Hello, so I figured I'd give this fanfiction thing a shot. Had the idea in my head for this Brittana fic and it wouldn't leave me alone, so here is the first thing I've written since some very embarrassing band fanfic from like six years ago. Hope you enjoy!
There are few things Santana Lopez hates more than paperwork, and considering her disdain for the general human race, that's saying something.
Santana mutters angrily to herself as she tries to sort through the sea of papers currently flooding her desk, making a mental note to yell at Quinn for leaving early for her "date". She wouldn't be surprised if Quinn was lying through her perfect white teeth and just couldn't be bothered helping.
Despite the fact they co-own Lopez-Fabray Design, and therefore should really be expected to do equal amounts of work, after their assistant Marley quit unexpectedly a few weeks ago (or was scared off by Santana, depending on who you ask) the paperwork had been piling up. Santana couldn't remember the last time both her and Quinn had left the studio before 10pm. Her phone beeps, and after locating it under her mouse mat, she sees she has a text from Quinn.
Date was a disaster, just got home. Where are you? X
Resisting the urge to throw her phone across her office, she types back angrily.
Still at the studio. There's so much fucking paperwork for the Simpson deal it's ridiculous. X
Santana manages to sign three more papers before her phone beeps again.
Forget it. We can deal with it tomorrow. Come home, I want to talk to you about something. X
That catches Santana's interest. Giving one last withering look at the mountain of paper obscuring most of her desk, she switches her computer off, picks up her coat and bag, and walks out of her office. The studio is completely empty, as it should be at 9.30 on a Sunday evening.
Locking the doors, she tugs her coat tighter around herself and starts walking to the nearest subway station. Despite it being the middle of August in New York, Santana is starting to get cold. Her head hurts from staring at a computer screen for half the day, and a seemingly never ending pile of paper for the other half. Her hand hurts from typing and scribbling her signature on thousands of bits of paper. She needs a drink. Flinging her arm out, she forgets about the 20 minute subway ride and climbs into the taxi that screeches to a halt next to her.
"Where to, Miss?" The taxi driver asks as he blatantly leers at her through the rear view mirror. Santana narrows her eyes at him and gives him the address of the apartment she shares with Quinn. Who wants to talk to her about something. She unlocks her phone and fires off a snarky text.
On my way home now. What do you want to talk about? Finally realized you're a flaming homo and want tips on how to make the beast with two backs with Berry? X
Trying desperately to get that slightly horrifying image of Rachel and Quinn going at it out of her mind, she pays the driver and shudders at the way his eyes don't leave her cleavage. Men are pigs, and she's not entirely sure why straight women even exist. Her phone buzzes in her pocket as she steps into the elevator, and unlocks her phone while pressing the button for the fifth floor.
You're disgusting. And for the millionth time there is nothing going on between Rachel and I. If anything I'd think maybe you want in her pants the amount you go on about it. Something work related. Hurry up or I'm eating your slice of cheesecake. X
Santana rolls her eyes and pushes open the door of her apartment, opening her mouth to yell at Quinn for that even more horrifying image.
"And you say I'm the disgusting one. I may be a full blown lady lover, but I wouldn't go near Berry with a ten foot pole."
Santana briefly hopes Berry isn't actually here, but dismisses that idea immediately and she hadn't heard any singing as she walked down the hall.
Santana doesn't hate Rachel, she thinks she's actually really talented and at least somewhat attractive, not that she would ever breathe that out loud without being at least five tequila shots in, Rachel just has an innate ability to get on her nerves very quickly. Walking into the living room, she flings her bag onto the floor and collapses onto her front on the sofa.
"Stop being so dramatic. It's ridiculous." She can almost hear Quinn's eyeroll accompanying that comment. Santana lifts her head and glares at Quinn, who is standing in the kitchen holding up two bottles of wine, one white and one red, with an eyebrow raised in question.
"Can't it be both?"
"We have work tomorrow Santana."
"Fine. Red." Santana is exhausted and red wine usually makes her drowsy anyway. She might regret that in the morning, but for now she watches as Quinn pulls two large wine glasses out of a cupboard, before filling them up and carrying them over to where Santana is sprawled out over the entire sofa. Santana heaves herself up and takes in Quinn's appearance. The sweatpants, old high school cheerleading tshirt and actually being at home point to her date having gone fantastically.
"What was wrong with them this time?" Santana takes a sip of her wine. God she needed that.
"There wasn't any specific thing wrong. I just didn't feel any spark."
"That spark you're looking for is called an orgasm, and you have to have this thing called sex to achieve it." Santana smirks at Quinn, taking another large gulp of her wine.
"As I have said far too many times, you're disgusting Santana. I don't shame you for sleeping your way through New York's lesbian, bisexual or really drunk population, so stop shaming me for not sleeping around." Quinn narrows her eyes at her, and Santana thinks she may have gone a bit too far. As usual.
"Whatever. Sorry." Quinn smirks over the rim of her wine glass, smug with the knowledge only a select few get an apology from Santana, no matter how half-assed or sarcastic. "What did you so desperately need to talk to me about?"
Quinn places down her wine glass. "I think we need to hire a few more employees. Ones that can actually stand to be around you." Santana rolls her eyes.
"For the millionth time, Marley quit. I didn't do anything."
"If you class not doing anything as comparing her to a boring mime and yelling about her various inadequacies for nearly 10 minutes, then fine, you didn't do anything. That's not the point though, even if Marley hadn't left I would have suggested this. We're just barely meeting deadlines Santana, we need to hire a few more people."
Quinn has a point, Santana muses as she refills the two wine glasses.
Lopez-Fabray Design is a well-known graphic design studio located in Soho, started by Santana and Quinn a few months after they graduated from Tisch School of The Arts. They had worked a few small projects until their big break came, designing the marketing campaign for Vocal Adrenaline, a singing company owned by Jesse St. James. While Jesse had been an enormous douchebag throughout the entire project, he had praised them for their work, and that had opened them up to a much bigger clientele. Three years later and they've grown significantly and are one of the main well respected design studios in New York.
"As much as it pains me to say this, I think you're right. I want to hire another assistant as well."
Quinn nods in agreement. "We can call a meeting tomorrow and tell everyone. Then we can send adverts out, and hopefully we'll be able to find good designers that don't irritate either of us."
Santana laughs. "At least you can usually hide when you hate someone. I'm still working on that." Which is a complete lie and both Quinn and Santana know it. If Santana hates someone she is all for letting them know about it. Loudly. Multiple times a day. Preferably in a public environment.
They both drain their glasses and Santana stands up to take the now empty bottle and two glasses over to the sink. She dumps the bottle into the recycling and places the two glasses into the sink for someone, i.e. Quinn to wash tomorrow. Remembering her slice of cheesecake in the refrigerator; she grabs a plate out of the cupboard and walks over to the fridge. Locating the slice of heaven behind a huge pile of leftover Chinese takeout, Santana walks back to the sofa and sits back down.
"I'm going to bed. Night San." Quinn yawns, and stands up. "See you tomorrow."
"Night Q." Santana mumbles round a mouthful of cheesecake. She might mock Berry endlessly for it, but her vegan shit is actually really good.
Finishing her cheesecake, and making a mental note to eat the single slice left just to piss Quinn off, she switches the lights off in the living room and goes into the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Staring at herself in the mirror after brushing her teeth and taking her make up off, she wonders how long she's looked this tired for. No, tired isn't really the right word. She's getting enough sleep even with the ridiculous hours she's working, she's eating enough, and she's not on drugs or anything insane like that.
For half a second she thinks maybe she looks lonely, and in the second half of that second dismisses the idea as one of the dumbest things she's ever thought. A person can't look lonely, and besides, she isn't. She isn't some loser with no friends, she has Quinn, and Kurt, and Puck and, she begrudgingly admits, Rachel.
It's not like she's lonely in the relationship department either, as she doesn't see the point in relationships anyway. They're a waste of time, money, energy and feelings, and somebody always ends up getting hurt in the end.
Santana might be a bit biased considering in her last and only relationship, she was the one that got hurt, but that's beside the point.
She doesn't need a girlfriend. She can get any girl she wants, whenever she wants, for whatever she wants, and the only thing she wants girls for is sex. Not a relationship.
Averting her eyes from her reflection, she switches the bathroom light off and walks past Quinn's room and into her own. Flopping down onto her bed she yawns, quickly sets her alarm and is asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.