but when they're done eating, she can tell that there's a fifth wheel vibe going on and excuses herself almost immediately.
Sam's doing the dishes for a change-which makes fucking sense, better to boss Rachel's boyfriend around than her friends-and so Rachel walks her to her car on the way back. Like, all the way to her car, even though it's about an inch away from the door.
"I meant what I said, you know," she says, leaning against the hood when Santana's fumbling around her purse for her keys. "I never thought I would have actual friends; not after how things started sophomore year, and I guess Quinn and I will never actually get along, but even we're civil now."
Santana unlocks her car quickly and then just sort of sighs. "Look, I don't want this turning into some big thing, but-for what it's worth. I'm fucking sorrywe were all such assholes to you."
"You weren't anywhere near the worst, Santana. Latent anti-Semitism aside," Rachel says, almost casually, but when their eyes meet briefly, Santana feels yet another twinge of guilt. "Besides, I believe I accused you of having the career prospects of a stripper at some point, so..."
"Rach, seriously," she just says, because fuck if she's going to actually start talking about her feelings on Thanksgiving.
"What are you actually thankful for?" Rachel asks, giving her a look when Santana just shrugs. "Come on. It's in the spirit of the holiday..."
Santana takes a deep breath and then says, "The same fucking thing, basically. That... and my parents. You know, giving a shit, for a change."
Rachel's easy smile somehow makes that feel like less of a concession than it actually is. "Okay."
"Yeah, so," Santana says, still incredibly uncomfortable. "You need to get back inside. Wouldn't want the Blowfish to think I'm like, trying to-"
Rachel laughs. "I don't think he's creative enough to come up with any such theories; he's not Puck. Besides, you and Quinn..."
Santana gives her a warning look. "Don't even. You fucking know better."
Rachel just smiles and shrugs. "You're both really attractive. It wouldn't be the strangest thing to ever happen."
"No, that's Puckerman and Lauren Zizes," Santana agrees, opening her door. "Anyway. Thanks for having me. Have fun with Guppy Face. Try to not be swallowed by him."
Rachel rolls her eyes. "Be nice."
Santana doesn't bother pointing out that all she's being is nice these days; it's pretty clear Rachel can see right through her shit, anyway.
...
The damper on Thanksgiving is immediate when she spots a small, curled up blonde figure on her doorstep, and a giant black and red gym bag that looks stuffed to the hilt next to her.
She feels like a giant asshole for immediately assuming Quinn is pregnant again, but like, she can't help the history; and when Quinn won't really explain why she left, but the word homophobe is dropped, Santana can't even really explain how her insides twist uncomfortably.
They're already settled on the sofa with a giant bowl of popcorn and some stupid teen comedy playing in the background when she finally puts her gut instinct into words. "Q-what really happened? Is this about … me, somehow?"
Quinn stiffens almost imperceptibly, but then just reaches for the popcorn again and says, "No. This has just been a long time coming. I don't belong there."
"I can go talk to her, you know, tell her that there's nothing going on with us, I mean, shit, it's not like I'd even be lying," Santana pushes.
Quinn shakes her head. "It wouldn't make any difference, and I'll be damned if you're going over there groveling to her about something that isn't your fault and isn't a problem."
Santana bites down on her immediate response, which is something like, if you're homeless again because I'm gay, problem pretty much covers that shit, but instead just reaches for Quinn's hand and sort of stupidly holds it. "Either way, I'm fucking sorry."
"Me too," Quinn says, shakily, before turning the volume up.
...
Having Quinn at her house is, well, kind of awesome, even though she shouldn't be there. (If Santana ever gets ten minutes alone with either of Quinn's parents, she's pretty sure she'll also end up with a criminal record.)
The original accommodation offer has just stayed in place. Her mother did complain for about five minutes about how Santana can't just start bringing in strays... but parents love Quinn (when she's not carrying their grandchild, anyway), and Quinn has grown up in an almost military-style household regime of doing chores and shit, which parents also love.
By the end of the second week, Santana's mom turns to her and says, "Why can't you be more like your friend?"
"Thanks a lot," Santana grits out at Quinn, who is dusting off their china collection with a look of serious concentration on her face. "Now my mom is going to want me to go all Stepford just because it's your fucking destiny."
Quinn rolls her eyes. "I'm just trying to earn my keep. It's the least I can do. It's awkward enough that I'm here."
"Oh, whatever. You know you're welcome here for as long as you need, honestly. You don't need to run for maid of the year at the same time," Santana points out, before prying the feather duster from Quinn's hands. "This isn't your house, and my parents might be a little … you know, not there, but they're not your parents. Just chill the fuck out already."
Afterwards, Quinn limits herself to cleaning the guest room and doing the dishes, and Santana grudgingly starts wading through the shit in her own room to try and prevent any comparisons between them.
It's like having a sister, which she never really thought she wanted-there's a lot more capital around for only children-but she's not above admitting that it's pretty great now that it's happening.
She tries not to think about how it might only be for a few more months, because Quinn's biting her nails every time the mail comes through, and Santana's optimistic but not stupid. It's great to have Quinn living with her, but the ongoing sleepover they're having is almost definitely putting a lot more pressure on financial aid requirements.
It's fucking awful that this is because of her, rather than anything Quinn's done. It's fucking horrifying, and she has no idea how to go about fixing it.
...
After Q moves in, Puck starts hovering. Not a lot, and Santana doesn't think Quinn has even noticed him doing it, but it's fucking hovering nonetheless.
It's weird, because Puckerman doesn't really hover for anyone.
Santana doesn't like it, and not just because the last time Puck even thought about hovering, Quinn ended up all bunned up. They don't need that shit right now, and even though Quinn seems okay and doesn't really want to talk about her family, she's obviously not okay.
If feeling fat made her sensitive to Puck's bullshit, Santana doesn't really want to think about what feeling parentless will do to her.
Besides, for reasons totally fucking unknown, he's still skirt-chasing Lauren Zizes, who could and would break Quinn in half if she thought anything was going on there.
Q swears there's nothing going on, but Santana knows deflection better than most people; after all, she did spend three years of her life promising the entire fucking world that there was nothing going on with her and Brittany.
...
Of course, then Puck and Quinn go to see Beth together, and Santana feels like a fucking tool for wondering. Not that she'd ever admit that to either of them, but when she's over at Rachel's the next weekend, working on the choreography for one of their new numbers at sectionals together-a really badass cover of More Than A Feeling, with Tina and Puck on lead (with Rachel's blessing, in the spirit of Christmas or something)-it sort of comes up anyway.
"So, Puck wanted to get into your pants at some point, right?"
It's not the most delicate way to ask, and Rachel rolls her eyes. "Puck wants to get into everyone's pants, so yes, I guess mine would be included in that."
"But you guys are friends now; for real," Santana presses. She rewinds the mp3 a few steps and looks at their blocking notes as it plays; mostly just to not look at Rachel.
"Of course. Puck and I have always had a lot in common; we're both Jewish, and ...," Rachel starts to say, and then laughs at herself. "Well, that's it, really, but in this overwhelmingly Christian community, it means I've seen a lot of him, his entire life."
"Right, so, how can you tell if he's trying to get with you or if he's just trying to be like-friendly?"
Rachel, to her credit, clearly knows what's going on, but doesn't point out that this is a conversation Santana should be having with either Puck or Quinn. "He knows how to take no for an answer, Santana. He just doesn't hear it a lot."
The mp3 of their backing track is paused, and Santana sighs. "She's always had a really fucking stupid soft spot for him."
"We all have soft spots," Rachel says, after a moment. "You just have to accept that if the rest of us are getting better at ignoring them, maybe Quinn is, too."
When Sam calls ten minutes later, Santana doesn't even bother to pretend she's not listening in on their conversation; it's nice, and casual, and there's a lot of laughter and really, Santana is glad that her impromptu but masterful scheme from last year seems to be working out okay, but-every time Rachel talked to Finn, she sounded like she was being gutted from the inside out.
It would be nice to think of this as better, but somehow it just feels like less.
It's really not her fucking place to say anything, though, and so she starts the track again, softly, and forces herself to think about how they're ever going to get Finn to do the splits.
...
The bus ride to Sectionals is so much different from the bus ride to Nationals the year prior that it's almost surreal. Quinn and Rachel manage to have an entire ten minute conversation about the best Hitchcock movies without a single scathing response back and forth, and now that Kurt's back, everyone's nails end up looking banging.
Some part of Santana wonders about Veronica McVowel, which is weird because not only was she a senior last year, but they're not even up against Vocal Adrenaline in Sectionals. Kurt catches whatever look she has on her face, though, and just grins and says, "My oh my, someone is thinking this may be an opportunity to hook up."
"Oh, shut up, Kurt," she says.
"Why? Because I'm right? Lord knows we don't get a lot of opportunities to get out of that stupid cow town we live in. You may meet someone civilized, and open-minded. Try not to let it kill you," he says, before gesturing at Mercedes for the next bottle of nail polish.
"You're a single lady; might as well be looking," Mercedes adds, handing over a muted shade of dark purple.
"I'm going to look like I have claws," Santana protests for just a moment, but they both silence her with a look. "Or not."
Quinn glances over from the other side of the aisle and says, "How about a betting pool? Twenty bucks says Santana is going to get some at this competition."
"I'll take that bet," Puck says, turning around and hanging over his seat. "Shit isn't even overnight-I know she's got game, but come on."
He and Quinn exchange a look for a brief moment, and Santana bites out, "Forty bucks says there's something going on with Quinn and Puckerman."
"Not touching that one," Kurt says, before glancing over at Rachel. "What do you think, Rach?"
Rachel continues flipping through her most recent copy of Playbill before shrugging. "I don't spend a whole lot of time thinking about Santana hooking up with people, so I can't say I have any strong opinions either way."
"Thank you," Santana says, before glaring at Puck. "And I could totally pull it off if I wanted to, Puckerman; give me five minutes and a wall to lean against."
Everyone somehow ends up looking at Brittany for confirmation, who looks pensive. "Five minutes is a lot of time. One time-"
"Britt," Santana says, after glancing at Artie, who is doing his best not to look incredibly uncomfortable.
He gives her an almost grateful look when Brittany then just shrugs and says, "Santana's like magic. She can do anything she wants to."
Things just got incredibly fucking awkward really fast, and other than a sharp, second, "Britt", Santana doesn't really know how to back the conversation up to something more normal. It kind of serves all of them right, insinuating she's a big enough ho to just screw some girl at a show choir competition.
"I don't know; she's not the best songwriter, now is she," Rachel says, breaking up the weirdly tense silence.
Santana could kiss her. Well, not really, obviously, but still.
"Are you still pissed that I brought up My Headband in front of your dads?" Santana asks, looking at Sam, who also looks incredibly amused. "God, Rachel, I thought an aspiring Broadway ingénue like yourself would be able to put up with a little constructive criticism."
Rachel gives her a glance that indicates she's mostly kidding, before turning back to Playbill with a huff.
"I love that song," Brittany says, from the back row. "It's seriously the best."
Seconds later, they're all laughing; even Rachel can barely hide a smile.
...
They win, of course; it's not really a surprise. More Than a Feeling goes off like Don't Stop Believing did at regionals their first time, and the crowd is more or less up on its feet. Rachel and Finn follow up with a take on Live To Tell, and Brittany and Mike dance the hell out of Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me, which isn't actually about keeping it in your pants but suits Quinn's voice so perfectly that it's almost like it was written for her.
(Santana pretends not to notice that she's singing it more to Puck than to Kurt, who is her supposed partner for the song-but seriously, her nerves are firing in all directions at whatever the hell is going on with them.)
So what if she didn't have a solo; there's other competitions, and she's basically the best fucking flyer the Cheerios have ever had (she might be captain, but Q's much better at top of pyramid), so maybe it matters more that they collect another massive trophy and Mr. Schue looks like he might start crying at how well they all actually worked together.
"Seriously, guys. I never thought I'd see the day when Rachel was happy singing only one solo, or the day when Brittany actually remembered all the words," he tells them, when they're filing out of the auditorium. "You've come so incredibly far. I almost can't even put into words how proud I am of you, right now."
"Mr. Schue, on behalf of the club..." Rachel starts to say, but is then quickly mobbed by everyone standing around her, who starts groaning.
"Let's go bowling," Finn suggests, and even though it's basically the lamest thing he's ever proposed, they don't really want to split up after the competition.
...
The night ends with a seniors-only sort-of party at Puck's, which is a pretty low-key affair because his mother is insanely paranoid that he's going to knock someone else up, but there's a bottle of schnapps and really, nobody in the glee club is picky.
Even Rachel starts drinking, and Santana almost instinctively reins herself in because with Rachel and Quinn getting their liquor on, there is just no fucking way to tell what is going to happen.
Artie wheels his way around to where she's sitting in the window sill in Puck's basement, and says, "Thanks, for earlier today."
"It's nobody's business. Including yours," Santana says, a little pointedly.
He smiles after a moment and then says, "Brittany assures me that you wouldn't actually try to kick my ass because I'm, you know, in a wheelchair and everything."
"Yeah, I don't beat on cripples. No offense," she says, and wishes she was drinking more.
"So-maybe we could go do something with the three of us, sometime," he says, tentatively.
She looks across the room to where Brittany is dancing with Blaine and Mike and, yep, for sure, there goes her shirt-and she just sort of sighs and says, "Whatever. Maybe. And if I do, it's for her."
Artie nods and then turns around, before frowning. "Is there any way to get her to notdo that? I mean, it was kind of awesome the first time, but I was wasted, and now that I'm not..."
Santana laughs without meaning to. "Not really, no. Good luck, Wheels."
He looks like he's going to say something else, and then sort of blinks twice and says, "Woah, Rachel."
Oh, my fucking God. Santana knows what kind of drunk she herself is-occasionally giggly, occasionally emotional, and occasionally borderline hysterical, but Rachel seems to be veering towards the opposite end of the spectrum-whatever lies beyond stripper drunk.
Sam actually looks like he's being eaten alive, which Santana is pretty sure he's never experienced, what with his expandable jaw. But, someone really ought to go over there and tell Rachel she's basically flashing the entire room.
"Um, you two are friends now, right?" Artie says, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, when Rachel straddles Sam a little further and her skirt shifts up.
Not drinking sucks, Santana decides, before manning the fuck up and heading over there to pull them apart.
Sam actually looks a little relieved when she manhandles Rachel off him, but Jesus, Berry is a touchy-feely drunk, and is now sort of all over her. "Santana!" she exlaims, sounding very excited. "You should join us. We should talk."
"Sure thing, Rach. Just as soon as we go and get you a glass of water," she says, propping Rachel up to the best of her abilities, but like-Rachel is more or less hanging from her neck, and so she just looks around before she spots Puck and then points at Rachel and makes another gesture towards the stairs.
...
Good boy; he knows exactly what she's asking for, and moments later they're in the kitchen. Puck hands Rachel a banana to eat a banana to soak up some of the liquor sloshing around her stomach.
And eat it she does. Enthusiastically.
Puck blinks twice and then says, "That shit should be illegal if it's not a prequel to boning."
"It's obviously not," Santana says, shoving at him. "Go back to your fucking party. I'm keeping her up here until she sobers up."
"You know, I don't have a gag reflex," Rachel informs them, batting her eyes twice.
Santana doesn't know whether to laugh or just make sure Puck disappears before she can continue that line of thinking. "That's great, babe."
"Yeah, Ms. Pillsbury thought so too, but I don't really understand why..." Rachel trails off, before looking at the banana in her hands.
"Fuck. I would seriously hit that if it wasn't for Evans," Puck murmurs, pausing again at the top of the stairs.
"Okay, no. She's hammered. Even you're not that big a dickhead," Santana says, glancing over her shoulder at Rachel, who now seems to be using what's left of the banana as a microphone.
"Nah, I'm just messing-but don't even tell me you wouldn't, either. Look at her fucking legs in that skirt," Puck says, nodding at the legs in question. "And she's a fucking great kisser."
"What's going on with you and Quinn?" she asks him, bluntly, more to get him to fuck off than because she thinks there's actually something to talk about there. Nothing like mentioning the girl he knocked up to cool him down a few degrees.
Of course, her Spidey sense gets a lot more credence when he first looks shocked, and only then thinks to glare at her and head back downstairs.
Well, shit, Santana thinks; and then Rachel falls over somehow, laughing deliriously, and she knows she's got bigger things to deal with right this moment.
...
Rachel finally sobers up three incredibly weird conversations later; something about how many flights of stairs there are in the average building in New York, and something about how she always wished she could have a python for a pet when she was younger, and then finally something about how she suspects Brittany might actually secretly be a genius but like, really secretly.
"I might vomit," she then neatly informs Santana. "It's probably best if we take this to a bathroom."
"I'm not holding your fucking hair back," Santana notes, but when Rachel actually goes a little green in the face, of course she does exactly that.
Rachel spits and rinses a few times and then brushes her teeth with her finger, afterwards, and Santana sits on the edge of the bathtub and tries not to look too smug.
"Better?" she just asks.
"I think I probably would have lost my virginity in public if you hadn't intervened, so, yes. Better," Rachel says, after a moment, before sighing. "I don't think I meant to say that out loud. Am I still drunk?"
"Probably," Santana agrees. "Anyway, don't worry about it. It's not like Sam ever would've let you get that far. I had to basically threaten his junk to get him to-"
"I don't want to know," Rachel says, quickly.
"Okay then."
They're silent for a moment. "Is he any good at it?" Rachel then tentatively asks, still sort of weakly staring at herself in the mirror.
"Uh," Santana says, awkwardly. "Yeah, he's all right."
It's a little bit of a lie, because she hadn't been into it at all, but he'd tried to be all nice and gentle and shit and really, in terms of cashing in the V card, it could be worse. It could be someone like Puck. (Or even someone like her, if she's being honest.)
"I'm not having sex until I'm 25," Rachel says, before rinsing her face with some more cold water. "It just doesn't seem like it's worth it. I mean, look at Quinn."
"Quinn had like, no concept of sex education and let Puck talk her into not using a condom. That shit is never going to happen to you. You probably have some sort of safe sex manual lying around your room for the big day, don't even," Santana says.
Rachel tries to glare at her, but ends up just sort of rolling her eyes and saying, "Nothing wrong with being prepared."
"Nothing wrong with having sex, either," Santana says, raising an eyebrow.
"So you've never regretted it?" Rachel asks, dapping at her face with a towel.
Santana shrugs. "Not really, no..." When Rachel continues to look at her, she sighs and says, "I shouldn't have fucked Finn, okay?"
"It's okay. I mean, it's really okay. I don't care anymore," Rachel says, sounding sincere enough. "Finn and I just always seemed very romantic, you know, the tall, pretty quarterback and the short unpopular girl, but it was a small town fantasy. I have bigger dreams than that."
They're silent for a long moment, until Rachel tries to take a step and wobbles. "I'm going to have to teach you how to hold your liquor before we move to New York," Santana says, trying not to laugh. "Nothing wrong with being horny when you're drunk, but come on, there's a fucking time and a place to put out, Berry."
Rachel blushes heavily and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Mmhmm," Santana says, and then gets up and rummages around Puck's medicine cabinet for an Alka Seltzer. "Here, take that. You'll thank me tomorrow."
...
She's not wrong; Rachel texts first thing the next morning, way too early of course, and says something like I feel less like I'm dying than the last time I drank, which is probably because you were there to make me hydrate and eat something. So: thanks!
She sends back a simple You owe me; next time I'm letting you get date raped.
Of course, then Rachel texts back with Of course you will, Santana. Seriously though, you were a gentleman last night, I really appreciate it.
A gentleman? Santana rolls her eyes so hard she feels something pop in her neck.
...
Quinn's already having cereal when she finally makes her way downstairs; indoor sunglasses are a dead giveaway, and Santana chuckles.
"Sorry I wasn't monitoring your intake last night, you lightweight," she says, grabbing a bowl and having some.
Quinn sort of laughs and groans simultaneously. "Whatever, Berry clearly needed the help more than I did."
"No kidding," Santana agrees, and digs some yogurt up from the back of the refrigerator. When she's mixing everything together, she looks at Quinn and decides that now is as good a time as any to push her on something she isn't going to want to talk about.
"Hey. Is there something going on with you and Puck?" Santana asks, when they're across from each other at the breakfast bar.
If not for the fact that she's known Quinn for almost ten years now, she wouldn't have even picked up on the small twitch in her face; but it's there, and now she knows she's not just imagining things. "No. Other than seeing Beth together. Why?"
"He was eyeing Rachel up last night. He'd totally fuck her if she let him," Santana says, easily enough, but carefully watching Quinn's face anyway.
And there it is-the reaction that nobody who didn't have anything going on would have.
"She has a boyfriend," Quinn says, as casually as she can-so not very casually at all. "And he has Lauren."
"Yeah, and you have common sense and a chastity belt, right?"
Quinn only manages a half-hearted, "Duh", before continuing to spoon up the cereal.
Santana almost feels like an asshole for baiting and trapping her best friend in what has to be a serious moment of hungover weakness, but seriously-if Quinn isn't going to be looking out for herself, someone better take up the job for her.