Part Eighteen: But My Body Keeps on Telling You 'Yes'

"But Jesus fuck, I'd swallow poison if it tasted like you," are the last words Santana whispers, wet fingers trailing across Quinn's chin, smearing her with moisture, before her eyes drift closed and she succumbs to a deep sleep.

Quinn finds herself scarcely able to breathe as Santana settles in against her in a heavy, reassuring weight, sucking deep even breaths that are barely audible over the music that plays from Quinn's computer speakers.

It should be gross, maybe, to have her face wiped with fingers drenched with her own arousal. At least it was always gross whenever she ended up with… stuff on her from David or Puck or those guys she felt compelled to pretend to like during her pink-haired Skank days.

It's not gross. It's really hot, actually.

This is an absurdly gorgeous, intimate moment, because she knows that Santana is completely open and vulnerable to her. Everything has crumbled in around them, they've betrayed each other over and over again, and yet Santana trusts her despite everything to hold her, to keep her safe, while she sleeps away her exhaustion.

It means so much, almost too much. Quinn hasn't felt this… primal, this protective, since the night they spent together on New Year's Eve.

She's addicted to this feeling. She wants more. It's so cheesy but Quinn would hold Santana forever if she could.

She can't. She can't even hold her for another five minutes because she also suddenly really has to pee.

Santana's tan, smooth thigh pressing down on Quinn's full bladder is not helping.

The fact that she actually takes the time to consider how much longer she can hold it is proof enough that she doesn't want this moment to end.

Which is stupid. Biological needs will always win out.

Still, Quinn takes nearly a full minute to gently rearrange her lover, freeing herself and keeping Santana from waking up, and then takes another full minute to quietly freak out because she realizes that she just considered Santana her lover and there was no trace of irony at all, before she gets over herself, hobbles into some shorts and a tank top, and finally gets the door open.

Thankfully, the hallway is quiet. Her own personal cheering section of horny college dormmates must have lost interest or got tired of waiting, because she makes it to the restroom relatively undisturbed, with exception to her TA, Jessie, who is in the bathroom brushing her teeth, and all she does is offer her a paste-filled smile and a high five as Quinn washes her hands.

"Congrabs," Jessie mumbles around her toothbrush. "Bleehs' hots."

Quinn flushes furiously but smacks the offered hand before racing back down the hallway.

In the time it's taken her to get back to her room, Santana has somehow managed to commandeer her entire bed, laying full on her stomach and sprawling her legs and arms out so her feet are literally hanging off the side of the mattress.

She's also snoring.

It's simultaneously adorable and annoying, because Quinn is suddenly reminded of countless sleep overs where Santana had done just that. Quinn usually handled it by either barking at Brittany to move her (since Santana was much nicer to Brittany waking her back then than Quinn), or smacking Santana herself to roll her over.

Neither action seems appropriate now.

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Quinn opts instead for sneaky, and slowly begins to peel her shorts back off, undressing herself.

She's pretty sure Santana will be much more agreeable to being disturbed if Quinn is naked when she's doing it.

It's odd to be so cavalier about this. Quinn is usually so self-conscious about her body. She's littered with stretchmarks, scars that paint her skin with white puckers. Some have faded with time and faithful applications of Vitamin E infused lotion. Others will glare red for the rest of her life.

She's a tapestry of healed wounds, and she knows that it means something that she's lived long enough to see them form and take shape. Quinn's had a lot of shit happen to her, but she's survived it.

Every physical scar is paired with another emotional one that runs deeper, but time has given Quinn a fresh perspective.

Still, for someone who has tried so hard to be seen as perfect for most of her life, it's a hard pill to swallow. Particularly when faced with the perfectly smooth, flawless naked body of Santana Lopez. Santana's figure has been created and toned to be worshiped. The breasts may be man made but the rest of her…

God… Quinn's always envied that body. Santana has always had her demons but she's never given birth. She's never been nearly paralyzed.

And yet…

Santana was there for her pregnancy. She was there when that truck slammed into Quinn's car. Quinn doesn't need to undress and then explain the Ryan Seacrest tattoo. Santana already knows. She knows everything. Santana knows the story behind every scar and she doesn't single them out. She doesn't take her time to reverently kiss each one like David did in a misguided attempt to prove to her that she's perfect with them, even though Quinn knows she's not. When Santana's hands smooth along her body, raising goosebumps and causing Quinn to arch beneath her, her scars aren't invisible but they're not special either. They are what they are, just another part of Quinn, another area for Santana to taste, and by now, Quinn's sure that Santana's lips have pressed upon every single inch of her body with the same reverence.

She sees Quinn as beautiful and it's not just for her perfectly constructed bone structure or the carefully made up façade.

Quinn wonders if that's why Santana seems as addicted to her. Maybe she thinks Quinn sees the same in her.

Lord knows Santana is no stranger to masks.

Body bare, Quinn approaches the bed and with a palm on Santana's shoulder, gently shoves at the sleeping woman. Smiling at the grumbly growl that erupts, Quinn ignores how the slender arms slap halfheartedly at her thighs, and just presses her mouth gently against Santana's cheek, reminding her of her presence.

That's all it takes. Even unconscious, Santana absorbs her, and shifts immediately, flopping back to give Quinn the room to scoot back under the covers.

Once Quinn slips into the warm space she's left behind, Santana presses in against her, settling back into her preferred position, plastered against Quinn's naked body and falling back into her heavy sleep.

Quinn isn't even in the mood to doze. It's fine. She's perfectly okay with doing what she's doing now, seeing Santana at her most vulnerable, carefully and reverently tracing away the bangs that fall into Santana's face and tickle at her nose that smooshes against her breast.

A soldier at the gates, protecting her beloved.

A tinny ring disturbs the quiet moment. Quinn frowns. The dull sound of buzzing vibrates on her wooden desk.

It's Santana's phone.

If Quinn lets it ring, it will wake Santana. And under the circumstances that brought Santana here, it doesn't seem wise to ignore it.

Shit… she never even sent Rachel a text to let her know that she wasn't meeting her at the train station.


Twisting underneath Santana, Quinn somehow manages to flag the phone, scooting it towards her with her fingers and identifying the caller.

… Well. It's not Rachel.

Quinn answers it. "Kurt?"

A momentary pause follows. "… Quinn?!"

Quinn stifles the urge to roll her eyes. It'd actually be a little pointless since Kurt isn't here to actually see it. "Yeah it's me."

"What are you doing answering Santana's phone?"

"What do you think?" she snaps, because honestly. Santana shifts against her, pressing into her boob awkwardly. Still sensitive from Santana's very enthusiastic appreciation of them earlier, Quinn winces, lowering her voice as she drifts fingers through Santana's mussed brunette hair reassuringly, pushing her back into a more comfortable position. "She came to New Haven, Genius."

"Oh, thank God." To his credit, Kurt sounds genuinely relieved. Quinn waits, fingers working gently through a tiny tangle at the base of Santana's neck. "… Can you put her on?" he asks, somewhat pointedly.

One would think that Quinn's recent multiple orgasms would put her in a better mood, but even with her sated body boneless against her lover (again, why does she keep thinking that? This isn't a Harlequin romance), it's very easy to suddenly remember why Kurt is trying to track down Santana in the first place. Because he kicked her out. Because he got mad at her for performing at his school. Because he's a Mr. Fashion Bitch Face dramatic Queen.

It's easy, almost too easy, to feel the head cheerleader possess her, edging hardness in her tone.

"No," she answers as peevishly as she can. "She's asleep right now, Kurt."

"Oh that's why we're whispering," Kurt hushes back.

Quinn valiantly hopes for a time when technology advances to the point where she can bitch slap a person through the phone. "Yes, that's why we're whispering," she mocks. "Because she had a really hard day, and she's just been kicked out of her roommate's apartment for trying to protect her friend."

"…Right." Kurt hems audibly, and Quinn, not in a quite so forgiving mood, allows him to. "… so you're pissed," he finally acknowledges.

"Oh, you think?"

A loud rush of air blasts through the receiver. "Quinn, in all fairness," he begins, in his squeaky Kurt voice, "you weren't here, and half the reason she went all nuts is because you were acting all insane anyway!"

Quinn does not dignify that with a response. In the ensuring quiet, Kurt seems to understand that he's an absolute idiot, because he shuts up immediately.

"Kurt." Quinn's voice is dangerously low. "Do you really want to continue this line of conversation right now?"

"Not particularly," he mutters, sounding miserable.

"Then why don't you tell me why you called."

"I heard from Finn… about Brody and what Santana did… "

Santana's body begins to stir, shifting against Quinn as a low, grumpy moan reverbs out of her throat.

"Uhuh," Quinn sighs in regret, but immediately rearranges herself, wincing slightly when Santana plants her palm against her chest and uses her body as leverage to sit up groggily. Santana eyes her, and Quinn offers an apologetic smile.

"Look, I feel like an asshole and I just want to apologize."

A shapely leg is tossed over her own and soon Santana is straddling her, resettling herself as she rubs blearily at her eyes and struggles to wake enough to comprehend the situation. "Who the fuck is it?"

Instinctively, Quinn slides her free hand against Santana's naked waist, keeping her comfortable and steady as she rubs reassuringly. "It's Kurt."

Santana's brown eyes widen. Quinn arches a questioning brow. "Tell him to fuck off," Santana decides, before she leans forward and plants a wet, sleepy kiss against Quinn's jaw.

"Santana says to fuck off, Kurt," Quinn parrots immediately, chin lifting in appreciation for the turn of events.

"Fine, I deserve that. Now please hand her the phone so I can apologize properly." Kurt waits for approximately ten seconds, and then Quinn moans audibly. "Oh my GOD," he screeches. "Do NOT have sex when I'm on the phone! STOP."

The screeching turns into actual panicked yelps, and that's enough to kill the mood. Santana releases Quinn's skin with a wet pop, groaning as she flops off of Quinn and takes hold of the phone.

"Oh my God, Kurt, calm the fuck down," she snaps, sighing at Quinn. "You act like you've never seen vagina in your life and considering you are the biggest pussy I know, that is definitely not the case."

It's clear from the open, honest way that Santana immediately begins to communicate with Kurt, that the relationship is ten times closer than it was at New Years. Though Santana is obviously pissed and let's Kurt know it, her barbs are designed only to sting, not wound. When she glances at Quinn apologetically after a few minutes, lowering her voice, Quinn gets the subtle hint that this is a conversation between roommates, and not for her ears.

And being as Santana is stark naked and Quinn's dorm is filled the brim with horny boys, this isn't exactly something she can take outside.

Evening has descended and the chill has set, and since Santana has stolen the sheet AGAIN, Quinn pushes off the bed and rifles through her drawer for a pair of clean underwear and a flannel that she doesn't bother to button.

Santana's brow rises at the object of clothing, but Quinn just shrugs.

It's a gift, she mouths, because it is. Tabitha bought it for her ironically, stating that she had to at least one stereotypical lesbian item of clothing in her wardrobe, otherwise it 'wasn't fair'. Whatever that meant. Quinn initially objected, because the only time she's ever willingly worn flannel was for a number in Glee club, but it turns out that flannel is really comfortable and warm. And her dorm room gets cold. So she wears it. Not outside of the dorm but it's quite cozy for studying and watching Netflix on her laptop.

Settling down on the other bed, Quinn reaches for her neglected phone, and shoves her Skull Candy earbuds into her ears to give Kurt and Santana their privacy.

At least that's the idea…

It turns out, however, that Santana may or may not have a thing for flannel. Or at least Quinn in an unbuttoned flannel shirt, with lapels hanging lewdly on the side, revealing her toned tummy and teasing the curves of her breasts.

How did she ever not know Santana was gay? There may have been hours of ravishing, but Quinn isn't sure she'll ever not be affected by that dark, hungry stare that Santana sends her way.

Her legs twitch, and Christ, Quinn JUST put on a pair of fresh underwear.

Battling the flush on her cheeks at the open, appreciative gaze, Quinn shakes her head in open disapproval and makes a show of buttoning the first two buttons of the shirt.

Santana's pout is adorably amusing. Kurt must not think so, because suddenly Santana winces and has to physically turn her body to pay attention to the conversation. With Justin Timberlake blasting in her ears, Quinn can't hear what Santana says in response, but it's amusing at least.

With Santana distracted, Quinn turns her focus on her phone and her missed text messages.

There are more than a few. A couple from Rachel, who Quinn remembers with a surge of guilt, was meant to pick her up about two hours ago. She quickly replies, apologizing for not meeting her and explaining that Santana came to her instead.

There's no response. Rachel's probably upset, and Quinn doesn't blame her. Still, she feels too good to really feel all that terrible about it, especially when she lifts up a curious glance and sees the way Santana is still staring at her, phone at her ear and cat-eyes growing heavy as she lingers on Quinn's lounging, barely clothed form on Tabitha's bed.

It's insane how sexy Santana makes her feel.

She likes it.

She likes teasing Santana.

Crossing her legs, Quinn lets her heart skip it's dutiful beat and moves on to the other texts, biding her time.

Tabitha, of course, wants an update: Okay, it's officially been like, five hours. I've been a good roommate and stayed away. Now spill.

And it appears, she has taken refuge in Nina's single room, because there's another text from the blonde German: Is it safe for Tabitha to come back? She has eaten all my food.

Another message arrives from Tabitha: Also I'm starving. We should eat.

Her shoulders shake in an attempt to control her mirth. I'm not giving you the dirty details, she replies immediately to Tabitha.

She begins to type to Nina, It's safe…, until she catches Santana shifting on the bed out of the corner of her eye. The sheet has fallen halphazardly to the side, and uncaring of her nudity, Santana stretches like a purring house cat, flexing muscles that stand out all too well thanks to the tan skin and toned body.

God… Quinn is overtaken suddenly with the image of that body underneath her, and she wonders, really wonders, what it would be like to use a toy on her…

Her teeth dig down hard on her chapped lower lip in a bid for self control, and Quinn amends her reply. For now, but can you maybe take one for the team and get her some dinner? I'm not ready to give up my Santana bubble, just yet.

Her phone buzzes in the middle of her reply, and she quickly sends it off to see what Tabitha has to say: Oh you don't have to. Apparently half the dorm heard you appreciating Santana's moves. To which I say, DAMN girl, and to which I also say, fuck that. You owe me dinner, and I wanna meet her.

Nina responds just as quickly. Tabitha will not be tamed.

You already met her, she reminds Tabitha. More than once.

To Nina, she resorts to begging. Please? I haven't seen her since New Years, Nina.

Like meet her meet her, Tabitha replies stubbornly. When she has clothes on and with actual discussion.

Nina's text is delayed, and Quinn discovers why when it finally comes. I haven't seen my boyfriend since Thanksgiving, so shut up. Also too late, Tabitha has broken free and she's running back down the halls. I tried to stop her but she touched my face with her Cheeto hands and grossed me out. I'm hungry now too, btw. And out of Cheetos.

The bed dips unexpectedly. Quinn is only half startled when Santana, wrapped only in a sheet, flops down on the bed beside her, brushing up against her shoulder.

Pulling the earbuds out of her ears, Quinn only manages to catch the last sentence of the conversation. "Yeah okay, Kurt. Okay… bye."

Santana tosses her phone to the side and with a pouty groan, lifts Quinn's arm up so she can scoot underneath it, cuddling into her side like a petulant cub.

Quinn has absolutely no problem with this, and makes sure Santana knows it by squeezing her in tighter, spreading her palm against the sheet at Santana's ribs.

"… So?"

For a moment, Santana simply breathes her in, head buried in the crook of her neck and thumb idly brushing under the bauble of Quinn's left breast. "He wants me to come back tonight," she finally begins, voice muffled, and Quinn's stomach drops. "Says I've been a good friend even if I 'went about it all wrong', and he and Rachel were wrong to kick me out."

Quinn wonders if her unwillingness to accept the sincerity of that apology has anything to do with the fact that she's not ready for Santana to leave. "That's it?"

"It's enough," Santana answers simply, and it's not Quinn's place to argue. If it's good enough for Santana, it'll have to be good enough for her. "Besides, he kinda needs the reinforcements. Brody broke up with Rachel."

Quinn's eyes widen at the news. Santana lifts her head from her shoulder and looks at her with frank, somber eyes. Technically, it's a victory for Santana. She's lobbied hard to prove that Brody is a creep and she's been proven right. And yet, there is no thrill or validation in her expression. Just simple sadness for Rachel, because her boytoy was not who he said he was.

The capacity of caring in Santana is near infinite, and suddenly, Quinn finds herself absolutely furious at anyone who would think that Santana has no heart.

Without hesitation, Quinn's fingers lift to caress the strong jawline intimately. The way Santana's eyes flutter from the sensation, leans into her touch… it makes her breathless.

"When," Quinn whispers, but keeps her hand against Santana's soft cheek.

"Like an hour ago." Santana slides her palm down Quinn's open shirt to pop open the last two buttons, opening it back up again. "There," she says, like it makes it better, and continues with her explanation. "Came back the loft with a busted face, and grabbed all his shit and walked out. Wouldn't even give Rachel an explanation."

Quinn tries to focus, despite the fact that Santana has now laid a warm hand over her belly button, and just settled it there, like she's planted some sort of flag of ownership. "And Finn didn't… stop," she says, slapping lightly at Santana's wrist when Santana's expression goes slightly naughty and her fingers tickle their way down to the band of Quinn's underwear. "Finn didn't say anything to Rachel?"

"No," Santana answers and tilts her face so her lips can brush against Quinn's wrist, biting lightly at her skin in retaliation. "Rachel doesn't even know that he was in town. Kurt thinks it's best that Rachel not know about Brody until her Funny Girl audition."

Despite the shivers that Santana is so good at producing, Quinn can't help but sigh.

God… it just sucks. All of it just sucks. Rachel was finally coming into her own in New York. Her world view was expanding, beyond Lima, beyond Finn… and Brody… Brody ruined it.

Quinn remembers the nice guy who told her to follow her heart. Who heard she loved Santana and told her that was okay.

It's difficult to reconcile that guy with the one that Santana describes. "Shouldn't she get tested?" she tries, because at least that, Rachel can do.

Santana scoffs, shaking her head in disgusted revulsion. "Trust me, I've tripped over way too much used latex in the bathroom trash bucket to not know they were being safe."

"Ew," Quinn says immediately, and Santana nods.

"I guess it was some sort of trippy 'open' relationship. She should be okay. At least for now."

Okay is not what Quinn would consider Rachel to be right now. Not when she was just dumped like this. "… how is she?"

Santana's previously bemused smile fades, and she sighs, leaning away from Quinn's touch to run her fingers through her mussed hair. "She's a mess," she says finally. "I mean… I know I was pissed at her, but I never… Rachel's been a good friend to me, and even when I knew I was right I kinda did hope I was wrong, because even if he was a plastic lying donkey, he claimed to love her."

"Maybe he does," Quinn says, unable to help but push for a good side to Brody.

"Who cares now?" Santana says, head shaking at even the thought. "Quinn, he lied to her. He's been lying to her. How is that a relationship? What is a relationship if you can't fucking trust each other?"

Suddenly overwhelmed, Quinn doesn't have the words to reply.

Thankfully, Santana does not seem to notice. She instead toys with Quinn's fingers, sliding her own against them to tangle them together. "Anyway. Kurt can't help her alone. She needs a girl. And… I need to go back and… you know… be like a friend or something. I mean it sucks. I've been there. And they're like my family now."

Quinn doesn't want to her go. It's stupid, because of course Santana has to go, but Santana has only just arrived and… it hasn't been like this between them. Not since New Years Eve.

But isn't that the point of Santana being in New York? To find herself? To find friends? To see a world beyond romance, beyond Quinn, beyond Brittany?

"Yeah, okay," she rasps. Santana must see the conflict, because that beautiful face seems to soften, and then she leans forward, capturing Quinn's mouth in a lingering, passionate kiss that Quinn can't help but savor.

The door slams open. "Oh Christ, you two are doing it on my bed now?!"

Quinn nearly bites Santana's tongue off at Tabitha's surprise entrance.

Hand slapped over her face, Tabitha kicks the door closed and points at them both. "Get dressed. We're going to Sheets N Things and you're getting me new sheets. And then dinner."

No amount of arguing will convince Tabitha that she and Santana did not, in fact, 'fornicate' on her bed, and finally in a bid to shut her up, Santana hands over her credit card for a brand new twin set. Tabitha of course, tries to take advantage and heads straight for the 1000 count Egyptian cotton, but Quinn draws the line at anything over 400.

"Learn to slum it," she snaps, and Tabitha issues an affronted huff.

"You suck," she informs her, but Quinn has absolutely no sympathy. She's just discovered that somehow Santana has given her the world's biggest hickey on the side of her neck and no amount of powder and concealer will cover it up.

Santana isn't even sorry. She's down right PROUD.

"Just enjoy it, Q," Santana grins cheekily, proud and ridiculous. "You've been branded with the Santana Lopez Hot Bitch Tramp Stamp."

"I hate you," she mumbles because Quinn has become much more lax about propriety but hickeys are NEVER appealing.

"Mmm, I very much doubt that," Santana purrs like the cocky bitch she is, and Quinn hates that she wants so very badly to stick her tongue in Santana's mouth to both shut her up and make her choke on it.

"Seriously, can you NOT make out in the check out aisle?! Everyone is looking at us."

Actually they weren't. But thanks to Tabitha's outburst, suddenly they catch the attention of not just the check out clerk, but every other customer waiting in line.

"Tabitha!" she hisses.

Tabitha blinks, flushes, and when the clerk narrows her eyes, points desperately at Santana. "She did it! I'm just the quirky best friend!"

Quinn's look turns murderous. "Santana give me back your card."

Tabitha, suddenly aware of what she's done, loses all color to her face (a feat, considering the darker shade of it) and flees, running for the parking lot with her sheets, before tripping on an orange cone just outside the doors.

Her sheets break her fall, and she stops bitching after that. Quinn decides she's suffered enough and lets her keep them.

"So… these are your friends, huh?" Santana voice is low in her ear as they watch Nina and Tabitha laughing over some geeky medical joke at dinner that both Quinn and Santana do not understand. The soft husk of her voice causes a delicious shiver that creeps up Quinn's neck and flushes her cheeks.

"Well, we're not Coyote Ugly bartenders," she manages to respond. "But we seem to get along." Santana hums lips pressing gently to the area right behind Quinn's ear.

"The Coyote Ugly bartenders are bitches. Consider yourself better off."

They're intimately close in the aftermath of their lovemaking, and not shy about it. Quinn isn't sure why she doesn't seem to care much about the fact that she's being seen as a full-time lady lover. She suspects it has something to do with the fact that the lady she loves is Santana Lopez. She may be semi pissed about the hickey that Santana's branded on her (because it's TRASHY, not hot), but it's thrilling as it's always been, to notice that Santana can't stop touching, WON'T stop touching her, because there's only an hour and a half before the next train goes, and there hasn't been enough intimacy.

The booth they've chosen at this college-friendly burger joint is roomy, but Santana has made a point to keep Quinn close with an open palm laid boldly and possessively on her thigh, whispering words for her ears only, giving her a smile that is unmatched when she directs a statement to anyone else. To anyone who walks in, they're together. Quinn has no problem with the perception, and in turn, has only sidled in closer.

As Nina and Tabitha gab about the local gossip and tease about the scene the two girls make, Quinn keeps her eyes on Santana, watching with no small amount of pride the way the corner of Santana's eyes crinkle in amusement at the two of her friends. "They are nice," Santana admits quietly. "I'm glad you have them. I'm glad I have you," she adds, sultry and soft.

The words do their work. Quinn shudders, lids fluttering when she realizes that Santana's blunt fingernails are scratching lightly at her thigh in a faint (and blush-inducing) mimic of what happened on New Year's Eve under the table and in front of Rachel.

"Not tonight," she says, stilling Santana's fingers with her own to keep them from going any lower. "This is a restaurant, not a club, and they will NEVER let me live it down."

Santana openly pouts, like Quinn not letting her finger her under the booth is some great hardship. "You're going to miss me, Fabray," she murmurs instead, and uses the cover of Quinn's hair to lick lightly against the sensitive lobe of her left ear.

Quinn can smell her perfume invading her senses. She understands what Tabitha meant, all those weeks ago, about Santana's scent lingering.

"You're pretty missable," she admits, trying to keep her voice even but failing miserably. Santana chuckles her delight, please that Quinn is absolutely horrible at masking her arousal in front of Santana.

"Yeah?" she asks boldly. "Gonna miss the orgasms too, Quinn?"

God… Santana has no idea.

"Maybe," she hedges.

"Maybe you'll have to make it out to New York soon then."

A loud slap on the table makes her jump, and forces her attention to Tabitha, who slides quickly around the booth until she's pressed into Quinn on the other side, grabbing her arm so harshly Quinn actually winces from the pressure.

"Okay, don't look now but guess who's here?" Tabitha whispers harshly, and so loudly Quinn doesn't understand why she bothered to whisper at all.

Quinn has no idea. "Who?"

"Professor Ex."

… fuck.

Quinn hasn't seen David in little over a month, and though they've never had an official break up, it's pretty widely known that she's moved on. But even so, he's not anyone Quinn wants to see, particularly with Santana's hand between her thighs. "Crap."

"Just don't look!" Tabitha tells her, yanking at her hand and keeping her facing her in a completely obvious way. "It'll be fine."

It's obviously not fine, because Santana is not stupid and has been watching the two of them the entire time. "What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing!" Tabitha squeaks. "Just go about your business!" she adds, and then pats at Quinn's thighs and, judging by the expression on her face, discovers what Santana's business was. "Actually don't. And I'm going to remove my hand," she adds, yanking the limb back, "Because that was weird."

"Tabitha, what the hell-"

"David's here," Nina cuts in easily, leaning forward to sip on her straw as she thumbs at the area behind her. And there he is, Professor Ex, waiting at the hostess stand with another professor. He surveys the room and catches her gaze.

Quinn immediately looks away.

"Crap," she says again and sinks down lower in her booth, which is silly, in retrospect. David isn't a child. He's not going to suddenly decide to walk over while he's with another professor and she's got a booth full of her peers.

It doesn't make her feel any better at the moment.

Poor Santana isn't fairing much better. "Who the hell is David?" Santana's eyes are narrowed in suspicion, before she catches sight of Quinn's face, and the way the other woman hunches down in her side. "Quinn, what the hell-"

"The professor," Nina says, and seems to have no interest in him at all, preferring instead to pull out her phone and check her texts.

Santana's expression tightens. "Professor Slutbag?"

Tabitha helpfully points right at him. "Tabitha!" Quinn hisses, and slaps her hand down. It's too late. Santana gets a very good look at her admittedly very handsome ex-boyfriend, who stares at Quinn longer than he should before he is led to a table on the other side of the restaurant.

"… that's him?"

"Why do you sound surprised?" Nina asks, curiously detached to an odd degree.

"He's not an old guy." Santana's dark eyes pin Quinn's, almost accusingly, like Quinn's lied to her about her ex's appearance. "That guy is…"

"Super hot?" Tabitha asks helpfully.

"No!" Santana sputters, and seems ridiculous offended at just the idea. "You never said the asshole was hot!"

"I never said he was old either," Quinn answers, trying to be as reasonable as possible considering these incredibly awkward circumstances and Santana's sudden bout of insecurity. "But Santana… you know that's long since been over."

"Yeah, relax, Santana. You're totally hotter. Everyone thinks so."

"Who's everyone?"

"Quinn!" Quinn's head swivels at the foreign voice, and awesome, it's Shannon, the drama major who flirts shamelessly with her at every turn coming forward to greet her at her booth.

Why the hell did she think it was a good idea to come here tonight? "Shannon!" she says, voice too high to be completely genuine as she pastes on a smile that she knows is way too wide to be taken as genuine. "Hi!"

"Hey, beautiful." Shannon as she makes a show of looking her and Santana over. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight!" Santana is turned away from her, but judging by the stalled grin on Shannon's face, she suspects Santana's grin isn't nearly welcoming. "And you must be Santana."

"I have no idea who you are," Santana snaps.

"Yeah!" she stumbles forward quickly, keeping her posture close to Santana as she grips her arm (to keep it from flinging anywhere inappropriate, like Shannon's face). "This is definitely her. Santana," she adds quickly, "This is Shannon, she and I have drama together."

All Santana offers is a slight, terse nod. "Right," she breathes, and it takes Quinn pinching her to at the very least, offer a civil nod. "Hi."

The fact that both Nina and Tabitha are watching the proceedings open-mouthed like they're at the US Open just makes Quinn want to smack THEM instead.

"Hi," Shannon says, and teeters back on her heels, grinning widely. "You know, it actually helps," she adds, when no one makes a move to say anything else. "Meeting you."

"Does it?" Santana asks, voice an almost dangerous purr that has Quinn tightening her grip on her in warning. "How so?"

Shannon shrugs with that silly, charming grin that could be sweet if it wasn't so obviously pissing Santana off. "Pictures don't do you justice, girl. I mean if she's going to turn me down, at least it's for someone way hotter than me, right?"

It's nice, all things considered. A compliment.

Santana, with her rigid posture and Quinn's ex-boyfriend sitting across the restaurant, clearly does not have the mental capacity to see it that way. "Yeah, you're right about that."

Shannon's smile falters. After an uncomfortable beat, she thumbs behind her. "Right, well… I'll go back to my table. Nice to see you, Quinn."

"You too, Shannon," she sighs in apology, and waves lightly to the departing girl. "That was really rude," she says the moment she's out of earshot.

Santana's fingers come off her thigh. "Wow, Quinn," she replies with fake enthusiasm. "I had no idea you were so popular!" Her expression is a mask of glittering annoyance and ruffled feathers. "Yale has quite the Quinn Fabray fan club!"

… so she's going to be a petty spoiled brat about this. Awesome.

She has not missed THIS Santana.

"Bathroom!" Tabitha squeaks, and shoves at Nina pointedly. "We're going to the bathroom!"

"I told you not to eat the chili," Nina sighs, but let's herself get dragged away from the booth.

Quinn exhales slowly, and does her best to keep her temper under the circumstances. "She asked me out and I said no, end of story."

Santana doesn't respond. Instead, she focuses her attention on her straw, fiddling with it in the clear mason jar her water came in, spearing the lemon slice that's soaked inside and crumbling the flesh to pieces. "Why'd you say no?"

"Why would I say yes?" she asks, and knows Santana is going to say something really really stupid right now.

Santana shrugs uncaringly, dropping the straw and giving Quinn a cruel smirk. "I mean, you said it yourself, we're not together. And you've obviously got your pick of lesbians and professors here, so… "

Yep. Stupid.

It would be so easy to fight about this. Santana wants the fight. She's feeling jealous and insecure and she's never had to face the competition in this direct way. Quinn's seen is only slightly with Brody but this… this is worse. She's never wanted Quinn this way, and Quinn knows how Santana dealt with competition for Brittany.

Badly, very badly.

At least Quinn's used to dealing with her jealousy. She's been jealous of Brittany in one way or another her whole life. Since even before the first moment their lips touched in a drunken kiss. How is this fair?

It's not. It's not fair.

But Santana's mouth is tight and her eyes are shiny, and she's so beautiful tragic and stupid about this, and she's going to be leaving in an hour, and this isn't how Quinn wants this gorgeous day to end.

Deliberately, Quinn reaches for her iced tea and forces herself to take one long sip. "Let's not do this now, Santana." Palm pressed to the side of her face, Quinn eyes Santana matter-of-factly.

"What?" Santana barks, silly in her surprise at Quinn's maturity.

"You're jealous and you have no reason to be," Quinn answers calmly.

Clearly, Santana does not expect to be confronted so directly. The way she stares at Quinn so gobsmacked is kind of amusing. She makes noise, like she's going to refute it. Quinn has no patience for that.

"You are." A small smile floats quietly on her face. "And it'd be cute if it wasn't a little annoying right now."

Santana's eyes narrow. "Right, cause it's not like two week ago you weren't making out with some random chick on Facebook."

The cold chill that settles down Quinn's spine is not fun in the slightest. "Santana."

"I'm just saying," Santana snaps, on firmer ground now that she's actually made Quinn wince. "You really do have it made, here. I completely get why you wouldn't tie yourself down. You've got the pick from faculty AND staff!"

"Santana…" Quinn's eyes roll up toward the ceiling.

"Quinn!" Santana snaps back, mimicking her tone to be completely annoying.

Santana deserves to be slapped.

Instead, Quinn shifts in the booth and wraps a firm hand around Santana's nape, dragging her lover into a harsh, punishing kiss, shutting up any further diatribe from the girl.

The words become a whimper. Quinn's lips pull into a victorious smile, and the embrace grows gentle, nipping at soft lips and head tilting to deepen the kiss.

She hears a whistle or two. She knows they're giving the entire restaurant a show.

She doesn't care.

It's kind of the point.

When her head goes fuzzy and her breath escapes her, Quinn finally pulls back, just enough to study the dazed, soft expression on Santana's face.

"You're the only one I want," is the confident whisper.

"… kay." She's an idiot.

Eagerly, Santana leans forward, closing the distance to kiss her again, arms sliding around her possessively, and that appears to be the end of that.

Santana's train is on time.

Quinn hates that.

It means less time with Santana, and she's fully aware of how clingy and lesbian they must look, holding hands as they stare at the steel compartment that will take Santana away from Yale, away from HER, but somehow Quinn can't bring herself to care.

It's ridiculous, how in love she is with Santana. How much it physically hurts her to come to terms with the fact that in a few minutes, Santana will be leaving her AGAIN, and there's no control over it. All she has is soft kisses and memories and the sweetness of Santana's scent.

There's no promise of the future. No declaration of commitment. Despite what's happened, Quinn doesn't feel ready for that. Not yet.

It's still too delicate, too frightening, to dive in with both feet.

And yet, when Santana lets go of her hands to slide possessive arms around her waist, presses in close to Quinn like she loves her, Quinn has to force herself to remember why she's more than her fear.

This is all she wants.

Frustrated at her own inability to move forward, Quinn's head falls instead, gentle against Santana's, lashes pricking against her skin.

Santana's grip tightens against her, and Quinn feels whole.

"So… did you get Mr. Schue's wedding invitation?" she asks, unsure why that's even the question she asks at this point.

Santana chuckles darkly. Quinn feels the way Santana thumbs at her back even though the layer of her coat. "Yeah, of course. On Valentine's Day of all times. It's ridiculous."

"It is," Quinn agrees, as the conductor calls out the boarding instructions. Her heart beats so fast. "But… I was wondering."

"What?" Quinn swallows, suddenly sweating as she closes her eyes and tries to just breathe through her anxiety. This is so much easier with boys. When she doesn't care. Santana's touch brings back her focus. "Quinn," she whispers, softer than Quinn's heard in a long time, bringing her fingers up to slip them in her grasp, squeezing lightly. "Spit it out, Q."

She does. "Maybe we could go together."

Santana absorbs that. "Like as friends?" she asks, testing her.

Quinn's tongue feels thick. She's terrified, but Santana's touch is soft and reassuring, and that smile that dances on the corner of her mouth just makes her want to kiss away her own insecurity, bleed it try on the pleasure of Santana's tongue. "… not particularly," she hedges.

Brown eyes dance and sparkle at her, addicting in their purity. "Like a date?" Santana asks, and Quinn blushes, laughing raggedly.


That smile is now wide and open. Santana tickles her ribs, and Quinn yelps, shaking her head as she ducks back. "You asking me on a date, Q?"

"Stop enjoying this so much," she mumbles, breathless and dizzy from her embarrassment and happiness.

The kiss that Santana gives her, open, wet and willing, is what grounds her. Soft lips that she's kissed so many times before drag that emotion out of her and still her nervous flutters. A soft tongue reassures her with a tangle against her own.

"Yeah.. we can do that," Santana whispers against her mouth. "I'll be your date."

"… Kay," Quinn mumbles, fully aware that it's her turn to sound like an idiot, before Santana's intoxicating lips press against her once again.

The conductor gives the final boarding call, and still, it's Santana that has to break their embrace. Their interlocked fingers hang between them as she steps back towards the train. "I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Absolutely," she promises. The fingers break their hold and her hand falls back to her side. Santana looks at her two more times before she finally boards the train.

Heart full, body alive in a way Quinn is not sure she's felt before, she hears the whine and hiss of the train engine as she stays rooted on the platform. She doesn't chase the train the way Finn Hudson did the day Rachel Berry left him to go to New York, but for the first time, as Quinn watches Santana get taken away from her, she understands the inclination.

NOTE: The first line is a quote taken from tumblr and added to this fic as a request. :)