Glee 1. Chapter 1

**_Italics are in flashbacks and roughly follow season three,_**** normal type is the summer after graduation.**

"_Why haven't we done this before?"_

"_Commit arson?"_

"_No, talk." It was early September and they had the bleachers to themselves. A thin plume of smoke was rising still from the embers of the piano down below, the purple paint cracked and peeling. They sat together, knees and elbows grazing, eyes carefully separate._

"_We do talk, why only this morning I called you Joan Jett's homeless wannabe younger sister. Then yesterday it was Punk Spice, and the day before that -"_

"_That's just you communicating Santana - I mean talking."_

"_Ok you've lost me."_

"_It never did take much."_

"_Shut your cake hole Juno." Reaching over, nimble fingers plucked the cigarette from Quinn's grasp. Hazel eyes travelled from Santana's perfectly manicured (yet short) nails to the indentation the filter end made in her carefully glossed bottom lip. Then for some reason she felt the back of her neck flush and snatched it back, allowing the burn of the smoke to cauterise that dangerous train of thought._

"_Why pink?"_

"_I'm sorry?" Quinn flicked the ash off casually, and Santana was distracted for a moment watching her exhale a perfect smoke ring, which formed a grey halo around the afternoon sun. She wondered idly who had taught her to do that._

"_Why did you dye your hair pink? I mean black is all Goth and daddy issues – I could see that working; blue is just attention seeking – ditto; and I think green would have worked with your eyes, but I'm still working out pink."_

"_It would have worked with my eyes, really? You know if I didn't know you better I could almost mistake that for a compliment."_

"_Don't you dare Fabray."_

"_Of course not. Wouldn't want anyone to think you were capable of feelings."_

"_Are you going to answer the question or just deflect some more?"_

"_It was a political statement, juxtaposing the innocence of childhood and the radicalisation of modern youth culture as a form of rebellion against autocracy and the oppression of our patriarchal society."_

"_What, seriously?" For a moment Santana looked genuinely surprised. Then she caught herself and hitched the familiar scowl into place._

"_No, idiot, I just liked the colour."_

"_Fuck you, Fabray."_

"_In your dreams Lopez."_

* * *

**Summer 2012**

It was all a bit anti-climactic in the end really. Rachel left in typically dramatic style at the beginning of the summer, and in the days and weeks that followed others slipped off quietly, almost like afterthoughts. She had embraced Mercedes at the departure gate, and then held Sam for long minutes after it closed. She'd let Puck kiss her, quick and clumsy, before he boarded the bus - apparently the brilliant business model didn't cover air fares - and waved until it vanished, swallowed up on the shimmering asphalt. She'd even turned up to see Finn off, making stilted conversation with Kurt while Burt held Carole. When the moment came he'd tried to hug her as she held out a formal hand, and she had ended up awkwardly patting him on the back, her fingers brushing against the crisp khaki on his stomach.

Mike was still around though, along with Kurt and all the juniors – seniors now, she reminded herself – and they would wave from across the street, or exchange pleasantries as they waited in line at the mall, all riding the wave that had carried them from Chicago.

Well, all except one. The name that appeared first on her phone when she pressed the number seven, even above Rachel despite the Diva's persistence, from all the times she had dialled it. _This is Santana, which should be kinda obvious seeing as you're the one calling me. Leave a message if you want. _After the second week she had learnt to hang up on the eleventh ring, to save her tariff, and because she knew Santana was stubborn enough that the more messages Quinn left the less likely it was that she would respond.

Besides, there were only so many ways you could phrase _Are you ok? Call me _and she had already exhausted those by the end of the first week. From that point the recordings became more along the lines of _I know you're getting these messages, stop ignoring me bitch_ and _If you don't call me back by Friday I swear to God, Santana, I will call Rachel and tell her you want to be roommates next year._

She had tried ringing Brittany but had no luck there either. This was less surprising though: Brittany went though phones like other people did socks, and barely a week went by without one meeting an untimely end in a duck pond, washing machine, and even one time in the food mixer when she went through a baking phase.

She had given up calling all together eventually, resigning herself to the fact that Santana had the lowest boredom threshold of anyone she knew and that it was only a matter of time before she resurfaced into society one way or another.

It wasn't until the beginning of July however, when summer had truly arrived and the dusty streets lay quiet in the heat that Quinn was rudely awakened by the doorbell at 8am one indistinguishable Wednesday morning. Heaving open her bedroom window, bleary eyed and rape whistle in hand, she peered down at the familiar figure with black hair and obnoxiously oversized sunglasses pushed back onto her head the better to peer though the frosted glass of the front door.

"Well it's about fucking time." Quinn would have been the first to admit that the power of her HBIC glare might have been slightly undermined by her tousled blonde hair and the oversize t-shirt she wore, but she was still surprised when Santana just grunted non-committally and brushed past her into the sitting room.

She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs up underneath her trying to get comfortable on the couch while Quinn paused, arms crossed leaning against the doorjamb.

"Why haven't you answered my messages?" No answer. "What are you doing here? I've known you since we were six and you're never voluntarily awake before eleven in the holidays." Santana was now idly scrolling through channels on screen. "Where's Brittany?"

The other girl tossed the remote away with a huff and finally turned to look at her. "She's on holiday with her parents; camping somewhere in fucking Canada of all places. They left this morning. And the cable's broken at my house. Did I cover everything?"

"No. Why were you ignoring me?"

"Look, if I wanted a lecture then I'd be at home hanging out with my mom and our inferior selection of TV channels. But I don't, and I'm here, so why don't you get your ass over here and we can get our Cartoon Network on, ok?"

For a moment she was tempted to go back to bed, but then her legs carried her across the room and she plopped down on the plush fabric. But this was still her house, so she threw a cushion at Santana's head, just to make her feelings clear.

They were still there when Judy returned that evening; sprawled against opposite arms of the couch, legs criss-crossed in the middle. The click of the front door closing broke through cartoon gunfire, and Quinn sat up abruptly, trying to fix her hair and realising with a shock that it was almost seven o'clock and she wasn't wearing pants. Santana smirked at Quinn's panicked expression and made the blonde girl suddenly wonder exactly how much she had been able to see from her prone position on the couch.

Tugging her t-shit down firmly she shuffled into the hallway to be greeted by Judy's immaculately plucked eyebrows arching in surprise. She knew her mother had been worried about her post baby, post pink hair and post accident, and although she would never admit it longed for her daughter to show some 'normal' teenage problems, because 'normal' anything would still be an improvement on the last three years.

Judy was therefore closer to relieved than angry to see the empty drinks glasses on her antique coffee table and a pair of scuffed converse discarded on her wool carpet, and the corner of her lip very nearly curled at the sight of a dishevelled Santana Lopez emerging yawning and stretching. Relieved because watching television all day was a definite improvement on bedridden and closed off both physically and emotionally, and the Latina was the one person who could reliably either motivate or provoke Quinn out of the brittle shell she had built for herself.

Santana declined an invitation to dinner, and after politely enquiring after Judy's health collected her shoes and let herself out, pausing only to punch Quinn lightly on the shoulder as she passed. Quinn waited until the door swung shut behind her and headed upstairs to take a shower, assuming that would be the end of that.

* * *

**September**

"_Ok. What's your game Fabray?"_

_Santana stood blocking the fire exit at the back of the science block, feet planted, uniform pristine, and HBIC glare firmly in place. When the bell rang at the end of second period Quinn had headed that way automatically, before remembering the flesh coloured patch that tightened and tugged on the skin of her upper arm as she stretched to open a door, and swore under her breath. She had continued that way anyway though, because Rachel had spent the entire class trying to make eye contact with her and Quinn wasn't entirely sure that the singer wouldn't be waiting to ambush her if she tried to head back into the main part of the school._

_Quinn rolled her eyes. "There is no game, Santana, you've just been spending too much time around Coach Sylvester - her paranoia's rubbing off on you. Let me know when you start seeing Viet Cong everywhere, then I'll know she's really got to you."_

_The cheerleader cocked her head to one side and studied the newly restored blonde hair of the girl in front of her. "Don't try and change the subject - we're talking about you here, and Quinn Fabray is many things, but half-assed is not one of them. Now, you even had me convinced with the death metal shirts and 20 a day habit, so you can only imagine my surprise when I heard that you have resumed your long-standing love affair with peroxide and my Grandmother's wardrobe." She paused, and then her eyes widened as a thought struck her. "Oh my God, you're not on crack are you?"_

"_What? No, of course I'm not!" Quinn spluttered and her fingers twitched instinctively towards her bag and the small carton she knew wouldn't be there._

"_Well what did you expect me to think?" Santana snapped reflexively, but then her expression softened. She stepped closer to Quinn, but not before casting a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure they were alone, which made something twist painfully in the other girl's stomach. "Listen, if this is about Berry and the rest of the musical mouth-breathers -"_

"_It's not." It came out sharper than she intended making Santana stiffen, and unthinkingly Quinn grabbed her hand to stop her pulling away. "It's Shelby – well Beth really, but I have to win Shelby over first." _Why am I even telling her this?_ She bit her lip and raised her eyes from their interlocked hands to see an expression on Santana's face that Quinn couldn't quite read._

"_Oh, I err didn't think –..." Santana tailed off. "Well all I was going to say is that you didn't have to change for them. I mean let's face it, if anyone's earned a breakdown it's you."_

_She chuckled despite herself. "Thank you Santana, you really know what to say to a girl huh?"_

_The other girl's lip quirked up but the smile stopped short of her eyes. "Seriously though Q, I know you're completely fine and everything now, but if you ever need not to be... What I'm trying to say is that I'm here for you and shit. You know, if you want." She opened her mouth like she was about to add something else, but then the bell rang shrilly, drowning the words before they could form in the echoing hallway._

_It made them both jump, and Quinn pulled her hand away. Santana jerked her head awkwardly to acknowledge her tight smile before they turned and headed in opposite directions. But it was only with difficulty she refrained from turning to watch Santana walk away. She mentally shook herself and straightened her shoulders, and failed to notice how she used her left hand to push the cool steel handle, instead of her right which was still slightly warm._

* * *

She was wrong. It was Friday when Quinn saw her again, but not until the early afternoon, as suited Santana's normal sleeping pattern. This time when she opened the door (fully dressed), she was greeted by a familiar smirk and an industrial sized bag of popcorn being thrust into her arms.

This time as they settled into a Friends marathon Quinn knew better than to press Santana about her girlfriend, because this was New Quinn, Yale Quinn, and after four years of high school she was done pushing. She was reasonably certain that Santana would tell her in her own time and was for now content to laugh and bitch and pretend they were fifteen again and killing time before school restarted.

It was easier that way, which was probably Santana's tactic all along, she mused taking another sip of the sugary, pink, faintly alcoholic and fruity _something_ that the Latina had produced when Quinn assured her that Judy wouldn't be back that night. There wasn't any alcohol in the house; there hadn't been for exactly 237 days according to the faint pencil marks on the kitchen calendar that Judy thought she hadn't noticed.

So she was taking the high road, playing the long game, whatever you wanted to call it. There was definitely a metaphor – something about a mountain, or a pot boiling – but it slipped away from her as she struggled to identify the overly sweet flavour on her tongue.

"San, what the hell am I drinking?"

"Some cherry vodka crap my cousin left me when he came to visit. You likey?"

"It tastes like a sugar plantation mated with a syrup factory and threw up on my tongue. Apart from that though..."

Santana smirked triumphantly. "You're drunk, Fabray. If only Father Williams could see you now: intoxicated in the middle of the afternoon with a known follower of Sappho."

"Actually I think Father Williams gave up on me right around the time I had sex outside marriage and bore a bastard child." She replied deadpan, taking another sip. "I'll admit this stuff's growing on me though."

"Steady on Q-ball. I hear they frown upon alcoholism in the Ivy League."

"Really? Our sources differ then: I heard it was a requirement for survival. Besides, cherries are an excellent source of vitamins."

Santana considered this for a moment then shrugged. "Whatever you say Einstein. I propose we try and maximise our vitamin intake then. You know, to ward off flu and stuff."

...

Choosing conveniently to ignore the fact that it was the height of summer, as July crept on and the sun beat down mercilessly on the concrete outside they sampled their way through different beverages. Santana was keen to avoid her own house and her all too observant mother, so installed herself instead at Quinn's, which at first glance had barely changed since Russell had left. The devil was in the detail though, in the rails around the bath tub, white on white somehow still managing to stand out, to the shelf in the fridge crammed with carefully labelled orange plastic bottles of pain killers and antibiotics.

Santana would arrive around the same time each afternoon: in the mornings she would run, sweat trickling down her back even as Quinn lay on top of the covers, jaw clenched as she raised her legs to the ceiling, counting down from ten. Every few days she would turn up with a new bottle; a new flavour, from pomegranate and grapefruit ('too sour') to avocado and pumpkin ('That's a vegetable dumbass.', 'Who died and made you the Dalai Lama?', 'What?' 'Oh shut up, you know what I mean.')

They split their time between the couch and the Desperate Housewives box set and the sun loungers on Quinn's back lawn. Judy left on some cruise or other one Sunday, after Quinn insisted that no, she really didn't mind staying, and being reassured by Santana's continued presence and the fact that the relapse that she had feared for her daughter failed to appear.

They talked about everything and nothing, lapsing often into comfortable silence, keeping it deliberately superficial as September loomed on the horizon; the alcohol bridging the gap between facade and sincerity. It also distracted them from the girl who was noticeably absent, although her presence hung over them like a blonde spectre.

It made it easier for Quinn not to feel guilty when Santana leaned over her to reach for a glass, their bodies pressing together for a fleeting instant, or when the bottle of mango flavoured _something_ was more empty than full and she found herself wondering whether Santana was picturing someone else as the other girl rubbed sun cream into the delicate skin of her shoulders.

It melded with the sharp bitter taste in her mouth when Santana saw her in her bikini for the first time and fell uncharacteristically silent as her eyes traced the angry red scars on Quinn's left leg, while the blonde girl turned her head away and tried to force back the sting in the corner of her eyes.

It made it hurt less when the conversation veered too close to risky territory and Santana would close off, becoming suddenly fascinated by the tiny heart dangling from the delicate silver bracelet on her wrist. It would never last long though; she would apologise sort of, brushing her fingers across Quinn's shoulders as she passed to get more ice, or flashing a grin across to her whilst the drama of Wisteria Lane unfolded. Quinn just smiled back, blaming the alcohol and wishing she meant it.

* * *

**October**

_They were at a party. She couldn't remember who's or where; in fact the clearest thing was the red plastic cup in her hand and even that was beginning to look a bit fuzzy. Before the debacle that was her somophore year she'd never been one for drinking, preferring to sip slowly and work the room so no-one could tell she wasn't topping up. She didn't like how it made her tongue feel heavy, like the hands of the jocks who pawed at her clumsily when she lingered too long. She hated how it took away control from her own body, left her feeling like a puppet with someone else pulling the strings._

_But she wasn't that girl anymore, and the worst had already happened so it wasn't as though she had anything to lose. It was an added bonus that somewhere between the fourth and the fifth the burn of liquor on the back of her throat actually became pleasant, even if it meant she had to take breaks climbing the stairs to allow the floor to stop tilting in front of her._

_Taking a firmer grip on the rail she glowered at the carpet pattern on the next step. She had this. Her left foot had barely left the floor when she felt warm breath on the back of her neck and strands of black hair tickled her jaw. Santana._

"_Hey. I hope you weren't sneaking off without me."_

_Quinn shivered at the throaty chuckle that sounded against her neck and her knuckles whitened on the banister as a pair of hands slipped under the flimsy material of her top and began tracing patterns on the soft skin of her stomach. It was a warm night and most people had moved outside, leaving them alone in the semi-darkness on the stairs. The muffled bass from the stereo was thudding in her head and the streetlamp outside the landing window cast flickering shadows on the wallpaper._

_She knew what was happening, and vaguely what she should say to stop it but the words kept slipping away though the alcohol induced fog inside her head. Every time they rose in her throat she was distracted by the kisses falling in a line down the tendon on the side of her neck. Fingers brushed against the lace at the bottom of her bra whilst others plucked teasingly at the elastic on her skirt._

It's not you she wants_._

"_St- Stop." It took her two attempts to get the words out._

"_What's up baby?" The hands didn't move, just tightened, pulling their bodies closer so she could feel the other girl's breasts pressing into her back._

"_It's not - it's me. Quinn. I'm not... her." Her voice quivered and she bit her lip hard. Tensing as she spoke she gripped the rail harder. She felt something crumple inside her as the words left her mouth, not expecting how much it cost her to put a stop to this, however wrong it was. A part of her didn't want to; just needed someone to look at her the way she knew Santana had been only moments before. The way she looked at the other blonde – the one who she had mistaken Quinn for in the dark._

_She felt the other girl freeze behind her, and tanned hands tightened on her waist leaving tiny crescent imprints on her pale skin to match the ones on Quinn's palm. Quinn squeezed her eyes closed until it hurt and drew in a ragged breath counting slowly. When she reached ten and turned around she was alone in the dark and Santana had gone._


	2. Chapter 2

**Same as before basically italics=flashbacks, you get the idea...**

"Well I'm no expert, but it would appear that stargazing is difficult when they're all hidden behind a massive fucking cloud."

"Why do you always have to be so negative?"

"Just keeping it real. It's one of my many charms."

It had been Quinn's idea and they had driven a short way out of town as the sun was setting, but unfortunately she hadn't factored Ohio's weather patterns into the equation. Santana in a fit of generosity had offered to drive, saving Quinn the admission that although she was walking again and ostensibly healed, it would be a long time before she got behind the wheel again. Amy Winehouse blared from the speakers and she focussed on Santana's voice crooning out the lyrics to distract from the way her white knuckles clenched the door handle.

Now they were lying on the warm hood of the car with the baseball bat that Santana had insisted on bringing lying between them.

"Santana you wouldn't know what charm was if it hit you in the face wearing one of Mr Schue's sweater vests." Quinn responded dryly, eyes fixed on the overcast sky.

"What and you would? Please, you used to be an even bigger bitch than me. Next you'll be telling me Finn and Sam were with you for your personality."

Quinn considered for a moment, ignoring the gibe. "Finn definitely wasn't, but maybe Sam. Anyway you can't talk – at least I never slept with either of them. Or gave anyone mono."

Santana scowled and pushed herself up on her elbows. "Hey, I never did the dirty with Evans. Never even saw him much actually; there's only so much comic book talk I can take."

Quinn chuckled. "Yeah, that was the reason."

"Shut up." When Quinn remained silent she continued. "Well, it wasn't like you were in love with him yourself or anything though."

"I liked him. He didn't cheat on me and he looked at my face when he was talking to me, which is more than can be said for the others."

Santana laughed softly. "Not exactly the stuff of epic romance though is it: Romeo and Juliet and the time he took her to breadstix on two-for-one Wednesdays?" But then she turned suddenly serious. "Did you love Puck?"

The blonde girl paused before speaking. It was a question she had asked herself many times, but without ever coming any closer to an answer. "I was attracted to him. I remember the first time I saw him properly; there was something about the football pads and the swagger and the mohawk. It was the first Cheerios practice and the football team were on the field. He got past Karofsky, Azimio and Matt and scored a touchdown, and celebrated with pelvic thrusting and an attempt at a kung fu kick. I don't know what that says about me, but I definitely felt... _Something._ Sleeping with him was a mistake and I didn't like the person he was turning into, but when I saw him at the hospital, and how he was with Beth... I don't know, I think maybe I could have loved him – there were times when I thought I was falling for him. The timing was never right though; we always just seemed a bit out of sync, if you get what I mean."

"You would know though right? If you loved him you'd be able to tell; I mean it's not the kind of thing that could happen to you and you wouldn't notice."

"Santana?" Quinn sat up fully this time and studied her friend carefully, worried about where this was going. The other girl was deliberately not looking at her, focussing on a point over her left shoulder. She had been waiting for her to open up ever since they had started hanging out again, but Santana seemed to be going off piste a bit.

Santana began talking, still avoiding Quinn's gaze and waving her arms vaguely for emphasis. "The thing is, when people talk about love they make it sound like getting hit with a brick wall. Like one minute everything's normal and _safe_ and then, just, BAM, you know, it all changes like someone whacking you over the head with a sledgehammer. No-one ever talks about there being this weird bit in between where maybe you _love _someone, but is that the same as being _in love_ with them? What if you're not sure, or if there's been one person for so long that you just sort of go along with it because its natural progression? Or maybe it just depends on the person, like natural variation or something. Does it even count if it sort of creeps up on you, grows gradually, until you're not really sure where you stand anymore because you're definitely not where you started, but you don't remember arriving anywhere else, and you're just stuck in limbo with no idea what the fuck is going on?"

As she finished she turned the full force of her gaze on Quinn, who saw that she was biting her lip and her breathing was uneven.

Quinn had no idea what to say. "Brittany loves you." She managed weakly.

"I know. But I was still her second choice." She had to strain her ears to catch the last bit as Santana's voice dropped to a whisper. As though realising she had said too much she slid down off the hood and walked around to climb into the car. As Quinn rose slowly to follow her it started to rain.

* * *

**November**

_The weather had turned cold suddenly that week, as the onset of November brought with it wind that gusted dead leaves in flurries along the streets, and Quinn waited for the storm to break. She didn't know exactly what had happened between Santana and Finn that Halloween afternoon, but the harsh _crack_ that had resounded in the auditorium and the whispers that echoed off the tiles in the girls' bathrooms told her all she needed to know. _Trick or Treat_._

_The next few days were like the calm before the storm: Santana walked the hallways with a glare as fierce as any Quinn had seen, snapping at those who dared to make eye-contact like she didn't know it was already too late; the cracks showing more with each passing day for those who could see. Brittany was by her side constantly, but although Santana seemed reassured by her presence it only intensified the hushed muttering that dogged her footsteps. Finn blustered to anyone who would listen that she had insulted him first; that he hadn't meant for this to happen, but among the New Directions it fell mostly on deaf ears: Quinn saw Kurt storming away from him outside the cafeteria, and despite her public support of her boyfriend even saw Rachel chewing her lip nervously and looking horribly close to guilty as she watched Santana pass in the corridors._

_Then the commercial aired, and what had before only been gossip and speculation was suddenly out in the open in all its sordid glory. The glances grew bolder, lingered longer, while the background whispers grew in volume from muffled insults to open intimidation. Then came 'Lady Music Week', and Finn completely missed her eye roll, Kurt's expression of disbelief, and the ripening bruises on the knuckles of Puck's right hand._

_But then Santana surprised her. Quinn, who had been waiting for all hell to break loose, expecting (and maybe a little bit hoping) that Santana would punch him in the face, instead watched with a mixture of disquiet and bemusement as Santana embraced her sexuality in front of the assembled Glee clubbers and Finn's unbearably smug expression._

_So putting aside the supportive 'yay gay' speech she'd had prepared she settled instead for hugging the other girl tightly as they reached the parking lot. "You know I'm here for you and shit, right?" she'd murmured into Santana's ear as they broke apart, and wished her luck before watching her walk away and entwine her fingers with Brittany's._

_She drove home that day and told herself that she was underestimating Santana, and that even if Santana_was_ less than fine it was Brittany's place, not hers. She was with Brittany._

_Her newfound reassurance lasted until exactly 8:49pm that evening when Santana arrived on her doorstep; ashen faced with red-rimmed eyes and all attitude and bravado stripped away. It was like she crumpled the second she stepped over the threshold, and all Quinn could do was rub her back, and tie back her hair like she had done a thousand times as Santana emptied the contents of her stomach until there was nothing left and she collapsed sideway; an empty shell. _I'm telling my abuela tonight_._

_She remembered how Santana had glowed that afternoon, compared her to the girl whose tears darkened the fabric of Quinn's pristine white shirt as she shook in Quinn's arms on the cold bathroom floor. She remembered Santana's grandmother: the familiar figure who would collect her from school when they were children and nod approvingly at the crucifix that hung at Quinn's throat even then._

_But she hadn't thought to wonder until later, when the other girl slept fitfully beside her why it was _her_house that Santana had come to, and despite her being exhausted the sky was tinged red by the time she finally managed to fall asleep._

* * *

The days bled gradually into one another, and in some strange way time seemed to slow. They got around to leaving the house eventually and spent long hours browsing the shops at the mall, or sprawled on towels by the community pool. Quinn worked her way steadily through the recommended advance reading list for her program while Santana stuffed her earphones in and sent threatening glares the way of any small children who accidentally splashed them with water.

Once Quinn, who was just climbing out of the pool, had to intervene and drag the other girl away from a seven year old with a water pistol who was standing dangerously close to the pool's edge. Santana declared vengeance by refusing to rub anymore sun cream into the blonde girl's back ('we'll see who's laughing when you look like a lobster who fell into a vat of peroxide'), but after the way she had caught the Latina looking at her with her wet bikini clinging tightly to her body Quinn had turned red pretty quickly anyway.

Most of Lima it seemed came and went from the pool which was how they ended up with an invitation to Mike Chang's birthday party, and by extension walking very slowly towards Quinn's house as the newly crowned beer pong champions shortly after three o'clock in the morning. According to Santana it was 'like prom queen except better because alcohol makes everything better because it is awesome like that'.

The voice of wisdom herself was leaning heavily on Quinn and humming something that sounded suspiciously like Bohemian Rhapsody. They paused as they reached the corner where Quinn's road met Santana's.

"You sure you're ok to walk home? Or are you just going to fall on your butt on the sidewalk when I let you go?"

"Quit mothering me Fabray, I gots this." To prove her point she pushed away from Quinn and walked away with exaggerated swagger, no mean feat in four inch heels.

"Three steps. Awesome. You're practically there. Well it's been fun Lopez – I'll see you tomorrow then yeah? Not too early though, because I can't be held responsible for my actions before midday." _Small chance of that_ she thought watching Santana sway ever so slightly like she was standing on the deck of a ship. Quinn turned and made to walk away down the street to the right, when a voice pulled her back.

"Whoa God-botherer, you're just going to leave me? It's fucking dark!"

"Dark? Did the vodka affect your sight as well as your sense of equilibrium? And there was I thinking you were badass..." The yellow light from the streetlamp pooled around them where they stood on the corner, casting half of Quinn's face into shadow but not quite managing to hide the smirk on her face.

"Of course I'm fucking badass! You know I'm from -"

"Lima Heights Adjacent? You don't say. Are those twelve year olds with spray paint on the rampage again?"

Santana wagged a finger threateningly under Quinn's nose. "Do you doubt my ability to lay the smackdown?"

"Not your ability to talk about it. Funny thing is though you never seem to put your money where your mouth is, do you? You say things, think things, but you never follow through." Quinn's tone remained dry, but the words seemed heavier somehow and Santana noticed.

The other girl studied her closely for a moment then her heels rapped three times on the concrete bringing them face to face again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't play dumb with me Santana, it doesn't suit you." Quinn's words were cool in the mild night air. The easiness between them was gone, and she cursed herself for ruining it.

"You know in the dark I could almost mistake that for a compliment." Her tone sounded mocking as she repeated Quinn's own words back to her from so long ago, but her dark eyes never wavered. They both paused then, as though waiting for something. Santana moved forward, closer, like she was going to hug her, and Quinn took a hesitant half step. _She'll turn her head. Any second now._ But she didn't, and the blonde girl suddenly (or maybe not suddenly at all) wasn't sure she wanted her to. _It'll just be accidental. It's not wrong if we didn't mean for it to happen._

Quinn wasn't sure what happened after that, but she must have leant forward, and Santana too, because that was how they had always worked: anything one did the other had to match it. They pushed and pulled together, so that neither of them ever moved.

Then their lips were touching, and all she could think about was how soft it was, as her arms slipped around Santana's neck of their own accord pulling her closer and closer like she was trying to merge their bodies together. Santana was everywhere, as the strands of black hair that framed her face now brushed Quinn's own cheeks, and her hands settled on her hips keeping them pressed together.

_Her lip gloss tastes like strawberry._ _How did we miss that one out? _She could feel her blood thundering in her veins, as their mouths opened together and the kiss deepened and everything she had wanted so desperately to feel with Finn and Sam and Puck and however many others hit her full force on that deserted early morning street under the flickering artificial light.

When they broke apart at last neither of them moved for a long moment. An unfamiliar surge of emotions swept through her as she took in Santana's smudged lip gloss and her newly tousled hair. _I did that to you._Santana was the first to step back.

"Told you I was badass." Quinn knew she was trying to sound cocky, but the result was just breathless.

"Yeah." _Crap._ She searched desperately for something to say, but all coherent thoughts seemed to have been pushed from her brain.

"Right. I'm gonna - ..."

"Yep me too I guess. I'll, umm, see you."

"Ok then. Bye."

"Bye."

They turned and walked in opposite directions. Santana looked back over her shoulder at the blonde girl's retreating back, before continuing down the road. By the time Quinn turned around Santana was already out of sight.

* * *

_She found Santana after the results announcement in the empty Spanish classroom the Trouble Tones had commandeered for a dressing room. She had passed Brittany and Mercedes hovering in the corridor as the New Directions celebrated in the choir room: not wanting to stay apart but not belonging either. Brittany could never hold a grudge (unless you happened to be the star quarterback), and she suspected Mercedes was trying her damndest to swallow her pride. They would come back if she played it right, but Santana would be a problem._

_The room was dark; she hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, and the silvery dress lay discarded on a table by the door where it had been thrown carelessly. Santana was leaning against another desk with one foot propped up on a chair tying her shoelaces when Quinn walked in, and spoke before the blonde girl could even get a word out._

"_Don't you dare sympathise. In fact just don't speak; I'll be done in two minutes and you can have the room and keep your smug-ass pep-talk to yourself."_

"_Would you rather I gloated? Because we both know I've got the bragging rights here."_

"_I know what you came here to say, so I'll save you the trouble: I'm not coming back. Simple. The door's right behind you." She snapped back, only raising her eyes to shoot a glare towards where Quinn stood outlined against the doorway._

"_Ok."_

"_What?" She looked up properly that time, surprise evident underneath her anger._

"_Ok. But Mercedes will – I'm sure if I can't talk her into it then Sam will be able to – and so will Brittany."_

"_You're wrong. Brittany won't."_

"_Are you going to stop her? She wants to perform: she likes Glee and she likes the New Directions – but she left for you. It seems the least you can do is go back for her. If you love her that is."_

_With that Quinn turned and left, leaving Santana alone with a troubled expression on her face._

_The following day in the bathroom when she spoke to them she saw the hope rise in Brittany's eyes, and Santana was incapable of saying no to her girlfriend. Quinn knew she had won – no, not won, she reminded herself because it wasn't about that anymore – but as she watched Santana take Brittany's hand it felt strangely hollow all the same._

* * *

The following day Quinn slept until late. The midday sun was staining her bedroom red from the drapes by the time she dragged herself out of bed and downstairs in search of breakfast. Once she had showered, eaten, and taken a healthy dose of paracetamol for the dull throbbing behind her forehead she settled in to wait.

She flicked idly through the channels on the television but nothing could hold her attention, and eventually she gave up and turned it off. Santana would come, Quinn knew she would, even if it just meant they would spend the day sunbathing and listening to music as an excuse to avoid eye-contact and conversation. That particular coping mechanism was one thing they had in common.

She knew they would each casually mention their matching headaches and the amount of alcohol they had consumed last night, reassuring themselves and one another, tossing the words around lightly and smiling to show how much they didn't matter. _It didn't mean anything if we didn't mean for it to happen._ _It wasn't like that._ Her hand wandered up idly to toy with the crucifix on its fine golden chain around her neck, which she still wore more out of habit than anything else.

She had stopped for a while: about a month after the accident when the optimism that returning to school had brought faded under the unrelenting ache in her arms from the effort of turning the wheels of her chair and the useless weight of her limp atrophied legs. She remembered how one morning her clumsy fingers had fumbled with the delicate clasp and she had hurled it away across the room in frustration as hot tears spilled from her eyes. For three days it had lain discarded by the foot of her wardrobe, directly below the small white scar in the wood of the door where it had hit and where she could skim her eyes over it and pretend not to notice.

She had relented though, after her fingers had brushed once too often against the pale skin of her throat and her stomach dropped at the unexpected absence. So she still wore it, and when at last the first tendrils of feeling crept tentatively back into her legs she had clenched it in the palm of her hand so tightly it left a mark, and just _hoped._

She had started going to church again, but after the fifth person had stopped to shake her hand to tell her they had prayed for her and that the Lord was indeed merciful, she felt sick. It turned her stomach that these almost-strangers thought she should be thanking _them_ for the hours and days and weeks and months spent below the plain white walls of her physiotherapist's office while the smiling motivational posters mocked her from the walls and she clenched and tried to lift herself time after time until her stomach burned and arms shook with exhaustion.

She wasn't sure what she felt about God anymore. Her faith felt like something that hovered just out of sight, but still there if she would only reach out for it – she just wasn't sure whether she wanted to. So she still wore the sign of Jesus' sacrifice as a kind of compromise; a testament to her own indecision.

And from time to time she still prayed, even though she never got an answer. She never had though: not when the neon digits of her alarm clock ticked over onto the hour and two blue lines appeared on the pregnancy test clutched in her trembling hand, or when she got home after seeing her two best friends entwined in the mirror as the bathroom door stood ajar, and she knelt by her bed until her knees hurt asking for guidance and deliverance just like she'd been taught, but mostly just wanting to know why instead of righteous outrage she had just felt left out. Wanting to know why it hadn't felt _wrong._

If she was torn about religion however, it was nothing to the tangled web of confusion, frustration, and guilt that Santana managed to arouse in her. That the other girl was attractive had never been in doubt, but it somehow went deeper than that. Santana was the one who knew all of Quinn and Lucy yet had never judged her for it or expected any less of her as a result, the one who would accept all of her without compromise.

Maybe that was something to do with it: the way she had arrived unannounced the morning after Quinn gave birth and, in exactly the kind of paradox that described Santana, insulted her choice of baby name in the same breath as she wrapped Quinn tightly in her arms as she shuddered and threatened to break apart. They bickered and argued and snarked at one another but in a strange way it seemed to balance out, and somewhere down the line she realised she didn't want anything else.

But Santana wasn't hers, and Quinn had Yale, so with the ease born of years of practice she pushed it down and sang loudly enough to drown out the thoughts in her head.

The afternoon wore on and the doorbell remained silent. When she finally got hungry again and made to go into the kitchen, her attention was caught by the postcard lying on the mat that she must have missed earlier. A weight settled in her abdomen as she saw the moose on the front, and turned it over.

_Hey Q, I hope you're ok and your back isn't hurting too much. Canada is really cool but I don't like camping that much. I almost got lost in the woods, but we saw loads of squirrels and this deer thing with massive antlers and what I think was a wild cow. Remember to wear sun cream. Miss you and S loads see you soon, B xoxo_

The date on it was almost two weeks ago but the postmark said Michigan and was dated yesterday. Brittany had forgotten to mail it, and if Quinn had hers then Santana would have got one as well, and Quinn knew with iron cold certainty that Santana wasn't coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**December**

_Christmas that year had gone relatively smoothly by Glee club standards. Well, apart from when Rachel had gotten carried away on her quest for an adoring audience as she commandeered the spotlight the previous week, and Sam and Finn had had to intervene to prevent a diva smack down with Mercedes in the middle of the homeless shelter. Sue had been successfully appeased so festive sabotage had been kept to a minimum, and to top it off Mr Schue had decided to throw a Christmas party to celebrate the reunion of the Glee club, and on a wildly transparent pretext to get Miss Pillsbury into his apartment._

_It wasn't the worst party she had been to, Quinn reflected, watching from the couch as Mike began to break-dance in the middle of the sitting room and the agitated looking Guidance Counsellor took up the cause of common decency, trying (and failing) to remove Finchel from under the mistletoe. _

"_Dios mio, mine eyes are burning. You'd think they'd realise that the ridiculous height difference is obviously nature trying to give them a hint." Quinn looked up as Santana plopped down next to her and leaned into whisper conspiratorially. "Fear not though, I hear Captain Hair Gel has hidden his liquor collection in the bathroom cabinet, so Britt is going to cause a diversion and you can guard the door while I liberate some of it." As she finished she waggled her eyebrows like a Bond villain._

_Quinn rolled her eyes. "There's nothing I'd like more than to enable your impending alcoholism 'Tana, especially since you've obviously put so much thought into this, but I'm driving." _

_Santana waved a hand dismissively as though this was some insignificant detail. "Just leave your car here and my dad can drop you off at the convent when he comes to pick me and Britt up. I'm not drinking by myself and there's no way I can get through this sober, especially not once Berry gets her hands on the karaoke machine." _

_Quinn would have declined again, probably with an insult or two thrown in for good measure had Puck not chosen that moment to appear and try and pull her up to dance with him, so instead she allowed Santana to grab her hand and pull her off in the direction of the bathroom as Brittany began doing handstands behind him._

"_Don't do anything I wouldn't!" He called after them, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively (when did that become a thing?) and smirking. Santana gave him the finger._

_However when they reached the bathroom they encountered a small problem. Firstly, the door was locked. Secondly, there was – _

"_Oh my God, tell me that wasn't what it sounded like?"_

_A second low moan emanated from behind the closed door. Santana had an expression like someone had just thrown up on her favourite shoes. "It must be the Warbler and Hummel. Well this is just perfect. Foiled by Schuster and his mission to get into Miss Pillsbury's panties." _

"_What?" Quinn's turned to look at her friend; confusion etched on her face, and then followed the line of Santana's finger pointing up to the ceiling. Sure enough, a sprig of mistletoe had been blue tacked to the top of the doorframe. Right above where they were standing._

"_Oh, yeah, that..." Quinn could feel her cheeks heating up and was grateful that Santana still had her glare fixed above them, like she was trying to make the offending sprig spontaneously combust by sheer force of will power._

"_I mean talk about obvious. And desperate."_

"_Yeah, not to mention irresponsible." _Shit. Not what she meant to say_._

"_Irresponsible?" Dark eyes snapped to hers._

"_Well, I just mean anyone could be walking past, innocently, you know... What if I'd been here with Puck, or, I don't know..." She wished Santana would stop looking at her._

"_Me?" The other girl chuckled evilly. "Ha, I knew it. Is the sympathetic gay panic finally setting in? I'm flattered, really. How I've missed that Catholic guilt of yours, Q."_

_Quinn mustered up the best death stare she could manage under the circumstances. "You are so full of it, you know that?"_

"_What are you going to do about it, Fabray?"_

_Santana was flirting with her. _She wants this_, Quinn realised with a shock. _No – she just thinks I won't do it._ That stung. _Fine then._ She looked up and shot a patented Head Cheerleader dazzling smile in Santana's direction, and was rewarded when her smug expression faltered. Then she stepped forward, and sliding one hand around the back of the other girl's head pressed their lips firmly together. She kept her eyes resolutely open and her mouth tightly closed, but held them there for a long moment. When she pulled back at last it was her turn to laugh at the slightly shell-shocked expression on the Latina's face. Without another word she spun smartly on her heel and headed back towards where the opening notes of Funny Girl echoed from the sitting room. Maybe she would dance with Puck after all._

* * *

This time she didn't wait. Quinn didn't text and she didn't call. At first she was angry, then upset, followed by guilty when she remembered Brittany, so it was back to the old fallback of not thinking and not caring. She had Yale, and her legs worked, and if Santana wanted to talk she could fucking well come to her.

She got up early the next morning and dug out her sneakers and a pair of running shorts from where they lay crumpled in the back of the closet. But when she looked at herself in the mirror and saw the scars laid bare on her leg she shoved them back in and pulled on a pair of Lycra jogging bottoms instead, because she wasn't _that _ready.

It was hard at first. Despite all the leg raises and time spent on the physio's equipment within minutes her thighs were burning and her legs started to shake. Grateful that there was hardly anyone around, she leaned on a mailbox and swore vehemently under her breath, for breathing regulation purposes. She took it slower after that, alternating between walking and a jog so gentle she got overtaken by a three year old on a space hopper as she turned a corner.

Santana left her a voicemail message and her finger hovered for a moment over the button, before Quinn remembered all the messages she had left Santana at the start of the summer, and deleted it unopened. When she didn't receive any more she gritted her teeth and ran faster. When Judy arrived back later that week, she looked on with a mixture of concern and bemusement as Quinn returned each morning, flushed and sweating and trying to hide her sense of triumph (because she'd had enough of false hope) when she made it through the hour without her back hurting. The weight she'd shed in hospital made her look deceptively athletic in the tight running gear, but she'd lost almost all the stamina that she had (grudgingly) to thank Sue Sylvester for. _Also abs, _she thought ruefully as she slowed once more to a walk. _I used to have great abs. _

It became her habit each day as she approached the bottom of her road - she deliberately chose her route to avoid Santana's street, and specifically the corner where their roads met - to sprint, as much as she could, the last fifty yards. She grew gradually more confident and one particular morning she pushed herself even harder as her feet slapped down heavily on the sidewalk and her lungs began to burn. She could see her house and pushed through it, heard the blood rushing in her ears and then spots appeared in front of her eyes and she just had time to think _oh shit_ before the ground rushed up to meet her.

She must have blacked out for a couple of seconds, because when vision returned to her she saw a concerned face framed by blonde hair and unbroken blue sky, and a hand waving in front of her face. She blinked a couple of times to make sure she was really awake.

"Quinn? Quinn, are you ok?"

"Yeah, yes uh I think so." She was half lying on top of Brittany on the sidewalk with her legs folded in front of her. "Britt could you...?"

She only meant to ask for a hand up, but Brittany just nodded as she slipped out from behind Quinn and scooped the blonde into her arms to carry her the short way to the front door. Judy must have seen them coming from the window because she opened the door before they reached it, worry and fear written all over her face, and Quinn flushed with embarrassment as her mother fussed over her while she was cradled like a child in Brittany's arms.

Judy went to get ice; for what purpose Quinn wasn't entirely sure, but was grateful for the opportunity to speak to Brittany as she lowered her down onto the couch.

"Are you sure you're ok? I was just going to knock on the door when I saw you and you were just sort of _wobbling_..." Her blue eyes were wide with anxiety, and Quinn noticed she had a new dusting of freckles on her nose.

"I just tripped, I'll be fine, don't worry. Thanks for the postcard by the way." She squeezed Brittany's arm reassuringly.

The other girl smiled sheepishly. "I, err, forgot to mail them. My mom saw them in my bag when we stopped at a gas station on the way home. I sent Santana one with a Grizzly Bear on, because we saw one and it reminded me of her in the morning."

Quinn smiled; say what you liked about Brittany, you couldn't argue with her logic. "So I remind you of a moose then? Thanks Britt." She raised an eyebrow as she examined her legs for grazes, but the other girl wasn't looking at her. "Anyway, is everything ok? What were you coming to see me about?"

Brittany chewed her lip, like she wasn't sure where to begin. "Finn and Rachel broke up."

"Yeah, but that was ages ago, Britt, he was going into the Army and Rachel was -... Oh." She opened her mouth, but not really knowing what to say she closed it again and waited for Brittany to elaborate, waiting to see whether she was telling her about something that had happened or whether the conversation was purely speculative.

"They broke up, and everyone was saying how it was the right thing to do even if it made them unhappy. I didn't graduate, Quinn, but I really want to. I can, I know I can, I just got overwhelmed last year you know, with Glee club and dancing and the Cheerios and being Senior Class President... Like there was so much stuff I didn't know what to do first and it was really hard and there wasn't enough time..." She sniffed and Quinn reached up and pulled her into a hug, waving over her shoulder that she was fine as Judy reappeared with the ice bag. "I want to redo my senior year, and win Nationals again with Glee and the Cheerios, except I'll do my classes as well and go to dance school like Mike, but I looked online and I need to do high school first."

"That doesn't necessarily mean you have to break up though; she'll come back and visit you. There are some really good dance schools in New York: you could go next year. After everything else you two have been through I'm sure you could manage Skype for a few months." She tried her best to sound cheerful, but Brittany looked as if she was about to cry and Quinn wondered what she was missing. "Santana's in love with you, she wouldn't -"

"No she's not." Her words were mumbled into Quinn's shoulder but they managed to resonate in her head all the same.

The silence between them grew heavy and Quinn's heart which had only just returned to normal pace began to thump painfully again, although she couldn't say why. Didn't want to think about why. Brittany eased herself out of Quinn's hold, but toyed idly with her fingers instead. "Brittany what - ?"

"She's my best friend, and I do love her: I love the way she looks at me, how she makes me feel, and this thing she can do with her tongue like when she curls it and -"

Quinn cleared her throat loudly, and Brittany flashed her an apologetic look and continued. The blonde girl's stomach was twisting painfully now, but she was no longer unsure of why. She knew what guilt felt like. "She's always looked after me, and tried to protect me, but she treats me differently to everyone else, and she doesn't _listen_ to me."

"That's just Santana, she doesn't listen to anyone."

"She listens to you." Quinn made to interrupt her but Brittany cut her off. "She does though: she'll tell you you're being an idiot, or argue with you, or do something just to piss you off, but the point is she still listens." She continued despite the heavy wobble in her voice, "I tried, you know, I told her to just go, because I know she can't stand to be here anymore, but she said she won't until I do. She always thinks she knows best because she's clever and I didn't even graduate." Brittany's eyes were shining. "That's not how love's supposed to work though is it? We said we'd wait until I got back and decide then, except she's too stubborn and won't even discuss it with me."

"Britt, let me talk to her. And if that doesn't work then I'll knock her out and we'll pack her off on a train anyway."

Brittany sniffed. "Oh, I didn't think of that. I just broke up with her."

"What?" Quinn's voice came out slightly choked and she tenderly brushed a lock of hair out of Brittany's face, and tried to disguise the shock in her voice. "Brittany are you serious, you actually broke up with her? Are you sure that's what you want? You could at least give long distance a go; you never know - some space might be good, I mean you and Santana have always been pretty intense."

"But what if it's not - isn't that why you broke up with Puck?"

Quinn gawped at her. "How do you even – did he tell you?"

On the night of their graduation Puck had hosted a party at his house, or had at least tried to; as it happened his mother had other ideas and kicked everyone out at eleven - Ms Puckerman was not a woman to be argued with. Quinn had stayed to clear up, because she knew his mom liked her, and the woman gave her a knowing look and shot a warning glare at her son before she vanished back up the stairs. He had kissed her, so tentatively it almost didn't feel like him at all, as they both stood in his sitting room clutching garbage bags full of plastic cups, like he was expecting her to throw him off any second and flee down the driveway. When her hands moved to the buttons on his shirt he'd pulled back for a second and whispered 'you're not drunk, right?', and she'd laughed softly and smirked that she wasn't but she could always leave if he'd changed his mind. That was the last thing either of them said for a while.

Brittany shrugged. "I saw you with him at the train station; you just seemed _closer._ I didn't tell anyone though – just Santana, but she just seemed kind of pissed and didn't want to talk about it."

"Is she ok?"

Brittany dropped her head. "She didn't believe me at first when I said it, but I told her I meant it, and she just went really quiet. I waited, but she didn't say anything, and I didn't want to leave her by herself. Then her mom came back from the night shift but I didn't really know where to go so I just came here. I hope that's ok I can leave if you want."

She made to stand up but Quinn grabbed her arm and tugged her back down onto the couch. "Its fine, Britt. You can stay as long as you want." Desperate Housewives was just starting.

* * *

**February**

_Janitor's closets, Quinn thought, were definitely overrated. From what she had heard about what went on in them – which if the rumours were to be believed was a hell of a lot – the reality was somewhat underwhelming. _

_Principal Figgins' 'spontaneous' fire drill which conveniently happened the on same day every year was well underway, and customary chaos reigned among the assembled students on the football field. The man himself would stand on the bleachers between the harassed looking clipboard-wielding Guidance counsellor and a red faced Coach Beiste blowing frantically on her whistle. Sue Sylvester, having already confirmed the presence of all her Cheerios, habitually settled for observing proceedings with a protein shake in hand and conveying an expression of mild distaste from behind her sunglasses, as she appeared supremely ambivalent about the survival of the rest of the student body._

_It was probable therefore that Quinn's absence would go unnoticed in the melee, which was fortunate as Santana didn't look like letting her leave any time soon. As the human tide surged towards the exits she had felt someone take a firm grasp on her upper arm and bundle them both unceremoniously into the small cupboard littered with mops and bottles of cleaning fluid._

"_Santana what the hell are you doing? What if there's actually a fire?"_

_Her abductor scoffed. "Which do you think is more likely: that Figgins is psychic, or that this is the annual shit-storm of a fire drill he uses as an excuse to douse everyone with the sprinklers?"_

_She rolled her eyes at that but had to admit that the cheerleader was probably right. "Fine, so we're probably not going to burn to death, which is always good to know, but what's with the theatrics? Has Coach got you hunting for ex-KGB spies or something, because she made me check out the janitor last year so I can save you the trouble and tell you the guy drives a Prius."_

"_Are you serious? Actually come to think of it I've always thought the guy was a bit creepy... I mean what kind of a name is 'Olaf' anyway?" The other girl looked thoughtful._

"_Focus, Santana." Quinn tapped her foot impatiently; the risk of imminent death may have receded but she still wasn't crazy about hanging out in a probably spider infested and admittedly odd-smelling closet._

"_Oh, right, well in case you haven't already gathered this is an intervention."_

_Quinn laughed incredulously. "An intervention? Did you miss the part where I got my Yale acceptance and named Valedictorian?"_

"_No, neither did I miss the part where you turned into Rachel Berry's fucking Fairy Godmother."_

_Cheeks colouring with indignation she replied, "What, just because I -"_

"_- Shouted on several occasions, downright refused to attend, and called everyone else 'brain dead sheep' for going along with it? Yes, dumbass." When Quinn tried to respond she cut her off. "Do you deny that you would be out on the field right now, attempting to brow-beat her into submission with that righteous expression of yours and the feminist manifesto if you weren't here instead with Auntie 'Tana?"_

"_Oh, come on; you can't seriously be telling me that you think this whole fucking pantomime is a good idea?" She considered trying to barge her way past, but the other girl was stationed solidly in front of the door wearing her 'do not fuck with this' face and she decided not to risk it. Especially since anyone who might possibly have come to her rescue would undoubtedly be corralled outside by now and well out of earshot. Not that relished the prospect of explaining to anyone exactly what she had been doing in a janitor's closet with Santana Lopez._

"_Of course I think it's idiotic, and I can't believe I'm defending Berry right now, but why the hell does it matter to you so much?"_

"_More to the point why does it matter to you?"_

"_Because I recognise that their love is real, and I want to give them every chance to produce normal sized but equally loud and annoying children." Santana's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Just stop going on about it and say you'll go to the damn wedding."_

_Quinn folded her arms and stared pointedly at the other girl, one eyebrow raised. She knew she had won when Santana huffed and continued, "Ok, fine. I made Britt send off college applications, but even with her dancing and Cheerios another National Championship could make all the difference, even if it's in Show Choir. From past experience I have also noticed that the best way to win one of those is to keep the Hobbit happy, and let her sing a duet with the man-boy of nobody else's dreams, so you'll understand why I don't appreciate your efforts to break them up."_

"_Well pardon me for speaking up when someone is about to ruin their life!"_

_Santana shrugged. "You don't know that... Unless you're worried she'll hold him back from an undoubtedly glittering career in the logging industry."_

"_That's exactly what I mean! I don't get how you can all be so blasé about this – is that you can't understand how big a mistake she's making, or you just don't care?"_

"_So what are you going to do; follow her around like an outspoken highly irritating moral compass for the rest of your lives?" Santana had never been the most diplomatic of people and her short supply of patience was starting to wear thin. "Look, I know Rachel called you out on your crap when I was, ah, otherwise occupied, but if she doesn't listen to you it's her problem not yours – you don't owe her anything Quinn, if that's what this is about. Besides, if we attend her first wedding then she might not drag us to the rest. You have to let people make their own decisions."_

"_Now who's being righteous?"_

"_Actually still you, seeing as that's exactly what you told me when Britt was dating Artie and I was about ten seconds away from sending him down the stairs the quick way." She looked horrified suddenly as something occurred to her. "Oh dear God, tell me this isn't about you lusting after Rachel's berries?"_

_She glowered at Santana, "Of course it's not; retune your damn gaydar already."_

"_Hey, don't you dare start on my gaydar - I'm a cynical bitch and a lesbian; there are less accurate targeted missiles."_

"_No, you've just had your rainbow tinted glasses on too long."_

"_And you have spent far too much time hanging around girls in short skirts doing cartwheels to lend any credence to that denial."_

"_And the fact I've dated the three the hottest guys in school?"_

_Santana counted on her fingers. "Early arrival issues, not even second base, and creepy drunk sex. Come on; I'm as gay as they fucking come and even I've slept with two of them."_

"_Which I think says more about you than it does about me, if you think about it... Now will just let me out – I don't think this place is very clean."_

"_Say you'll go to the wedding."_

"_No."_

_The other girl appeared to produce a nail file from thin air and leaned back casually against the door humming quietly. Quinn was the first to break._

"_Oh, for the love of... Fine! Just don't blame me when it all goes wrong and they break up – again – and we come last at Nationals – again."_

_Santana shrugged. "At least we'll have ringside seats. And I have a backup Berry-proof plan for that eventuality."_

"_Don't tell me: it involves the Trouble Tones, short dresses, and suggestive dancing."_

_Santana pretended to look shocked. "I'm offended that you would even think that."_

"_You're not offended. Just predictable. And very, very, gay. Excuse me."_

_She pulled out her cell as she shifted aside to let Quinn pass, as the blonde girl realised she probably had Brittany to blame for this as well. As she left she saw the key sticking out of the lock on the other side and smirked. It wasn't like there was really a fire or anything..._

* * *

Ducks were soothing. Brittany had at least been right about that. She watched, only half seeing as they flapped and quacked in the murky brown water of Lima's finest pond. When she ran the dancer's words had echoed in her head to the beat of her sneakers on the concrete as she tried to work through the tangles of conscience and desire in her mind. It was those thoughts that had led her here, unthinking until she looked up and saw the ripples on the water through the rusted chain link fence.

She wasn't alone for very long however. Toned legs encased in tiny black running shorts blocked her view of two ducks squabbling over a piece of bread.

"What are you doing here?" She wasn't expecting a warm reception but the hostility in Santana's voice still took her by surprise.

"I could ask you the same question." Her tone was calm as she tried to work out what Santana wanted. She had one or two ideas, but she would rather not think about that.

"You could, yes. And I could ask you to mind your own damn business."

"I'll save you the trouble then; she's not here." Quinn replied coolly, studying the girl in front of her. "And it's not like I made you come over and talk to me. Unless..." She shook her head and laughed derisively. "Making the same mistake twice 'Tana; that's not like you."

Quinn saw the flush creeping up her neck and she knew she was right when Santana snapped back. "Oh, don't flatter yourself. You're nothing like her."

"That just makes it even worse that you can't tell us apart from behind. And the fact that you're sober this time. I suppose my hair is a little longer – Puck thought I should cut it again." She mused aloud watching Santana's jaw tighten and the frown line deepen between her eyebrows.

"So you were sleeping with him then? Britt told me you were but I didn't think even you would sink that low. Again."

"Hypocrite."

"Fuck off."

"If you knew it was me all along what did you come over for? Even you're not stupid enough to blame the break up on me." She didn't bother hiding her anger any more.

"How do you know about -?"

"She told me, dumbass. Whose house do you think she turned up at crying that day?" Quinn was losing patience and she glared at Santana as she spoke. She had expected something like this, but it didn't hurt any less when the Latina used her as an emotional punch bag. And no way was she taking the blame for this.

Santana's eyes widened. "What the fuck did you tell her, Quinn, because I swear to God -?"

"Relax, Lopez. Your dirty little secret is safe with me." She couldn't quite keep the bitterness from colouring her words.

The other girl looked tried to hide her relief, but Quinn had known her for too long, and noticed the slight exhalation and the way some of the tension seemed to fall from her shoulders.

"What did she say?" Her voice was less aggressive but still guarded, and she kept a careful distance between them as she glowered down at Quinn, who shrugged.

"That she didn't think either of you would be able to cope with long distance and a clean break would be better. I think she was afraid of losing you all together if the relationship went bad."

"She wouldn't. No matter what happened I'd never cut her out." Santana's voice sounded oddly tight, the pain in her eyes visible for the first time. Even though Quinn was the only person around she wasn't sure the words were meant for her, but they cut deeply all the same.

"Do you love her?" She forced herself to look at Santana.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. If you do, and you go to her house now and tell her, she'll take you back. Because she wants to believe it can work even if it means deluding both of you. If the distance thing is the only reason you broke up, then go. But you have to be sure." She honestly expected her to leave then. The seconds built up and she realised she was holding her breath.

At last Santana spoke carefully, studying Quinn to try and gauge her reaction. "She's not stupid you know - in fact I'm pretty sure she's smarter than me. About some things anyway."

Quinn shrugged, trying hard to appear casual. "We all have to let go at some point. Just because you can hang onto something doesn't always mean you should." Her hand was clenched at her side where the other girl couldn't see it.

They stared at one another, and Santana spoke slowly. "But I would have thought continuing something when you should end it just as bad as starting something you can't finish."

"I'd say they're both equally fucked up."

"Then maybe it's a good thing we're leaving." She sounded detached as she turned to stare out over the duck pond hiding her face from Quinn's gaze.

The blonde girl's stomach clenched and she tasted sharp something sharp and metallic in her mouth from where she had been biting down on her lip. "Yeah, maybe."


	4. Chapter 4

And that, to all intents and appearances, was that. Santana slipped back out of her life with as little fuss as she'd arrived a month before. In a funny way it didn't seem quite real; because for the past four years through every argument, fight, and ill-advised drunken confession, there had been the unspoken, unacknowledged assumption that it would pass and at some point they would find themselves yet again shoulder to shoulder under the stage lights or coordinating eye-rolls over Rachel's head in the choir room.

She had never quite thought about it like that at the time, but ever since it occurred to her the realisation had weighed heavy in her chest and she had no idea how to make it go away. And maybe it hurt a little that the best they could manage between them was a few weeks of careful avoidance and maybe emails every couple of months until they fizzled out as well. She would take a bang over a whimper any time; because what did it say about what you had if it all slipped away so easily? She couldn't help thinking that the lurch in her stomach when she saw again the expression on Santana's face as she walked away, or remembered how her eyes had looked black under the glow of the streetlamp deserved more than that.

She had been running the conversation with Santana over and again in her head, trying to think of something, anything, she could have said. After three days when she still hadn't come up with anything she accepted grudgingly that maybe she was wasting her time. She stopped running, because there were too many people and places she was trying to avoid, even though it seemed disgustingly ironic to her as she lay on the back lawn smearing sun cream on her legs.

Judy, who had taken eighteen years to adopt a proactive approach to parenting, dragged her to the garden centre one day in desperation, and began inventing increasingly tenuous excuses to get her daughter out of the house.

But then two things happened that she doubted could be a result of even her mother's most elaborate machinations. The first of these was that her sister returned.

Frannie was five years older than Quinn so had borne witness down the phone line to all the drama back home in Ohio. The age difference meant they had never been particularly close emotionally growing up, but throughout Quinn's life her sister had been the standard to which she had been held up. The last time she had seen her was when she had been discharged from the hospital, and Frannie and Santana had caught her when she'd slipped trying to lift herself into the wheelchair from the bed after refusing their offer of help.

The first Thanksgiving after Russell had left Frannie had gone to visit him after a cross-kitchen shouting match with Judy, only to return later that afternoon to the plate of turkey and vegetables that had been keeping warm in the oven that their mother handed over wordlessly. Judy didn't ask what had happened and her sister never said, but several times Quinn felt her sister's eyes on her while they ate. Later that night when they were watching the television after Judy had gone to bed, she pulled Quinn towards her on the couch and began to braid her hair, like she did when Quinn was in middle school and shooting envious glances at the red white and black uniform neatly pressed in her sister's closet.

A lot had changed, but the Fabrays still didn't do talking.

Also, Quinn still had little or nothing in common with her older sister, apart from their new unspoken solidarity that they were still tentatively feeling out with a certain amount of awkwardness. It made her feel younger again: listening to her mother and sister gossip about all of Frannie's old friends from high school, her banker fiancé, her internship at a legal firm in Houston. The only difference now was that she preferred to bury her head in a book rather than hang on the conversation mentally building their words into her own dreams of college and champagne and diamond rings.

Judy had taken the time off work to spend it with her eldest daughter, but she left for a garden party one afternoon, shooting a pointed look at Frannie over Quinn's head. It was with forced casualness that she then asked her if she wanted to go to the mall, and how they ended up Starbucks surrounded by brightly coloured shopping bags and making polite small talk.

Earlier they had passed Sam Evans, looking highly uncomfortable and out of place in a shop with his mom and younger sister, and who had gone as pink as the clothes he was holding when he caught sight of Quinn and her older sister who he had heard about but had never met. While Quinn fussed over Stacey she had caught the gleam of curiosity in her sister's eyes, and to Sam's relief they hadn't hung around to chat. This was less due to sympathy on Quinn's part, and more self-preservation instinct when he haltingly enquired whether she wanted to come to his birthday party, and Frannie practically swelled up with all the questions she was dying to ask.

After eighteen years though, Quinn should have realised it took more than three hours of intensive, credit card melting retail therapy to dissuade her sister once she had the scent.

"So... Remind me what happened with you and the cute blonde guy?"

Quinn shrugged, "We broke up. Artistic differences." She wasn't proud of what had happened with Sam; especially considering it had all been for nothing when Finn left her for Rachel, again. She had thought in a moment (or maybe more like a month) of irrationality that if she got Finn back then everything else would follow; like in one sweep she could restore all the change of the past three years that she was yet to realise was perhaps the best thing to have happened to her. _Fool me once..._

Frannie eyed her shrewdly over the foam on her super skim low-fat latte. "Should I take that to mean he was being 'artistic' with someone else?"

"Not exactly..." She sighed; she knew her sister was ruthless when it came to potential gossip fodder. "He broke up with me for Santana, but it was my fault."

Her sister's immaculate eyebrows drew closer together, and her whisper was a fiercely indignant. "Quinn it's hardly your fault if he left you for someone else; that just makes him a jerk. And to think I was being friendly to him and everything..."

Rolling her eyes Quinn replied "No, Frannie, it was me, honestly. And you didn't even speak to him."

Her sister was having none of it, and the younger girl didn't know whether she was more grateful or exasperated. "I smiled at him didn't I? Honestly Quinn, how many random shop guys do you think I do that to?" Something occurred suddenly to her then and she lowered her voice: "What do you mean he left you for Santana, I thought she was, you know, a _lesbian._"

It was all Quinn could do not to laugh at the inflection on the last word, like Frannie was trying to appear worldly and unconcerned even as she glanced around to make sure no-one was listening to their conversation.

"Yeah she is..." Her sister just looked confused, so Quinn sighed and continued. "The simple version is that she was in love with Brittany who pushed her to come out, but was seeing this guy called Artie at the time. So Santana was a bit all over the place emotionally, and when Sam and me broke up she was on hand to, umm, console him." She was uncomfortably aware of the details she had left out, but didn't particularly think it would benefit either of them to reopen old wounds. "I think she pretty much ignored him when they were together though: it was more about Britt than anything else." _But she wanted to hurt me as well._

Frannie looked at her curiously: she had known both Brittany and Santana from all the times they used to come over, but had been unaware of the change in their relationship until she returned to Lima the previous Christmas and had arrived in a whirlwind of incredulity and certain predatory delight to announce that she had seen them holding hands over a table in the coffee house when she had stopped in on her way. That had quickly faded to outrage that no-one had informed her and that this was in fact old news, then in turn curiosity as she began grilling Quinn for information.

"And you're really ok with that?" There was something odd in the way she said it that Quinn couldn't quite place.

Quinn shrugged, "It was a long time ago, and what with everything else that's happened... Water under the bridge, you know? We're good now." She hadn't so far lied outright to her sister but the omissions and half truths were stacking up, so she cast around for a change of subject. Unfortunately Frannie seemed to have other ideas.

"Honestly? Because mom said the pair of you practically lived together for a month, and since she stopped coming over you've been skulking around the house glaring at the furniture and leaving your crap around everywhere."

Accustomed as Quinn was to the subtle eyebrow movements and pointed tones, her sister's bluntness took her by surprise and she inhaled some of her coffee and spluttered ungracefully into a napkin while the older blonde smirked and continued. "Which strikes me as strange, because I can never remember you actually liking one another very much, but that Sam boy – who was your boyfriend – left you and you don't even seem to care."

"That's different: what happened with Sam was ages ago, and – don't know if I mentioned this – it was my fault."

"Ah, so something did happen then!" Frannie waved a finger triumphantly under her sister's nose.

"I –no – we just fell out, that's all."

"Well, duh. I want to know why."

Quinn shot back, "Artistic differences."

"Did she make a move on you or something? You can tell me, Quinn." Frannie sounded reproachful, and for a second Quinn wondered what it would be like to tell her: to just blurt out the whole messy saga of missed glances, ill-considered kisses and messed up chances. But she saw a flicker in her sister's pale eyes, and remembered how they'd gleamed when she asked Quinn if she had known about Santana and Brittany's relationship before the commercial. She swallowed and bit her tongue.

"It was just a stupid argument, and then when Brittany came back from vacation she just didn't bother coming over any more. Don't worry, I'm not gay or anything."

She smiled as she said it, and Frannie laughed with her and seemed satisfied. She finally did change the subject after that, asking Quinn if she wanted to go to Breadstix or the new French restaurant that had just opened, as Judy wouldn't be back until late.

They left five minutes later, Quinn's coffee lying cold and all but untouched on the table.

* * *

**_February_**

_The first thing she heard was the beeping. Sharp and insistent it prodded her into consciousness. The exhaustion rested heavily on her eyelids still and she didn't try to open them; just lay in the warm darkness as her breathing aligned with the monitor. Beep. In. Beep. Out. She could hear each breath, just louder than the silence as the dry air whistled over her chapped lips. The tubes felt strange inside her nose, and she wanted to pull them out, but her arms might as well have been made of lead for all she was capable of lifting them._

_After several minutes, or maybe hours, she heard a door open and the smart click of heels approaching. From somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that her bedroom had a carpet. Then she felt a hand on her own, wrapping around her compliant fingers and squeezing gently, and a voice from somewhere to her left._

"_Doctor Monroe said she'd be in about ten to check on her stitches. I saw your father as well: he said your mom would bring you some fresh clothes this afternoon. Has... Did she –" Her mother's voice was softer than she'd ever heard it, as though each word caused her pain. Quinn's heart jolted, and her breath caught, but the tube refused to let her falter._

"_Not yet." This voice came from her other side, surprising her. She hadn't realised there was anyone else in the room. It was lower than the first, and sounded rough from lack of sleep._

I'm here_. She tried to speak, but her jaw hurt and the words stuck in her dry mouth and only a rasp came out. She heard two sharp intakes of breath and hurried footsteps moving away as the hand squeezed her own tighter._

"_Quinn? Quinnie sweetheart can you hear me? I'm here, baby, it's going to be ok."_

_She felt overwhelmed as the details of her surroundings rushed towards her in a wave, smothering her. She felt a hand on her cheek – her mother's? – and a sharp stabbing pain when she tried to move her neck. _It was going to be ok? So what was wrong?_ She opened her eyes but the light glared against her sensitive retinas and the shapes above her were blurry and indistinct. The door opened again and two sets of footsteps returned, but she couldn't move her neck to see who they belonged to._

"_Can you hear me Quinn? You're in the hospital, there was an accident. Do you remember what happened?" This voice she didn't know: a woman's, low and reassuring. The second time she opened her eyes it hurt less. The room swam lazily into focus. A middle aged woman with greying hair scraped back off her forehead was leaning over her while her mother stood watching with an expression caught between hope and apprehension. Santana seemed frozen with her mouth slightly open she gripped the back of the chair Judy had just vacated with white knuckled hands. _Regionals, she thought suddenly. We won Regionals.

_The woman – the doctor – was talking again but Quinn didn't hear her. _Sue let me back on the Cheerios. I was going to the wedding. I was driving –

_It was like someone turned the volume up abruptly and she couldn't block the woman's words out. "...Intersection... Side on collision... Spinal compression... Nerve damage... Blood clot... Recovery period..." Each phrase seemed to hang in the air between them, wrapping around her with invisible tendrils and constricting slowly as she fought to breath. _No. No.

_She dragged in a breath and her heart fluttered desperately in her chest against the rise and fall of her ribcage. Blood rushed in her ears and the room seemed to close in around her. The doctor was doing something with the clear bag of fluid on her right and a tear from Judy's eye fell on their interlocked hands. The last image on her retinas after she closed her eyes was Santana's terrified and tearstained face._

* * *

The second thing was a blood clot. They heard afterwards that Santana's grandmother fell as she walked the short distance from her house to the church on the way to Sunday mass, and that it was Santana's father who was working the Emergency Room when they brought her in and recognised his mother-in-law lying silent and unmoving; the red blanket accentuating the lack of colour in her face.

The first Quinn knew of it was when her phone rang at ten pm, and she picked up to hear Santana stumble through a semi-coherent explanation about thrombosis and Coronary Heart Disease, that saw her arrive half an hour later with a sleeping bag and several cartons of takeaway.

Not really knowing what else to do, Quinn opted for making her a cup of tea and settling for the sweet and sour pork instead of their customary bickering over the spring rolls as they ate silently in the kitchen. Maribel was spending the night at the hospital while her mother was under observation, and Santana's father was covering a shift for a colleague in order to remain close to his wife.

Her abuela wasn't officially allowed visitors, but a number of concerned relatives who lived in the state had arrived and were staying at Santana's house anxiously awaiting news. Unsurprisingly, Santana hadn't hung around.

As Frannie was occupying the guest room and had tactfully retreated upstairs at the sound of the doorbell, Santana unrolled her sleeping bag in Quinn's room on a couple of cushions they'd lifted from the couch, just under the windowsill. When she was younger, Quinn's bed had been comfortably big enough for two, but now she knew without trying that they would be far too close even with everything that lay in between them.

She lay awake for a long time, because Santana's soft snores were noticeably absent, and for some reason she felt guilty at the idea of falling asleep while Santana lay restless in the dark. She turned her head to avoid the illuminated alarm clock next to the bed though, because it was one thing not being able to sleep, but another to watch the hours slip by in neon red digits.

The following morning when her cell phone rang over breakfast Quinn watched the blood drain from Santana's face as she ran to answer it and the sharp exhalation when there was no new news, just her dad checking in. While her parents waited anxiously for news at the hospital Santana camped out on Quinn's couch, dry eyed and pale under her complexion and snatching her cell phone at random intervals even when she knew there were no messages.

At long last the call came, and when they heard she was out of immediate danger Santana clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as she hung up and bolted into the bathroom locking the door. When she finally came out Quinn was sitting down, leaning against the wall and bearing a box of tissues and a glass of water. That night for the first time Santana fell asleep before Quinn.

They arrived at the hospital early the following morning; technically visitors wouldn't be allowed for another half hour, but Santana had pleaded with her father to let her visit before the rest of the family descended. Understanding her reasons, he had consented.

Maribel was asleep in the on-call room, leaving them alone. In the early morning the hospital was quiet and the room where Santana's grandmother lay sleeping was bright with sunshine reflected off the sterile white walls. She was a slighter figure than Quinn remembered, but even pale and with pinched cheeks she seemed more at peace than when she was awake; some of the deeper lines on her forehead less noticeable with the lack of expression.

Santana froze in the doorway taking in the tangles of tubes and wires and Quinn had to steer her to a chair, worried her legs were going to give way. At first she looked completely lost, but then ever so gently stretched out a hand and brushed the skin of her grandmother's knuckles with the back of her finger.

But she looked up and frowned when Quinn produced from her bag the small bunch of flowers that Judy had pressed upon her as they climbed out the car.

"What are you doing with those?"

"Umm, they're carnations, I just thought -"

"No. Flowers are for funerals. People just bring them to hospitals so they can show everyone how much they apparently care, so they don't actually have to. Like $5s at a fucking gas station absolves them of any responsibility."

"Do you really think that little of me?" Quinn spoke quietly, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

"I – well, no – not specifically; it's just a general thing. Not everything is about you," Santana snapped. "Can you please just take them somewhere else?"

"Ok, fine, if you really feel that strongly about it..." Holding up her hands in surrender she replaced the offending flowers in her bag, resolving to drop them off on the paediatric ward or something on the way out.

They sat in silence for several minutes, on opposite sides of the bed. "Look, I didn't mean to say that you didn't care, I - ..." She cast around for words, but when none seemed to be forthcoming she changed tack. "Just, thanks for coming, and letting me stay at your house and stuff. I didn't a want to call Britt, and there wasn't anyone else, so..."

"It's ok, honestly. You'd do the same for me – I hope – and they're just flowers."

But Santana didn't look particularly reassured and didn't even look up, instead focussed her eyes down on the small circles she was drawing with her thumb on the back of her grandmother's veined hand. "The flowers don't matter." Her voice sounded hollow, and she paused for a long moment before she continued.

"You know what the worst thing is? When I thought she was dying the thing that scared me the most? It wasn't that she would die: I was worried she would die _before_ she forgave me. What kind of fucking sick person does that make me; that I cared about my own goddamn feelings when she could have died?" Hot angry tears spilled from her eyes, and she swiped at them roughly with her free hand.

"Santana, listen to me; when shit like this happens there isn't a right way and a wrong way to deal with it. Maybe you just found it easier to focus on her forgiveness because you didn't want to focus on the alternative... It doesn't mean you care any less, and besides, feeling guilty about lack of guilt is just stupid." She added hastily, "If you don't mind my saying so."

"It's not -... I mean I know she's not young anymore, but I just always assumed she'd come round, you know? But what if she doesn't? Do you have any idea what it feels like to sit here knowing that if she was actually awake she'd tell me to get lost?"

"You're still her granddaughter – I'm sure she'd be glad to know you were here, even if she won't admit it." Quinn paused, and wondered whether now was really the moment for brutal honesty. She didn't want to lie to Santana, but she tried to soften her voice, hoping the tone would cushion the words.

"You can't force her to change her mind, San; she's spent over seventy years making it up... But you owed it to yourself to be honest with her, and if she can't accept that then it's on her, not you. The most you can do is talk to her and if she won't change her mind then, yeah, it hurts like fuck, but it's not your fault. I'm not saying she definitely won't, because people change, sometimes you just have to give them time to figure it out and re-jiggle their head a bit." She realised she was rambling slightly; "Did that make sense?"

"Can't force it... Give her space... Hurts like fuck... I think I get the general idea." She flashed a weak smile across the bed, but the effort still fell just short of her eyes.

They kept it light after that when they spoke at all; Santana seemed detached and Quinn wondered whether she would have been better off keeping her mouth shut.

When the clock in the corner was approaching the hour, Santana rose stretching.

"Come on then. We should make ourselves scarce before the rest of mi familia shows up demanding to know who let the lesbo in."

Quinn chose to ignore most of that; accepting that as Santana-coping-with-stuff went, cynicism was generally a good sign. "I think she is definitely looking better. As post-heart attack patients go, I mean."

"She looks better than you did."

"Well in that case for my next life-threatening hospital visit I'll be sure to opt for thrombosis instead of a three-ton truck."

"Quinn," Santana seemed oddly serious as she stopped and turned sideways to face her, "Do me a favour and never get hit by a truck again."

"I'll do my best."

When they reached a set of double doors and stood aside to let a gurney pass, she felt Santana grab her hand for a second and squeeze tightly, deliberately not looking at her, before she reached out to grab the door before it swung shut.

* * *

**_April_**

_Her stomach was screaming and each muscle felt like it was on fire. With a grunt she slumped back down onto the mat breathing heavily. Santana didn't so much as look up from her magazine. Quinn hadn't asked her to come; the other girl had simply been waiting in the school parking lot at the end of the day when Judy arrived to take her to physiotherapy, and had climbed wordlessly into the front passenger seat that Quinn left conspicuously empty._

_That had been two weeks ago. Every day since she had turned up diligently, reclining on what looked like a fairly expensive piece of equipment and flicking through a magazine like she was on the couch at home instead of watching her best friend attempt to recover from severe spinal compression and regain the ability to walk. Every so often she would read aloud the latest happenings of Britney or the Kardashians while Quinn tensed-and-held or raised-and-counted, and the blonde girl wasn't sure whether she wanted more to punch her friend or just hug her and cry. _

_The first time she came the staff had been curious; often friends and relatives would hold the patients' hands or offer vocal support, but Judy pretty much had that covered, and Santana made the trip seemingly for the sole purpose of pointedly ignoring Quinn for the duration of the session. One had enquired politely whether they were together, which Santana denied a bit too vehemently for Quinn's comfort, and eventually they just accepted that she would be a permanent fixture as long as the blonde girl was there. _

_Quinn was grateful however when Santana's presence helped her convince her mother to let her go by herself, citing Judy's need to return to work, even if it had more to do with the way it made her feel so much like a child with her mother hovering over her, however well-intentioned. Even then they continued on pretty much the same as before, because Quinn would readily take silence over people reassuring her constantly that it would get better even as she had to crane her neck to look up at them from the chair that now dominated her life. _

_She had even started avoiding Artie where possible, because she knew what he would say, and sometimes on the bad days she was worried his words would be enough to extinguish whatever it was that kept her lifting and straining and counting down from ten over and over again. She had been raised with the mentality that you didn't ask questions that you didn't want the answer to, and what she dreaded most was finding out that underneath Santana's near perfect facade of complete indifference lurked the same condescension held in the same voices that told her it didn't matter that she was in a chair or told her with false optimism that they thought she couldn't detect that she just had to keep trying and not give up hope._

_All it meant in the end was that she had only herself to blame when the whole avoidance strategy imploded spectacularly because, she thought bitterly, when was the last time something had actually worked out for her?_

_It happened when Santana was telling her about Finn's latest brilliant notion to tie the knot in Chicago over Nationals weekend, and Quinn commented something along the lines of wishing they would just hurry up and get it over with, "although I suspect Rachel is probably enjoying the attention." Oblivious to the way Santana looked up sharply scrunching the glossy pages in her hand she continued, saying that it was probably less of a romantic gesture and more to do with the availability of a pre-paid hotel room for the wedding night. _

"_What do you mean by that?" _

_Quinn was taken aback by the intensity of Santana's gaze. "What do you think I mean? I know the image makes me want to bleach my eyeballs, but I'm not sure why it bothers you so much..."_

"_No, not that." Santana waved a hand dismissively. "I just meant; why aren't you yelling at me that it's the worst idea that anyone has ever had in the history of the world and that they are naive deluded idiots?"_

_Quinn pushed herself onto her elbows and shrugged as best she could in that position, studying Santana curiously. "If they're going to get married, then they're going to get married. Haven't we already had this conversation? Because I'm getting weird reverse déjà vu here."_

"_Yeah, but you weren't exactly agreeing with me then, and now you're all 'yay foolish life-long commitment'." Santana paused, "Have you really been ok with it all this time? Because I thought it was just a front to get us through Regionals alive."_

"_Well, it was at first, but then I saw her after the competition and we kind of reached an understanding – for lack of a better word. Now will you stop acting weird and just tell me what the hell I'm missing here?"_

_In the long pause that followed, her mind raced ahead. It should have registered as suspicious that she was taking so long to muster her words. She realised afterwards that it was deliberate, as Santana left it to Quinn to say what she couldn't admit aloud herself._

Why would it matter to her what I think about Rachel? She can't still think I have a thing for her... Or is she jealous because Rachel managed to convince me to but she had to trap me in a janitor's closet -... Oh_._

_Something must have shown in her face, because Santana suddenly tensed and had the grace to look ashamed as she failed to hold Quinn's burning gaze._

"_I thought you cared. I actually thought you fucking cared." Her voice was layered with disgust, because it was easier to focus on that that aching emptiness somewhere behind her lungs._

_Santana's head snapped up and she spoke somehow fiercely and pleading at the same time; "Don't say that, I did – I do care, of course I fucking do."_

"_No, you were right first time – past tense. I'm sure you did when you were just trying to appease your guilty conscience for making me drive to that wedding."_

"_That's not why -"_

_She began to object, but Quinn didn't give her a chance to finish. "Go, Santana. Just fucking go."_

_For a moment it seemed like she would refuse, but then Santana grabbed her bag and shouldered her way out, between the silent watchers, doctors and patients alike who had frozen as their eyes followed the exchange. Quinn stared at the swirling pattern of the wallpaper and didn't look up until she heard the outer door slam. Her mom drove her home that day._

_When the new boy offers to come with her she recognises the look in his eyes, but she accepts all the same, because she hates arriving alone, and she had discovered a long time ago that all hands felt the same in the darkness behind her eyelids. She lets him push her in the chair, but whenever they are too close and he tilts his head just so, she always turns her face and looks away, because although most hands are the same, lips are not, and she doesn't have enough pieces left to give any more away. _

_She says yes when he asks her to sing with him, purely because there is no easy way to decline, and somehow Santana's stony silence is a hundred times louder than all the other girls' excitement. That just makes the lingering hollowness in her chest swell until she has to wheel away before it threatens to consume her._

_She tells herself its ok, because as long as they are looking at the boy with dreadlocks and the way his eyes follow her, they aren't wondering about the girl who can't bear to look. Just another human shield between Quinn Fabray and the rest of the world._

_He wanted to fix her, but Santana never said she was broken._

* * *

The plan was a good one. Keep looking down, keep moving. Count the cracks on the sidewalk, and hope that by the time it runs out everything has fallen back by the wayside.

It lasted well for a week, or maybe two, but in the end all it took was a touch here, a glance that lasted a beat too long there, lingering on a figure that despite the semi-darkness stood out among the mass of bodies and drew her gaze effortlessly. It was the way the rhythm of the music seemed to twist through her body, filling her up and carrying her with it as the electric chords clashed and resonated in the crowded room.

The room was warm, and abandoning her drink to wherever the hell she'd left it she pushed her way towards the exit. She hadn't really been drinking that much but the endless pounding music and the overcrowded room wasn't agreeing with her. The back door of Sam's house opened up onto a small paved yard with a couple of bikes leaning against the fence and a rusting barbeque in the corner. But when noise drew her attention to the couple pressed against the wall of the house that looked too caught up in what they were doing to notice her presence, she turned around abruptly and headed back inside.

After trying several more doors she found herself outside what she remembered to be Sam's room, and with newly acquired caution she pressed her ear against the door and opened it slowly as she peered around to check it was empty. The music wasn't so loud up here, and she wandered around the darkened room, taking in the familiar stacks of comic books and running her finger along the spines of the homemade CDs piled on the cluttered desk. She smiled when she saw the battered acoustic guitar leaning lopsidedly against the windowsill and picked it up, feeling the smooth texture of the polished wood against her palm and plucking one of the strings idly.

When the door flew open she whirled around in surprise and it slipped through her grasp: the strings jangled discordantly and it landed with a muted thud on the carpet.

"What the fuck, Santana, you made me jump."

The other girl scanned the room quickly, and she looked puzzled when she turned to face Quinn. "I was – umm – looking for the bathroom. Are you up here by yourself?"

"Yes. Well, apart from the naked guy under the bed."

Quinn didn't miss the way Santana's eyes darted involuntarily to where her finger pointed, and couldn't hold back a smirk. "Oh, very funny Fabray."

Bending down, Quinn picked up the guitar, pressing her hand flat against the strings to stop them vibrating before returning it carefully to its original position. As she straightened back up she looked at Santana, who had her arms folded and was surveying with mild disbelief the various paraphernalia scattered around the room. "If you're looking for the bathroom, it's just down the hall on the right. The one with the sign on the outside that says 'bathroom'. You must have missed it on the way up."

Santana ignored her. "Are you waiting for Trouty Mouth? Because I have to tell you I don't rate his chances of making it up the stairs. Or making anything else 'up' for that matter..."

Quinn wrinkled her nose at that. "You really do have a one track mind don't you? I just had a headache, although I'm flattered you came to rescue me all the same."

Realising her cover story hadn't really been all that brilliant; Santana dropped the pretence and settled for rolling her eyes. "Well with your track record you should be glad I did. I doubt they have day care at Yale."

"That was two years ago; you could at least try and come up with something more recent if you really have to insult me."

"Well there's no point now you've said that, is there?" Santana grumbled. She turned towards the door.

"Wait, were you seriously coming to check on me?"

Sounding irritated, Santana responded, "So what if I was? I thought you might be drunk up here with some creeper jerk. Don't worry, next time I won't bother if actually caring just makes you mad."

Quinn had to grab the other girls arm to stop her moving through the still open door. "God you're sensitive when you're drunk. I'm not mad, ok? Just... Thanks."

Santana sniffed. "Well, don't get me wrong, I was just thinking ahead because whenever something like this happens you invariably end up sobbing in my kitchen, and my house has seen enough Kleenex in the last week to last us 'til the apocalypse."

"All the same, I appreciate the sentiment."

"Yes, well, people often tell me I care too much."

"Just unfortunately not about other people..."

"Harsh words Fabray. You probably can't tell but I'm actually bleeding inside."

"Yeah? Are you sure that's not just a side-effect of having a dodgy boob job?"

"There is nothing dodgy about my boobs: I have in fact received plenty of positive feedback. And being in this room talking about them is giving me déjà vu." She glared suspiciously at the Batman figurine on an adjacent bookshelf.

While she attempted to wrestle her thoughts away from a very particular path they were threatening to wander down and tried to think of an appropriate response, it dawned on Quinn that they were standing very close together, and Santana had turned to regard her with an expression she couldn't quite place, but woke butterflies in her stomach all the same.

The realisation that she was still holding onto the other girl's arm definitely didn't help. _Let her go. Let her go and just walk downstairs._ She was still arguing with herself when Santana's lips crashed suddenly and completely unapologetically into her own, silencing her as effectively as if she had been speaking aloud.

Santana's tongue swiped against her lips demanding entrance, and unthinkingly she complied, surrendering to the sudden rushing sensation through her body that this girl alone seemed able to induce. The combination of the bruising force of the kiss and her own surprise made her step backwards with a jolt, and she pushed gently against Santana's shoulder. The other girl pulled back looking uncertain, and she began to frown as Quinn disentangled herself and moved past her.

When she felt the cool metal of the door handle in her hand she paused and rested her forehead for a second against the wood, forcing her breathing to slow, and reciting in her head all the reasons why this was a terrible idea. That it took long enough for Santana to grow concerned and cross to stand next to her wearing a hesitant expression should have told her all she needed to know. She counted to three and, and then closed the door.

The soft click, and the rasp of the bolt sliding into place made Santana's head snap up sharply, and she looked surprised that Quinn wasn't on the other side of it. She watched her warily, waiting for her to make the first move. All of Quinn's own uncertainty seemed to have vanished; buried under the feeling of her own pounding heart in her chest and the way the eyes boring into her looked black in the dimly lit room. _Fuck September._

She crossed the pace and a half between them in a single step, and her hands fisted in the material of the front of Santana's dress, pulling the other girl into her to make up the difference. Santana's hands ran over the smooth skin of her arms and upwards to tangle in short blonde hair, as she pulled Quinn backwards with her.

They hit the wall with a thud, and their kisses were burning and feverish as hands tugged at uncooperative clothing as though sensing that whatever it was they were doing wouldn't last beyond the time it took for them to stop and consider.

But then the growl of an engine sounded from a car crawling up the hill outside and the slanted beam of the headlights burned through the curtains, throwing Santana's face into sharp relief against the wallpaper. The other girl squinted against the glare, and as it faded Quinn understood the expression on Santana's face, and realised with a jolt that it was exactly the one reflected on her own. The realisation filtering slowly in through the shards of the moment that the light had shattered.

She stepped back and not knowing what else to do with them wrapped her arms around herself, as Santana ran a newly unoccupied hand through dishevelled dark hair and laughed humourlessly. Turning away Quinn walked away and sat down on the edge of the bed chewing her lip.

"You could at least have waited a few more minutes before remembering this was a bad idea." Santana strolled over and laid down kicking her feet up on the comforter.

"A few more minutes might have made that point slightly redundant."

"Probably." She didn't have see Santana's face to know she was smirking. "Not that you'd have been capable of remembering anything at that point anyway."

"That smugness of yours really is an attractive quality." With a small huff of resignation she shuffled slightly and leaned backwards so they were lying next to one another.

"Thank you, I'd say it's my fourth best feature."

"Fourth? Actually, you know what; I don't even want to know."

"Liar. I know you're curious really."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

Santana grinned wickedly, "Funny you should mention cats -"

"Shut up."

For once she actually did, and they quietly lay side by side; the sound of their breathing lost in the echo from below of music from a long forgotten party. Because of the small size of the bed her shoulder bumped against the corner of the bedside table, but she couldn't bring herself to move as Santana's finger drew idle circles around her navel. She wasn't entirely sure she could have got up even if she'd have wanted to, and she felt strangely calm lying there silently in the darkness; like the world had stopped turning outside the room where meticulously painted figurines looked on with unseeing eyes over a single heel and the jacket lying discarded on the floor, and Santana breathed next to her, and that was all that mattered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I have no idea when the semester actually starts at Yale, so for narrative purposes I'm assuming they operate the same timetable as Hogwarts.**

The morning after they didn't really speak much; but Quinn accepted that it was probably mostly to do with the lack of coffee in the immediate vicinity, and didn't read too much into the non-committal grunts that were Santana's primary method of pre-caffeine communication. Attempting to arrange her hair into something less reminiscent of being dragged backwards through a large amount of foliage, she mused that for people so desperate to avoid honest conversation they spent a lot of time running headlong towards it.

For someone who had lived for so long under the weight of expectation, the idea of just for once refusing to care and deliberately not doing the right thing seemed gloriously tempting. She wondered what it would be like not to have to worry about the consequences, and deep down there was a part of her that longed to wake up one morning and scream "fuck it" at the world, then drive off into the sunrise on a motorcycle with just a rucksack and her Ray Bans. Or something like that anyway. She shook her head slightly to clear it, and realised that maybe Santana wasn't the only one in need of a caffeine fix.

She pushed in a couple of hair slides then paused to examine the effect. It was now leaning towards 'mild electric shock'. The customary hairband was missing from her wrist, and she glanced around for her purse. It was true though that Santana's mere presence had the effect of making her feel lighter in some indefinable way, inducing a heady feeling of recklessness that she both craved, but gave her cause to hesitate at the same time. _It couldn't be good for either of us in the long term _she thought, because the hotter something burns the quicker it runs out. And for God's sake, one of them had to be the sensible one, and she suspected that having to fill that role with Brittany was part of what had driven Santana away.

She pulled her hair into a scruffy ponytail and pushed the front strands that were too short behind her ears. She studied her reflection in the mirror; she was normally pale, but that particular morning it was more noticeable with the slight shadows under her eyes.

In a paradoxical sort of way she was both more confident and less trusting in herself. She had never been particularly impulsive but Santana seemed to evoke and draw out all her irrationality and the murkier parts of herself that she had chosen to ignore and quash, partly due to her religious upbringing, partly because the thought of not being in control used to scare her more than anything. Now though in the middle of the night it was a red blur of movement to her left and a tiny blonde bundle with Puck's eyes that she saw instead, and her control grew less precious by the day in comparison.

When she stepped out into the hallway the first thing she saw was Sam fast asleep and snoring propped up against the wall. Feeling immediately guilty, she retrieved a pillow from the bed and tucked it under his head while Santana rolled her eyes and looked on impatiently. They let themselves out, skirting around the prone figures occupying any available horizontal surface. Santana's eyebrows being the most eloquent part of her in the mornings they were quiet walking down the road, until a van honked at them and Santana smiled for the first time as they flipped it off simultaneously. By unspoken agreement they followed the familiar route, guided by yawns and the sluggish feeling in her brain.

The coffee house was quiet as well between the breakfast and lunchtime rush, and they claimed a table in the corner while Quinn played with the sachets of sugar waiting for her drink to cool. Santana had no such reservations, and Quinn's eyebrow inched higher up her forehead watching the other girl take a gulp of the scalding liquid.

She took the lid off the paper cup and blew on it gently, surveying Santana over the rim and wondering how best to broach the topic that had been playing around in her head since the previous night. And possibly for quite a long time before that.

"You know I'm leaving in two weeks."

"Was that even a question?"

"No."

Quinn took a tentative sip, and waited for the other girl's synapses to respond to the caffeine. With Santana a delicate balance was required; too straightforward and she would run for the hills, too subtle and she would quite happily (or at least indifferently, which was the Santana equivalent) pretend to have no idea what you were talking about. Santana emptied her cup but held onto it, toying with it idly. Finally she looked up.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Fabray." Quinn drank a bit more of her cappuccino to hide her smile. This only seemed to exasperate Santana who rolled her eyes and continued, "Come on, this isn't us, we don't do this."

"No," she admitted, "And hasn't it worked out wonderfully so far?"

Santana studied her carefully, "You seriously want to do this: an in depth emotional conversation in a coffee house?" She rolled her eyes for the third time in as many minutes, "God, I feel like I'm in a sitcom or something."

"If it makes you feel any better I wouldn't watch it."

"Me neither. Anyway, this was your idea – stop trying to change the subject."

There was a long pause while Quinn studied a circular burn mark on the table. "To be honest, I'm not really sure what to say..." She admitted slowly. "I'm not an expert at this either."

A fourth eye roll. Quinn wondered if Santana ever got dizzy. "You know sometimes I wonder whether I should have applied to Yale..."

"Shut up."

"Just being honest."

"Well that's a start I suppose."

"The start of what though?" Santana's tone was neutral, and she avoided Quinn's eyes by feigning interest in the wooden stirrer lying on the table between them.

"Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Do you not want to say it?"

"Fine!" Quinn threw up her arms in mock exasperation. "I like hanging out with you – even when you're being irritating and I'm trying to be annoyed with you except I can't seem to even do that properly anymore, which is even more infuriating. And I like your taste in music. And your DVD collection. And..." She was struggling, and Santana's eyebrows had almost disappeared into her hairline. She waved her hands around vaguely as though searching for words to pluck from the air. "...I would rather you weren't lending DVDs to anyone else," she finished lamely and flushed bright red as Santana burst out laughing.

She sat and glared in silence, which only made Santana laugh all the harder. Quinn was wondering how badly the conversation (not that it had gotten off to a particularly brilliant start) would suffer if she were to lovingly kick Santana in the shins, when the other girl regained composure enough to say, "Well for the record, I would also like for you not to share your digital media collection with anyone either."

There was a pause after that where Quinn wondered whether Santana was being sarcastic and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Right then. Ok." Quinn was relieved, because it at least felt like they were making some kind of progress, even though when she ran the conversation over in her head again later she would wonder exactly where it was that they had progressed to.

"Good."

"Fine."

Quinn made a point of peering into her cup to see how much coffee was left and Santana pretended to be fascinated by the pigeons in the parking lot outside. Then they both began to speak at once.

"Are we -?"

"Do you -"

Quinn waved for Santana to go first.

She cleared her throat, "So are we like...?" her voice tailed off towards the end and she gesticulated vaguely, inviting Quinn to chip in with an appropriate interpretation. A small traitorous part of her was glad for Santana's inability to finish the sentence, because the word still felt strange in the confines of her mind, and (for now at least) she didn't think it would be improved hanging between them in the warm quiet of the coffee house.

"I'm not sure. I mean we could be... Does it matter?"

Santana shrugged in response. "I suppose not. We'll just be what we are, I guess."

"Well that's one thing we haven't tried before. It could work."

"Oh just you wait, Fabray. I got plenty more where that came from." She winked, and reached over to pull on her jacket, oblivious (or perhaps not) to the dam her words had breached in Quinn's mind, flooding the darker corners responsible primarily for tingling sensations.

It was almost midday when they parted again at the same corner where their respective roads met. The daylight made it feel new; something different from the clumsy, fumbled, half guilty kisses stolen breathily when there was something convenient to shoulder the blame when it would have weighed them both down too much. Alcohol, accident, darkness; all hiding their own multitude of sins. She wondered if Santana was thinking the same thing.

"Why are you looking at me like that? It's not like we haven't done this before."

_We haven't_ she wanted to say. She settled instead for "We must be up to about five by now..." _Six, including that morning at the hospital when you came to visit early and thought I was still asleep. Your hair was still wet from the shower and I could smell the spearmint on your breath._

"Five? Is that really all?" Santana's voice mocked her gently.

Quinn wasn't sure whether to be exasperated or amused. She settled for kissing Santana again, partly to shut her up, partly just because she could.

* * *

**_June_**

_The bleachers were exactly the same. As she sat there alone in the sunshine it could have been any lazy afternoon from the last four years. It felt simultaneously that so much had happened, and that it had taken no time at all. Nothing had changed physically, but the world was big and wide and stretched out in front of her now in a way that her fourteen year old self with the creases fresh in her new cheerleading uniform could never have imagined._

_A slight breeze blew across the field and the dress she had bought especially for graduation fluttered around her legs. A familiar figure was approaching across the grass, and she briefly considered her getaway options, more out of habit than anything else. She couldn't bring herself to move though when she remembered that this was quite literally the last time they would be here, especially if _here _meant more than just the scarred wooden bleachers. She told herself it didn't._

_It had taken a National Championship, Puck's fake ID, and Brittany locking them outside on the tiny balcony of the hotel room in Chicago and refusing to let them back in until they had hugged and made up for them to sort things out. They had gotten there eventually, after almost an hour shivering in the cool night air, most of which was spent in sullen, stubborn silence, followed by a shouting match that had probably roused most of the fourth floor until they were both hoarse and had realised that they were exhausted, and a truce was a small price to pay to avert hypothermia._

_Santana sat down next to her and began tapping out a text on her phone. When she'd finished she turned to look at Quinn. "So my mom invited all my extended family members who still acknowledge my existence, and I have to go see them and pretend to be all emotional and shit. Who are you hiding from?"_

"_Rachel kept trying to hug me so I told her to meet me in the bathroom then ran for the fire exit. Well, not ran obviously. You know what I mean." Her empty fingers itched for something to roll between them._

_Santana looked at her with amusement. "I'm sure it was one hell of a zombie shuffle. And more to the point: if attempting to marry Hudson wasn't an example of desperate heterosexuality I'd say the hobbit had a thing for you, Q. Serves you right for getting into Yale; once she discovers trains there'll be no escaping from her."_

"_You must be really desperate to avoid her then, because for the life of me I can't think why else you'd be going to Kentucky." Quinn deadpanned back and fixed her gaze on Santana who glared._

"_Uh, maybe because I won't get a massive college bill for the privilege of busting my ass for four years."_

"_That's it; you're going because it's the cheapest option? Or was the lesbian cheerleader cliché just too good to resist?" The question was mostly just teasing, but Quinn was genuinely curious as she regarded the other girl._

"_Options?" She scoffed disbelievingly. "Which options do I have here exactly? It may come as a shock Miss Ivy League, but colleges aren't exactly fighting over me. Ok, so I'm not planning on being a cheerleader for the rest of my life, but I'm not about to turn down a free ride either."_

"_Even if that's not what you want?" _

"_What do you want me to say here Q? That I've had some kind of epiphany and I'm going to hop a train to the Big Apple with just the money in my pockets and a dream in my heart?" She scoffed. "Maybe you and Berry belong together after all..." _

_Quinn rolled her eyes. "All I'm trying to say is that you're good for more than eye candy and cartwheels 'Tana. I can't think of anything specific right now, but I'm sure there's something."_

"_That was a pathetic attempt at a compliment."_

"_I'm a little out of practice; I think you're rubbing off on me."_

"_Whoa, steady on Quinnocence." Santana smirked in a way that always made Quinn feel self conscious even if she didn't know why._

"_What?" Then she blushed. "Why does your mind always go there?"_

"_Because I'm an eighteen year old with a normal hormone balance. I think the question here is why doesn't yours?"_

"_You know what? I take it back, you should go. They'll love all your lesbian innuendo jokes in Louisville."_

_While Quinn was talking Santana's phone chirped, and her eyes skimmed over the text on screen. "They'll love me, period. Anyways it's been fun Q, like always, but for purposes relating to my inheritance I have to go make conversation with mi familia." She rose and stretched. "You coming?" _

_Quinn considered for a moment. "In a few minutes. I'll give Rachel some time to get clear." _

"_I'll tell her you're off praying or something. I got your back Fabray." She winked. "See you on the stage then I guess."_

"_Looking forward to it."_

_Quinn's eyes followed her as she walked down the steps and vanished through a small door in the back of the gym. The banner on the wall flapped idly against the brickwork in the breeze, and a couple of birds began pecking at the grass. The football posts cast long shadows on the field in the mid-afternoon sunshine, and she smiled remembering zombies in ragged jerseys dancing under the floodlights. She pulled a mirror out of her bag and carefully reapplied her lipstick. Trying to absorb as much of it as she could, she rose gracefully to her feet and decided to walk the long way round, one last time._

* * *

They were going to take it slow. By unspoken agreement they settled for lazy lingering kisses, twisting awkwardly to avoid contact that could lead to anything more as they sprawled out on sun loungers or danced around one another making drinks in the kitchen. It was strange in its newness for Quinn, and strange for Santana because the blonde girl wasn't Brittany, and because she was still adjusting to not having to justify the way her eyes lingered by pretending that was who she was thinking about.

But Santana did relationships (of any kind) like she did everything else; nought to sixty in under ten seconds, and in the end they lasted for just over a week.

They made it back to Quinn's house shortly before eleven pm. She fumbled with the key in the dark, her concentration really not helped by the way Santana rested her hands on her hips from behind and murmured for Quinn to 'hurry up and open the door before one of us gets carried away and gives that old woman next door a heart attack when she opens her curtains'. Quinn laughed – she had started doing that a lot recently – and they stumbled together over the threshold into the darkened hallway.

"'Bout time Fabray." Santana grumbled as they bumped together in the narrow hallway. Quinn turned, teeth flashing in the darkness and the door slammed louder than intended as she pushed the other girl against it joining their lips in a searing kiss. Santana's tongue swept across her teeth and she complied opening her mouth as their tongues battled for dominance. Deft hands unfastened her jacket and pushed it off her shoulders and she mirrored the action on the girl opposite her.

A dull ache started in her lower abdomen, like she hadn't felt in such a long time, and her heart thudded erratically. Santana was kissing her breathless and she barely registered the feeling of being pushed backwards as hands steered her in the direction of the stairs. Her heels still in her shoes hit the bottom step and she stumbled, but Santana managed to catch her so they ended up lying awkwardly, diagonally, with their bodies pressed together and she felt a breath of laughter warm on her face.

"Can't you at least hold it until we get upstairs, Lopez; there are some places I really do not want to get carpet burn." To her great relief her voice sounded steady.

"Yeah? We should probably get a move on then." She felt Santana's breath catch ever so slightly at the implication in her words, and then she was tugging Quinn upright so they stood face to face once more. There were fourteen steps, and by the time they made it to the top they had both kicked off their shoes and Santana had somehow managed to undo the top five buttons on the front of Quinn's dress one-handed.

Santana's arms wrapped around her and pressed her into the landing wall as her hands slipped lower and Quinn's tongue found its way again into her mouth. They staggered along the hall, bumping off the walls while Quinn pulled Santana's shirt out of her skirt and the other girl's lips redirected their attention to Quinn's neck. When they finally made it into her room they both paused, and she wished she'd thought to turn the light on so she could see Santana's expression. She stepped backwards into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp outside where she had forgotten to close the drapes earlier, and Santana followed.

What she remembered afterwards was a blur of heat and movement; almost too much sensation for her to take in: of Santana's lips and fingers mapping every inch of her skin, and the way they moved in perfect, messy rhythm and words and sounds spilled unconsciously from her mouth as everything else slipped away bit by bit. She ignored the voice in her head reminding her that she had no idea what she was doing and let Santana's responses to her clumsy circles guide her movements and felt more than a little satisfaction watching the other girl come undone.

The next morning she was second to wake up. She could see the wheels turning in Santana's head, and a slight frown beginning in the crease between her eyebrows as she took in the empty cardboard boxes and piles of clothes that littered the floor. She looked alert enough to have been awake for a while, and Quinn wasn't sure whether to be worried that something was obviously playing on Santana's mind. She could probably hazard a guess as to what.

"Are you sure about this?" Santana asked abruptly propping herself up on one elbow when she saw Quinn's eyelids flicker open. "Because, evidence of last night aside, I've forgotten why we thought this was a good idea."

"Why? Was I really that bad?" Bleary eyed and yawning, she tried to gather her still somewhat dazed critical faculties into working order.

"No, no, of course not." Even though Quinn had been joking Santana backpedalled a little too quickly for her liking. "I just don't want you to be doing this because you think it's romantic or some shit. You know, because it won't be; it'll be Skype and not seeing one another for months and my mom going all fucking CSI the second you set foot upstairs."

"I like your mom."

"Right, I'm going to skip right over the whole part about how much I really do not want to talk about my mom right now, and tell you that I looked it up on Google and it's about 800 miles we're talking here."

Quinn toyed with Santana's fingers where they lay on top of the covers. "More than six hundred and less than a thousand, yes, I know," she murmured, only looking up when Santana pulled her hand away.

"Quinn, I'm serious. There's not much point in any of this if by November you've got your eye on some chinos-and-loafers-wearing, daddy-owns-half-Alaska, Yale guy."

"Don't you trust me? Or is this about you trying to run away again?"

"After eight days? Give me a bit more fucking credit, Q."

Quinn stood up pulling the covers to one side, and picked up a sweatshirt lying discarded on the carpet. "Well why are you suddenly questioning me then?"

Santana sat up fully and scooted closer to the edge of the bed where Quinn stood and ran a hand through her hair. She considered for a moment before speaking.

"Remember before graduation, when you told me I was an idiot for going to Kentucky?"

"I don't think those were my exact words, but yes."

"No, right, you were much more subtle about it." Santana rolled her eyes. "I'm trying to tell you something here if you can hold off interrupting for a minute."

"Sorry."

Santana glared and Quinn mimed a zipping motion across her mouth. "The thing is you weren't the first. Well, I mean you were the first to actually say it, but I know my dad was thinking it. When I told him about Louisville he was really happy for me, but you know because he's a doctor – obviously I was never going to go into medicine, but still – I just think he expected _more_ from me. Hell, I expected more from myself, but I just didn't know what, and there are girls who would kill for that scholarship so I just sort of went along with it."

"But..." Quinn watched her warily and wondered where this was going, hugging the sweatshirt tighter around her body.

"But, I saw Alba a couple of weeks ago at the hospital and she kinda called me worse things than an idiot." Quinn had met the Santana's family on a number of occasions at BBQs and once a wedding, and remembered Alba as a twenty four year old version of Santana but with a kinder tongue and a gleam of silver in her eyebrow that she hid under a carefully arranged fringe whenever in proximity to her grandmother.

"She doesn't think you should go to Louisville?"

Santana grimaced. "I think that was the main point of her twenty minute rant, yes."

"Well what are you going to do? Have you spoken to your parents?"

"No, of course not, my mom would go mad."

Quinn shook her head slightly. "Ok, Santana, so you're basically saying you don't want to go, but you're still going to?"

"Yes and no." Seeing Quinn raise a finger and her eyes flash dangerously Santana continued hastily. "I'm going to go, but I'm not going to spend four years there. I'm going to apply to other places for next year; I just need time to figure out what it is I want to do and to work on my parents, because a full scholarship's a full scholarship whichever way you look at it. Actually, I'm thinking about New York – not NYADA or anything, but maybe NYU."

Quinn chewed her lip and watched Santana carefully, wondering if this meant what she thought it did. "I still don't understand what this has to do with me not being able to cope with long distance. I mean you said you wouldn't be doing it immediately, so..."

"I just don't want to be doing this for you."

"Excuse me?"

To her credit Santana looked apologetic, and made pacifying gestures with her hands in Quinn's direction. "What I meant to say is that if we're doing this thing anyway, then I know I'm doing it for myself, not just trying to be closer to New Haven. I mean I might not even go to New York, but I just thought you'd want to know..."

Quinn had to suppress the urge to grin like an idiot, telling herself that this was all just speculation and even if Santana managed to pull it off there would still be a year with eight hundred miles between them. "Ok, please don't think I'm not happy about this because I am, really, but what if you end up in Washington or LA or somewhere else on the other side of the country?"

"Washington? Can you really see me surviving in Washington? Mildew is like a way of life over there."

"The melodrama is lovely, Santana, but it doesn't really answer the question..."

Santana just shrugged. "Well, it's not like I have to make a decision any time soon... I know we'll definitely be apart for a year, so I guess we'll just see how it goes."

"Do you seriously this can work?"

"Do you have a webcam?"

"Yes..."

"It can work."

Quinn turned her head to look out the window so Santana wouldn't see her trying not to smile. Her stomach rumbled, and she glanced between the door and the still warm side of the bed she had recently vacated.

Her mind was made up when Santana reached out and tugged her forwards, quickly divesting Quinn of her recently re-acquired clothing and pushing her down with a muffled thump onto the mattress.

...

It was around mid-afternoon before Santana got around to leaving. Quinn walked carefully two steps behind following her to the front door, and looked around awkwardly when they paused facing each other across the threshold. Her next door neighbour looked up from watering the bright flowers in pots on the doorstep and smiled at Quinn. Santana seemed to be struggling to keep a straight face, but gave in and smirked back at Quinn over her shoulder as she turned to leave. There were seven steps from her front door to the sidewalk and the blonde counted them as she watched her go.

* * *

_The glare of the light on the train window meant Quinn was waving at her own reflection as she stood on the platform squinting into the brightness. Then the train began to move and suddenly Tina was crying to her left and Santana gripped her waist tighter as the patch of red they could make out behind the glass began to drift away. She felt butterflies jump in her stomach, the sense of finality hitting her at last. This is it. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry._

_When he ran out of platform Finn stopped and just stood: with his back to them and shoulders heaving he made a lonely figure in his best shoes and his father's suit. She felt Santana move away and wrap a red eyed Brittany in her arms instead as Blaine held Kurt and Mike gripped Tina's hand tightly. _Look at us all. Who would have thought it?

_Suddenly a shadow fell across the concrete in front of her and she couldn't stop the chuckle that fell unbidden from her lips. The shadow had a Mohawk._

_"Hey."_

_"Hey." She leaned into him almost unconsciously and he rested an arm casually around her shoulders. It felt natural, effortless; like they had finally found their rhythm just as they ran out of time. A poorly disguised sniff came from above her._

_"Are you crying, Noah?"_

_"I have a cold."_

_"You know its June right?"_

_"Hay fever. I meant hay fever."_

_Eventually they made it off the platform and huddled awkwardly in a group in the parking lot, knowing they couldn't stay there forever but no-one wanting to be the first to leave. Finn had yet to speak a word, and every so often his gaze would drift to where the empty train line vanished around the corner. At last Puck took his keys, and after brushing a quick kiss to Quinn's hair and giving her shoulder a squeeze steered him to where the black car lurked on the sidewalk, Kurt pulling Blaine along behind them. With the deadlock broken others began to leave: Mike and Tina to the dance class he was helping out with, Sam and Mercedes off for a picnic - Santana caught Quinn's warning expression and managed to contain her eye roll – and Artie to where his mom's car waited in the lot._

_Brittany made to follow, tugging Santana's hand as they walked to where the car was parked. Quinn hung back with the intention of giving them some privacy, but Santana slung her free arm across her shoulders and the three of them meandered in a straggly line across the asphalt. Mike called goodbye to the taller blonde as Tina's car pulled up to the exit, and Brittany released the hand she was holding and ran across to hug him though the open passenger window._

_Then it was just the two of them, and the solid weight of Santana's arm felt reassuring as they watched hands waving frantic goodbyes as they drove off. They leaned side by side against the shiny paintwork of Santana's car while they waited for Brittany._

_"I guess this is it then."_

_"Yeah. I can't believe I'm actually going to miss some of these people." Santana's eyes followed her girlfriend as she made her way from car to car, many of them sporting Mr Schuster's novelty show choir bumper stickers (she suspected the one on Santana's car was largely due to Brittany), saying goodbye again and hugging each of the occupants._

_"You don't look particularly upset."_

_The other girl shrugged. "We still have all summer. Thought you'd have the waterworks in full flow by now though, what with Berry being your new 'BFF'..." She could hear the disdain in Santana's voice on the last word, but she wasn't sure whether it was due to the acronym or the girl it referred to._

_"It makes you sound jealous when you put it like that."_

_"Well, I'm not."_

_"Yes you are."_

_"Am not." Santana pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and turned her body, effectively ending that conversation._

_"Oh, very mature Lopez." All she got in response was a single finger, and they stood in stubborn silence for the rest of the time it took Brittany to wave at every car containing members of the glee club, and by accident a couple that didn't._

_On the way to drop Quinn off at her house Santana and Brittany held hands across the centre console while Quinn stared out the window. When they reached her drive Brittany leaned into the back and pulled her into a hug, while Santana nodded to her in the rear view. She hoped that meant Santana didn't see this as goodbye, rather than being largely unconcerned at the prospect of not seeing Quinn again._

_The door clunked shut behind her and she was halfway to the front step before Santana's voice pulled her up short. The window was wound down all the way and Santana rested one arm on the frame. "Don't be a hermit or anything; call me, ok?"_

_"Might do." Quinn smiled to herself as she turned to open the door._

_She caught a glimpse of Santana's answering smirk as she turned back in time to see the car start to pull out. Standing alone in the dim hallway after the door had closed she told herself it wasn't goodbye. They still had all summer._

* * *

Quinn took a deep breath and pinched herself hard on the arm. This was it. It was funny the way you could watch something drawing inexorably closer only for its arrival to take you by surprise all the same. With Santana's help she had wrestled her suitcases into the trunk of her mother's waiting car, and the back seat was piled high with all the miscellaneous items she wasn't even sure that she needed but had crammed them in to be on the safe side.

Her bedroom wasn't as dramatically empty as she'd been expecting; from where she stood before the mirror you couldn't tell the dresser was empty and that the hangers hung silent and unburdened behind the closet doors. Apart from the lonely gaps like missing teeth in her bookshelves and the mattress stripped bare, if she didn't look too closely it almost seemed like she was going on vacation or something.

Most of the remnants of her childhood had already gone, torn away like all the parts of her life they represented as she jolted her way through high school. She knew that underneath the fresh layer of wallpaper were darker rectangles where cheerleading posters had once hung, and that a cardboard box under her mother's bed held the plastic middle school gymnastics trophies that Judy had retrieved without comment from the sidewalk as the refuse collection truck approached down the street.

She forced herself away from the nostalgia trip, and scanned the room for items she might have missed. In her purse was the small photo frame she had retrieved from the dresser, where Puck held Beth and they both stuck their tongues out at the camera. She had previously packed it and then taken it out again, because she couldn't think of a way to explain to her new roommate the little girl with blonde hair who was obviously too young to be her sister.

She turned back to the mirror and absently smoothed her hands over the fabric of the printed dress she wore. _Quinn Fabray, freshman at Yale College._ At least she looked the part. She remembered her eighteenth birthday and the way she had studied herself in a similar fashion looking for some imperceptible difference, some evidence that the change to adulthood was more than just her name on a voting slip and the pink iced birthday cake Judy had picked up from the store.

It hadn't felt then like anything had changed, but now at last, it seemed like something had.

The sound of a horn from outside rudely interrupted her train of thought and she smiled ruefully realising Santana and Judy had probably endured each other's exclusive proximity for long enough.

When Judy had caught Santana leaving the second or third time she had stayed over she had called Quinn out about it as they stood mirroring each other's posture facing one another over the salad bowl on the breakfast bar. Her mother hadn't voiced her objections out loud but Quinn saw it in the way she pursed her lips every time they brushed against one another even when the contact was entirely innocent. Resigned to the fact that her daughter was an adult, not to mention a week from leaving home, she had simply acknowledged that there was little she could do and through a smile that looked slightly strained informed Quinn that it was her decision and that she had no problem with it, but if Santana felt like spending the night it would be on the couch.

It was only as much as Quinn had been expecting, and given everything else that Judy had been through in the last few years, for now she was happy to take it, not wanting to cause a rift between them so soon before she left. What they had was a slightly uncomfortable compromise, where her mother operated under the assumption that it would burn itself out over eight hundred miles, and Quinn was reluctant to tempt fate by arguing about it. They were both vaguely aware that at some point in the future they would have to reach a more solid resolution, but for now settled for a temporary truce.

Her mother had been acting considerably more coolly towards Santana on the few occasions they had interacted when Quinn hadn't quite managed to steer them clear of one another. Fortunately the other girl seemed to find this more amusing than anything else, although Quinn wasn't sure how much of it was a front to further aggravate Judy. They were always perfectly civil to one another, but the underlying tone was still reminiscent of a hostage negotiation.

As she stepped out of the front door letting the latch click behind her she was greeted by the sight of Santana leaning against the back door of the car with one knee bent and her arms crossed, and her mother already behind the wheel. Approaching the car she could hear faint strands of music from the car stereo and see Judy's fingers tapping out a staccato on the wheel, which could easily be mistaken for engaging with the music, but Quinn recognised as escaping tension.

Santana smiled when she saw Quinn then pushed off the door and crossed to wrap her arms around the blonde girl's neck and brush her lips softly against her cheek. Even with the recent change in their relationship this disconcerted Quinn slightly, and sure enough she saw Santana's eyes flick to the wing mirror when she pulled back, and her lip curl slightly before focussing back on Quinn.

"You ready to go?"

"As ready as I'm going to be, I think." Her voice was soft and while she spoke her gaze trailed over Santana's dark chocolate eyes that rendered the pupils all but invisible and her high cheekbones. The only make up she wore was a sweep of mascara on her delicate eyelashes. Quinn preferred her like this; it reminded her of the way Santana looked upon waking up in the mornings with her full lips their natural pale pink and unruly strands of jet black hair mussed from the pillow. Pre-coffee-Santana was quiet and irritable, but so much more _herself_, Quinn thought, before the harsh black eyeliner painted the uncaring expression on her face over the smooth impenetrable layer of foundation.

"So I guess this is it then..."

"Yeah, I -" She was interrupted by the driver's door opening and Judy climbing out and walking towards where they stood, her heels clicking on the concrete.

"Are you ready to set off? We need to leave now to beat the traffic queue." She stopped with her arms folded and a forced smile almost certainly for Santana's benefit that was as bright as the sunlight glinting off the car keys dangling from one finger.

"Ok, I'm coming – could you just give us a minute?"

Judy pursed her lips and turned but didn't get back in the car; instead she stood about five metres away pretending to examine an imaginary scratch on the immaculate paintwork of the hood.

"Sorry." Quinn apologised quietly, because she wasn't sure what else to say. Her heart thumped almost painfully and she squinted as she looked at Santana and hoped the other girl would think it was due to the sunshine.

There were so many things she wanted to say but couldn't find the words to express them, because how could she – how could anyone – articulate the choked up tightness in her chest or the sudden urge to pull Santana to her and press their bodies together, and their hearts as well through the layers of skin and bone; to feel the separate beats resonate and coalesce like a single entity just for a moment.

Instead she reached out at the same time as Santana did and they tangled together messily with Quinn's arm looped over the one clutching her shoulder to brush a rogue strand of hair behind the other girl's ear, while her other hand landed on Santana's waist.

She floundered because she didn't want Santana to mistake her lack of words for absence of feeling, and her brain scrambled for something succinct and heartfelt. All she came up with was "Please just don't fucking fall for anyone," the entreaty belying the expletive as she murmured into Santana's ear.

She felt rather than heard the soft chuckle against her chest, and inhaled the familiar scent of coconut shampoo that she had associated uniquely with Santana for as long as she had known her.

"Same applies to you, Blondie." The words stirred her hair and it tickled the shell of her ear.

A small faux-discrete cough sounded from her left.

She inhaled deeply and willed her breathing to steady. She pulled back so their faces were inches apart. She was torn; a part of her wanted so badly to kiss Santana that she was tilting her head as she stood there but another part held her back. However sweet it would be to kiss her, those minutes, or more likely seconds – even an hour - would end too soon and then they would have to break apart; she would turn away and leave Santana alone on the sidewalk, a solitary figure in the rear view mirror. And she didn't want to remember her like this. Not with the dread of the impending departure twisting in her own chest and her mother watching stony faced as she checked her watch.

It was as though Santana was reading her mind however, because she leaned forward ever so slightly and pressed her lips softly to the corner of Quinn's mouth. For a heartbeat her eyes closed and it was warm and bittersweet and over far too soon. The ghost of pressure lingered for a further second as Santana pulled away and dropped her hands.

_Not yet, not yet_ the words sounded like a mantra in her head, but she didn't remember the walk to the passenger side, as dug her fingernails harshly into the soft skin of her palm and forced herself not to blink. She sat rigidly as the car pulled out, and forced herself not to look back.

When the tears threatened to spill from her eyes she squeezed them tightly shut and as the car rolled to the end of the drive conjured up an image in her mind. _A quiet Sunday morning, and her room was bathed in pinkish light from the drapes. Her head was fuzzy in a not-unpleasant early morning way and Santana hovered over her, the white sheet slipping down her back and red marks like lipstick kisses scattered on her neck and collar bone. She could feel the indentations the other girl's hands made in the mattress either side of her shoulders as Santana bent to brush her lips lightly against the corner of Quinn's mouth, teasing and patient in a way Santana rarely was, like in the silent morning they could pretend they had all the time in the world. _

She felt the car swing to the right and her eyes snapped open and she twisted round in her seat to catch a last glimpse of the receding figure, and remembered Santana's last whisper in her ear after she'd pulled her lips away. She hadn't been able to respond, afraid that if she opened her mouth the words that would spill out would be wrong and bumpy and she would be unable to hold back the tears.

She had promised herself she wouldn't cry. She hoped Santana knew her well enough to see her reply reflected in her expression. She prayed it would be enough, and hoped that if they had some kind of tab going up there someone would realise they owed her one.

The road stretched ahead, empty tarmac cutting a black ribbon through the fields to either side as the familiar landscape slipped by. It's absurd, she knows, counting down the landmarks like she's trying to hang onto it and desperate to leave at the same time; every recognisable town and road sign a jarring reminder of everything she is leaving behind.

Something mournful comes on the speakers and she lets her breathing slow and the lyrics wash over her. _And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China._ The lyrics make no sense but the tone resonates with the aching feeling inside her and while the song plays she closes her eyes and remembers a hundred fleeting touches, reliving again the ones she hadn't thought to treasure at the time. She will look up, look forwards, watch the view meld slowly from old to new and let the anticipation rise again, but just for now, for these three minutes, Santana's feather light kisses fall again in a line from her neck down her shoulder one hazy morning that feels half a lifetime ago, and the world can wait. Just for a few more minutes.

.

_End._

_._

**Ok, so that's 'it' so to speak; I know I said I might do an epilogue at some point, so for that reason it still says WIP, but I have no idea atm if/when it will be done, so to the two people who are interested just don't hold your breath... :P Also sorry if you live in Washington, I've never been been but I'm sure it's lov****el****y ****(not sarcasm) ****...**

**Also thanks to everyone who faved, followed and the ones who reviewed (including anons), you all made me happy. **


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