Lady Gaga, "Bad Romance"
I want your love/I don't want to be friends
Quinn isn't often jealous of other people. Even when she tumbles down from her high school pedestal, the baby in her belly dragging her down like a steel anchor tugging on a chain that threatens to squeeze the pride right out of her, she retains the ability to look at her life objectively and realize that for all that she's lost, she's still smart and clever and pretty and sneaky enough to slip through life under the radar until she gives birth and can stage her return to the top. Even with the child of the biggest womanizer Lima's ever seen growing visibly in her stomach, she still has her brains and her ambition and her unbelievable ability to work the system. No one else in this little cow town possesses that skill—not even Sue Sylvester, for all that she likes to pretend that she does—and Quinn knows that she can and will use it to get back everything she lost.
All that said, though, she occasionally finds herself seething with envy at Santana's ability to compartmentalize. They've been best friends since the first grade, when Santana punched Puck in the mouth for kicking sand at her on the playground, and not a day has gone by without Quinn marveling at the other girl's ability to sequester off every portion of life from each other—family, friends, cheerleading, glee, academics, sex, popularity. Overlap happens only when she allows it, and the remainder of the time, it's like she keeps her entire life on a paper picnic divider plate with nothing touching.
Quinn can't do that. Her relationship with Finn bleeds into her ability to control the Cheerios and the school, which slides into joining the glee club, which molds into an intoxicated haze of seat and sex with Puck, which mushrooms into an atomic bomb explosion that wipes out every cent of popular currency she once had. Santana, though, can keep running the cheerleading squad separate from keeping glee club afloat in the face of slushies and sabotage, and both of those separate from her classwork and her family and relationships and sex and friendships.
There's a small measure of satisfaction, then, when Quinn finds out that she's the one thing that Santana can't keep neatly boxed away. She can barely remember how it started, only that there was anger and frustration and bitching and yelling and Santana glaring murderously while Quinn meticulously picked apart her every flaw, and then Quinn's back was slamming against the wall behind her and Santana was molded to her front and there was a tongue in her mouth and hands groping at her belt, and suddenly the lines between best friends and head bitches and fuck buddies were blurring and fading slipping away. And then Quinn felt like the breath had escaped her entirely and her fingernails were digging into the skin of Santana's back through thin cotton as her back arched and her body got tighter and tighter and tighter like a coiled spring until it snapped and she was biting down on Santana's shoulder as they both trembled and collapsed against the wall behind her.
Two weeks later, she was pregnant, and her fall from grace left her and Santana fighting more than ever, and invariably ended with them wrapped around one another in an empty bathroom or a supply closet or the Cheerio's locker room, Quinn quiet and submissive and reveling in the feeling of some tiny bit of control over Santana's obsessively-controlled life while Santana cursed and growled and left bruises that no one else ever saw.
When they performed Bad Romance for the rest of the club, Quinn almost tripped over her comically conical pink dress when Santana's solo ripped out of the other girl's throat, angry and snarling as she slotted her eyes narrowly over to where Quinn stood; she missed the cue when the rest of them harmonized underneath her entirely. I don't want to be friends she growled, glaring at Quinn for a split second before the entire group came back together for the last chorus, and Quinn felt a thrill of adrenaline.
Santana Lopez, she knew, was always wholly in control of her life, perfectly manicured fingernails gripping perilously tightly to every facet and keeping every tiny bit in order. Except for Quinn Fabray, who reveled in pushing her past her control and found a thrill she'd never experienced in needling her best friend until she yanked her into a corner to fuck her against the uncomfortable metal of the lockers.
It wasn't romance, Quinn knew, except in the Lady Gaga sense. I don't want to be friends, she thought, dark and triumphant, when Santana's rough hands carelessly ripped through Quinn's clothes in the dark of the dressing room behind that auditorium while Puck laughed with Mercedes twenty feet away. Santana's hands pushed roughly past the swell of Puck's child growing in Quinn's stomach, bypassing the mounting evidence of Quinn belonging to anyone else as she bit down on Quinn's neck and pinned her to the wall.
A bad romance, indeed.