|Thunder, Clap Us Open
Author: jellyfishheart PM
"The day Santana devotes to finally clearing out her closet, three things happen." Touches on family, relationships, and sexuality. Brittana, Quinntana. UPDATE: temporary hiatus due to broken laptop & corrupted files.Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Family - Quinn F. & Santana L. - Chapters: 8 - Words: 61,310 - Reviews: 203 - Favs: 204 - Follows: 351 - Updated: 05-27-12 - Published: 09-19-11 - id: 7396619
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Author's note: This is a story about Santana. It will involve Brittany; it will also involve Quinn (possibly not how one would expect, but the three seem to orbit around each other). I think I may be on a short hiatus from the other stories I have yet to finish, but this is mostly so I don't force myself to write crap just to fill a chapter.
I suppose this takes place the summer before senior year.
The day Santana devotes to finally clearing out her closet, three things happen.
The first; her cell phone explodes with an eerie set of text messages from Quinn, who, in her alien form of compassion, decides the two of them need to work on their botched friendship, after what happened in New York. (The way she words it sounds like the two of them hooked up in some sex dungeon and it gives Santana a good laugh before she thinks about what the haircut actually means to Quinn.) It's probably mostly due to the empty Fabray residence after the divorce and maybe a little because of Quinn finding herself single (not that Santana would ever go near that blonde train wreck, even if Quinn finally clued in on what two girls actually do together), but Santana's just as lonely since Brittany made it clear she's not looking for more than friendship for awhile and maybe Quinn's icy façade could come in handy this summer.
The second; her younger brother Desi drops the bomb that their parents are having a Conversation in her dad's office (which never turns out well, as the two Lopez children learned long ago) and that they keep mentioning Abuela. Desi clambers through half-filled boxes on Santana's floor to get to the bed and swings his feet against the side of the mattress as he explains exactly what he heard, which includes a word Santana's been trying to avoid since her grandmother started sticking shoes in the freezer. Alzheimer's.
"I think Abuela's gonna move in with us," he says quietly, and even though he's eleven and decided long ago that his big sister was only really good for target practice, Santana can't help but want to pull him into a crushing hug. "I think she's gonna forget us, too."
The third; as Desi taps away at his sister's laptop (thank God she hid her porn under a folder marked "Melissa Etheridge songs", otherwise things could get awkward), Santana pulls her old diary out of some dusty corner of the closet and realizes on the last few pages, twelve year-old Brittany wrote her a letter. The discovery makes her heart stop and she busies herself with replying to Quinn's nearly-desperate text messages so she doesn't have to see, in Brittany's handwriting, a snapshot of the year she fell in love.
"You okay, Sanananana?" Desi looks up from the Lego Harry Potter website just in time to catch his sister slam a furry pink notebook far back into the closet and storm downstairs. He stares at the empty spot where she'd been for a beat before shrugging slightly and turning back to the laptop.
Part of him had wanted to ask why her background's a photo of Brittany at Breadstix, but he learned a long time ago that his sister is probably one of the weirdest girls to ever exist. And if he ever tells her this, he's begging for an early grave.
When she returns ten minutes later to confirm that yes, Abuela's moving in by the end of the week, he decides maybe it's worth making her angry just so her face won't look so worn out.
Abuela's presence vomits doilies onto nearly every surface in the house. Santana's parents had promised the old woman would mostly stay in the guest bedroom (Abuela's room now, despite the silk throw pillows), but a few boxes became a few more and suddenly her stuff poured out into the hall and made its way across the entire top floor.
When Santana finds a doily in her sock drawer, scarily close to where she's hidden her vibrator, she's had enough.
It's been years since she could look at white anything without feeling like she'll taint it with her impurity.
The doilies have to go.
"Just get rid of them," she tells Desi, arms folded sharply across her tight dress.
He frowns at her. "What's in it for me?"
"I won't hide any more cheese in your closet," she says with a shrug. "Fair trade?"
His gaze remains fixed with hers for an intimidating amount of time before he finally answers, face freezing in an expression she can't read. "You really need to stop hiding things in the closet."
"Just get rid of those damn doilies."
The house is cleared for two days before a little round scrap of lace shows up on Santana's desk. She wonders if it makes her a bad person, wanting to punch her grandmother. Instead of taking action, she calls Quinn and "accidentally" knocks a bottle of black nail polish onto the doily.
Santana is not a people person. More so, she's not a Quinn person, and this becomes apparent after twenty minutes of silence between the two of them as they perch on Santana's giant bed.
It was easier when she knew nothing about the girl other than that she was competition for head cheerleader. At least then they could fall into place on the couch during Brittany's movie night without the blatant awkwardness settling over them. Now… Santana's not sure, but it's probably weird to wonder if Quinn's had sex since giving birth or if she still wears her sister's hand-me-down bras.
These are not thoughts to be had about friends. More specifically, these are not thoughts to be had about female friends, and Santana forces herself to think about Abuela down the hall, who's been playing the same record on repeat for eight hours now.
"She has good taste in music," Quinn says suddenly, breaking the silence. She shifts on the bed to look at Santana then immediately drops her gaze. "Your grandma, I mean."
"Sure," Santana offers, still debating whether or not boys are allowed to wonder these things about girls they know. Her cheeks are hot, but in the dim lighting of her bedroom, she knows Quinn can't tell.
Sometimes having the fortress of an angry dragon has its advantages. Other times it just makes her realize how lonely she's become.
Quinn tries again. "I didn't know she was living with you. I thought she had that place in Cleveland? You used to go see her at Christmas."
"She's too ancient to live on her own," Santana replies curtly.
"I- oh." Quinn's face clouds over with something Santana can't read. "Well now I guess you won't have to freak out about the drive to her place – no more car sickness."
It wasn't the car that made her sick.
She's not about to explain to what might as well be a perfect stranger that family get-togethers only result in the loudest, most terrifying fights she's ever witnessed and the dread is what caused her stomach to empty itself all over the backseat of her dad's expensive car.
(In the quiet pause, she realizes people will only ever be perfect as strangers. And that's what the two of them have unknowingly been trying to achieve, all these years. She's still not sure what she's gained from isolating herself. Secrets, maybe. If only she could trade them in for a prize at the arcade – she'd get that stuffed duck for Brittany.)
"The old woman keeps sticking doilies everywhere," Santana grumbles, picking up a dark pillow and hugging it to her chest.
Quinn nods carefully. "That would explain the bathroom."
It's awkward again. Santana wants to throw the pillow at Quinn's head to try and maybe lighten the mood, but she's not sure how to make things okay without Brittany at her side.
For the fifth time since July started, she finds herself cursing Scotland and Brittany's parents for thinking a month-long vacation would be a good idea. She knows, though, that when Brittany returns, she'll have no excuse for the mangled friendship they've fallen into. Distance can only make things okay for so long.
"So," she starts.
"I'm not good at this," Quinn admits in a rush. "I thought if I just wanted us to be friends again, it would work. But I- this is ridiculous. I've been here half an hour and all that's happened is you've gone from looking like you're about to cry, to looking like you might explode. Maybe I should… I don't know. I should go."
Santana's so tempted to let Quinn leave so she can go back to blasting Amy Winehouse (to combat Abuela's old person music) and sipping her parents' gin until she stops feeling like she'll burst into tears at any moment.
She wants nothing more than to be left alone to mope (and occasionally toss shit at her brother when he pops his head in to complain about her music being too loud).
Both girls glance at each other in surprise.
Santana shrugs away the inquisitive look Quinn's giving her. "We could watch a movie or something. I dunno. You any good at Mario Kart? Puck gave me his old Wii and I sort of like kicking ass."
Quinn's face is the most absurd mixture of astonishment and terror as she gives a slight nod, adjusting her position on the bed. "When you live with that boy, it's sort of inevitable that you'll pick up some sort of Mario skill."
"You clearly should've stayed with me," Santana says loftily. "Maybe you would've picked up on how to be a bamf."
"I wasn't aware that was an option," Quinn says coolly, eyes narrowing slightly.
Santana's immediately filled with guilt for the space she let settle between them when Quinn needed someone. She's not a Quinn person; mostly, she knows Quinn deserves better. Once again, she's not enough.
She hops off the bed, quickly rifling through the game cases on her desk. "Sorry," she says, pulling out Mario Kart. "Wanna play, then?"
"I can't wait to beat your ass." Quinn's grin turns slightly devious as she rises to help Santana set up the Wii.
Hours later, when Desi finds them to say dinner's nearly ready, Santana's lying flat on top of Quinn's back and shouting Spanish curses at the screen as the two of them shake their controllers at Princess Peach.
He backs away slowly, wondering if this is what Johnny Creevie in the other fifth grade class would call "lezzie". At least Santana looks happy, he thinks, jumping down the steps two at a time.
Her pretty loses the scary edge when she's smiling her real smile.
Quinn ends up grasping Abuela's hand when they say grace. She turns to Santana as if to ask why she'd never mentioned anything about religion before, but suddenly Abuela's squeezing too tight and muttering something about leaving the baby in the oven and all Quinn can do is dig her fingernails into Santana's palm until Dr. Lopez silences the table.
It's a little like TV families and a lot like Quinn's family used to be, before everything went to shit. When the father rises, everyone shuts their mouth in varying levels of fear. She finds Santana's reaction the most interesting: the girl's eyes grow big and terrified as if she's no older than seven or eight and she drops her gaze to her lap, like a child being reprimanded. Santana's brother – Desi, she's pretty sure he's called – twists his mouth into a mocking smile as his father turns away. Santana shrinks into her seat.
"We're glad to have you joining us tonight, Quinn," Dr. Lopez says in a voice that demands attention.
He's so similar to her own father and she's not sure if she's supposed to be afraid or if she should miss the man who gave her thirty minutes to get the hell out of his life. Either way, she smiles in return.
"Thank-you for having me," she says softly, hand tight in Santana's, only now they've dropped to Santana's knee. She finds she can't let go. "I appreciate it."
Abuela's eyes grow misty. "I had a lover named Quinn once."
Face twisted with horror, Mrs. Lopez jumps up. "No, Mama. You read that in one of your Harlequin books. You married Santiago, remember? Your husband."
"Right," Abuela agrees, but it's obvious she's still unsure.
Across the table, Desi swings his leg far enough to kick Santana in the shin but the girl remains frozen in her seat, staring at her steaming plate. Ten minutes into the meal and Quinn knows why Santana used to be so adamant that movie night happen at Brittany's house.
"He died two years ago," Mrs. Lopez clarifies, sinking back into her chair. "You wore your hat to the funeral."
"I loved that man," Abuela says loudly.
Santana shuts her eyes.
Quinn glances over at Desi and he crosses his eyes, sticking his tongue out to the side. She quirks her eyebrows, nose scrunching up, and the two share a secretive smile.
Abuela raises her glass of water high in the air. "To sin!"
Dr. Lopez's eyes bulge out of his head in unison with Mrs. Lopez's fork clattering onto her plate and if it were possible for Santana to become even smaller in her large chair, she does so, mouthing something to herself that resembles a prayer and a plea for help.
Desi's face breaks out into a wicked grin. "To sin."
Brittany calls eight days after Abuela moved in.
When her name flashes across the screen, Santana stares at it as it rings out and continues to remain unmoving, phone in her hand, as Brittany leaves a message. The voicemail notification dances at her but instead of curiosity, she feels the sickening sense of dread rising in her throat. It tastes like breakfast.
In her room, wrapped tight in her black duvet, she can't bring herself to listen to whatever Brittany has to say. Every word that comes out of the girl's mouth carries the sour echo of you're my best friend, Santana; I don't want to change that and though she'd nodded along at the time, right now she wishes more than anything she'd fought for another chance. Maybe, she thinks, eyes fixed on the small screen; maybe she could've made Brittany realize they'll never be just friends.
She's trying to figure out why her first instinct is to call Quinn, despite never having told Quinn anything about what she feels for Brittany, when the door bursts open. Desi stands there in his Spiderman boxers.
"Abuela's asking for Maci," he says seriously, rubbing his eyes.
She drops her phone and sticks her face further out the hole in her black cocoon. "Good for her…?"
"She means you," he explains. "She wants to talk to you, but she keeps calling you Maci and Mami's getting that ghost look on her face again so you should probably go downstairs."
He frowns at her. "What are you even doing? Were you crying?"
She grabs a pillow and tosses it in his direction, missing on purpose, but it does the job and scares him out of her room. Sometimes she wonders if he's part cat; half the time he's as skittish as Brittany's bastard tabby.
Before leaving her cave, she quickly pats her cheeks with powder to hide the tear streaks.
Brittany calls again that evening, after dinner. Santana's in the kitchen with the intention of helping her mother with the dishes like she means to do every night, but it mostly ends up with her sitting on the counter and aimlessly flicking soap suds into the air to watch them drift onto the floor.
When her phone rings, blasting the opening notes of Dancing Queen, her mother frowns at her like she has something on her face. Her hand rises to her cheek out of habit before she realizes.
"It's Brittany," she says automatically, and her mother's eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Did you two get in a fight? She hasn't been around for your sleepovers in awhile," Mrs. Lopez comments, side-stepping a small puddle of soap suds on the floor to stick a plate in the cupboard.
They have a dishwasher so really, it's ridiculous that her mother insists on doing the dishes by hand, but some part of growing up straddling the poverty line seems to have stuck with the woman. Santana's met with this exact same mixed feeling of embarrassment and weakness when her mother refuses to buy anything that isn't on sale.
Her father's the only one in this family who's okay with impulse purchases, which is how Santana ends up with a closet full of designer labels. She blames it on his Old Money and secretly sends most of her wardrobe to Goodwill every chance she gets.
With cautious eyes, she watches the voicemail notification pop up. "Sort of; I don't know. Things are just… different."
"Sometimes it's nice to make new friends," Mrs. Lopez replies. "Like that Quinn girl; she's a sweetheart. And a Christian girl too, right? Must go to the church up near Mason."
"Yeah." Santana sucks in her cheeks and lets her heel fall hard against the cupboard door. "She's full of good Christian values."
Mrs. Lopez clicks her tongue. "You could learn a few things from her, Santana. I bet her life doesn't revolve around boys."
She wants to argue that no, it sort of does – and actually, her own doesn't; it revolves around Brittany – but now's not the time to admit to any of that. She's not going to bring her mother's world to a halt with soap suds on the floor.
"Quinn's a good girl," she says instead, wanting to add more. I'm not; you won't love me if you know.
If she ever thought her life would revolve around not saying something – her, the queen of keeping it real… She also used to think there'd be a point where she could grow into a boy, so it'd be okay to marry princesses.
"Bring her around again," Mrs. Lopez says with a firm nod, shaking her hands dry.
Santana contemplates dropping her phone into a sudsy death before just turning it off and shoving it in the pocket of her tight dress. She has a secret soft spot for dresses with pockets; it's like bum ruffles on a little girl's bathing suit.
"I will, Mami." After a moment, she looks her mother in the eye. "Who's Maci?"
A dish towel lands in her lap as Mrs. Lopez's face slides into something neutral. "The rest of those dishes need drying. Next time Quinn's over, don't hide her away in your room; I'd like to have the chance to chat with her."
Santana wraps the towel around her hand like a boxer before a big fight and stares uselessly at her mother's back as she leaves the room.
In the den, Abuela laughs too loudly at a Spanish game show.
Quinn drops by unexpectedly on a Sunday morning, half an hour after the sun rises. Santana would cuss her out if she hadn't already been awake and sitting in the mouth of her closet, still in sleep shorts, carefully reading everything in her old diary but Brittany's letter.
In fact she's so engrossed in trying not to be curious about what Brittany wrote that it doesn't even click in, that Quinn's standing in the doorway.
Quinn rolls her eyes and knocks softly on the black wood of the door. "Santana."
It physically hurts to pry her eyes off the page – she's in the middle of a passage about everything she'd like to do to that Puckerman kid's hair – but when she looks up at Quinn, her stomach drops further.
Quinn runs a soft palm across her slightly swollen cheek and nods, but it's really a shake of her head and a couple tears roll down the purpling skin under her scared eyes.
Santana's standing in seconds and doesn't even think before pulling Quinn into a tight hug. Though normally she'd protest like usual, Quinn sinks into her, nearly squeezing Santana with her arms, and lets the rest of the tears out silently.
Santana has never witnessed anything more heartbreaking than a girl crying without sound.
"I'm sorry I disturbed you," Quinn finally says in a whisper, pulling away to wipe her cheeks. As she does so, some of the makeup rubs off and a fading handprint shows up along the side of her face.
"Don't start," Santana says with a frown. "My door's always open for you, no matter what happened."
Quinn relaxes slightly with relief.
"But um… what- happened?" She can't help herself; the handprint's so pink and it's a definite bruise forming under Quinn's eye, not from a lack of sleep.
Unsure, Quinn steps further into the room and perches on the edge of the bed before Santana waves her into the middle, joining her, and the two are side-by-side under the black duvet. Quinn's still trembling.
"It's nothing," Quinn says quietly, staring up at the ceiling and counting the dangling crystals on the chandelier.
Santana makes a noise in her throat. "Honey, that is not nothing. That's a whole lot of something that you shouldn't hide because it's probably kind of a big deal. And knowing you, you'll probably try to make it go away by ignoring it."
"It's just sort of embarrassing." Quinn rolls over until she's facing Santana's desk and it's a little bit sad, how she fills the Brittany-hole almost as well as the real thing. "I don't even know why I came here; I just started walking."
Santana reaches out but her hand falls halfway to Quinn's back, because how do you make someone feel better without what she does to Brittany? She's never had to care about someone else; she's never needed to make anyone else okay. She fists the sheets instead and sighs.
"I bet it's not as embarrassing as my diary from when I was twelve – that was awful."
Quinn laughs in that sad, sort of surprised way. "Really?"
"I don't know what it is about thinking every single step is the biggest problem in the world to a preteen girl, but that whole freaking book should just never see the light of day."
"If you share it, I'll share," Quinn says in a voice that's usually reserved for planning about Rachel Berry.
This is not what Santana had in mind. Quinn rolls over and there's a glint in her eyes.
"January 30th," Santana starts, cheeks hurting from biting back an embarrassed smile. "In gym class today Puckerman told everybody he had sex with an older girl and Hudson McDouche had to ask what sex was. I really wanted to punch him. I punched Puckerman instead and then after school at the bus stop he told me it was his nanny and I didn't know boys could ever look that sad. Maybe it's not really okay for things like this to happen at twelve."
Quinn traces the sequins on one of Santana's pillows, listening attentively and chewing hard on her bottom lip.
"When I got home Brittany was already there with Mami and the baby and she said she heard about gym class and I didn't want to explain sex to her but in my bedroom she told me she already knew and then I didn't want to know."
Santana pauses, her stomach flipping over as she turns the page and tries not to remember how Brittany's blue eyes weren't sparkling that day.
"Brittany's supposed to be mine. She's my best friend and we do everything together and she's not allowed to be kissing boys and letting them put their hands up her skirt. I didn't even want to look at her. But she made me, because she always does, and then she put in Mulan and gave me the longest hug ever. And it didn't feel like it usually does. Maybe because she's been doing stuff with other people. Is it normal to want to kill whoever touched her? She won't tell me who it is. Maybe that's why."
In the silence, Quinn gives her a mixed look and nods slightly, resting her head on the pillow. "Eventful day," she says softly. "It's weird hearing about everyone before I met them."
Santana's not sure what to reply; she has no idea what the entry revealed and it was a stupid idea anyway, agreeing to share this with Quinn. "Yeah?"
"No one's really changed much," Quinn says with a half-raised eyebrow, meeting Santana's gaze head-on.
"Your turn," Santana says quickly.
Quinn shakes her head and goes back to tracing the sequins, stretching slightly so every bump in her spine becomes visible for one swift moment. Then she's back on the bed, curled up like a cat. "One more entry. Then I share."
It's ridiculous. Santana's not going to sit here and just let go of all these little pieces of her past like this while Quinn plays her like a goddamn violin. It doesn't work that way; she's Santana Lopez – she calls the shots. Nobody tells her what to do.
Quinn nods for her to continue. Bitch.
"We're just going to get a house together and fill it with all Britt's cats and live there for the rest of our lives. People suck. Brittany doesn't. I'll keep her safe and cook for her and get an awesome job so we don't have to worry about money and stuff. She'll love me. But she's going to have to clean all those litter boxes because I don't do cat shit. I don't even like cats. They always sleep on my face when I'm at Britt's. Especially that fat bastard cat – I hate him."
Quinn laughs, knowing all too well what that cat does to Brittany's guests.
"And it's totally okay for two girls to live together until they die. Puckerman told Brittany it's going to make her a dyke and she was crying for three hours until I finally explained she'll never be a wall. Sometimes I think she just pretends not to know things so I can feel smart. But we're going to be roommates like Rachel and Monica on Friends and Puckerman can just die in a hole. He's a bastard anyway. His haircut looks like something Britt's cat coughed up. I'll tell him next time he really pisses me off."
This- okay. Santana's praying Quinn isn't smart enough to catch on, but she knows the girl's smarter than half their teachers, so mainly she's just praying Quinn doesn't hate her or isn't about to tell her she's going to Hell.
"You two should still get that house together," Quinn says with a soft smile, and Santana's heart actually stops in her chest for a second.
"You could keep her safe and give her a big home for her cats. It'd be sweet."
Santana nearly spits out are you dumb? But the look in Quinn's eyes says no, she's not; she knows. Quinn knows.
"Don't look so shocked, Santana. I support roommates," Quinn says, giving her a slight smirk. "I mean, it makes it easier to pay rent. Anyway. My turn?"
Stunned, Santana nods.
"Right." Quinn pushes up on her elbows before adjusting to a seated position, back against the headboard. She runs a finger along the fuzzy pink cover of Santana's diary before her smile disappears. "I got in a bit of a fight."
"It's only like, seven in the morning. Who could-?"
"I will hunt you down if you tell anyone," Quinn hisses, "But it's not exactly Heaven in the Fabray house. My mom-"
"I'm going to kill her," Santana cuts in.
Quinn shakes her head and flattens her palm against Santana's knee in the softest slap ever. "She has a bit of a problem. Sometimes I get in the way, like this morning."
"Still gonna kill her."
"Just kill whoever makes alcohol," Quinn says, frowning and staring at something invisible in front of her. "And I swear to God, if you tell-"
"Relax, Q. I'm the queen of secrets."
Quinn glances down at the diary then meets Santana's eyes. "Right."
Desi finds them asleep in Santana's bed, half holding each other and that weird furry pink book that made Santana so angry, a few weeks ago. He stares at them from the doorway for a minute before wondering how blonde people keep getting in the house while he sleeps.
He's supposed to make sure his sister's getting ready for church, but he doesn't want them to throw something at him, like Santana always did when Brittany slept over and he tried to talk to them.
He settles on slamming the door before popping his head in to try again.
"Oh good; you're up. Mami says you have to get ready for church and I guess that means you too, Quinn?"
It's almost too easy, dodging the pillow this time.
"Go away, you worm. We'll be ready in a few. And tell Mami Quinn's coming in my car."
Something about the sad creases around Santana's eyes makes him realize Quinn's not exactly the same as Brittany and he wonders when he'll be able to tease his sister again without feeling like he's kicking a wounded puppy.
Church is different, with the Lopez family. It's different but it's the same and Quinn's still not sure if she's allowed to look at stained glass Mary when their wombs are both now so empty.
The church itself is a lot nicer than her own; the pews are lined with plush velvet cushions and the large statue of Jesus nailed to the cross seems to shine brighter than anything she's ever seen before. It may be Catholicism itself. It may just be the money these respected families pour into their Sunday mornings.
It's the same in the sense that her Sunday best still clings too tight for her liking, despite this being Santana's white dress and Santana's satin bow nestled perfectly in her blonde hair.
Earlier that morning, her breath had caught in her chest as Santana's delicate hands made up Quinn's face like a China doll. She'd sat so perfectly still. Neither said a word.
Though she's listening to the sermon, doing her best to take the words to heart, she's more focused on how Santana's hand grips Abuela's – with the intention of keeping her in place, but it seems more like Santana's the one that needs grounding.
Desi catches Quinn looking at Santana and makes a face until Quinn's biting back a smile.
After, they pile into a booth at a pancake house, all dressed up too fancy for the stained table.
Quinn finds herself squashed in next to Santana and Desi and the little boy pokes her in the thigh until she gives him a stern look; then he giggles and flips through his menu like it's what he was doing all along.
Pancakes. Quinn hasn't been allowed to eat anything like this for as long as she can remember and the menu seems like a challenge until Santana glances over and clears her throat.
"Papi? Quinn's allergic to like, half the stuff on here. Can we split a fruit salad?"
He raises his peppered eyebrows over those stern glasses and gives a quick nod before turning back to his menu.
Santana leans over with the intention of stretching and whispers in Quinn's ear. "Stop worrying about your weight."
If they hadn't suffered through years of cheerleading diets together, Quinn might be a little miffed that Santana knows anything. But paired with Brittany they'd all managed to survive on packing peanuts and nicotine gum for two weeks so she's glad to have the excuse of old habits dying hard, instead of admitting to what exactly her father drilled into her head long before she feared red tracksuits.
When the food arrives, Desi sneaks a grape from Santana's bowl and watches his sister's lack of reaction carefully before slumping back into the booth.
Quinn remembers doing the same to her older sister not long before she disappeared.