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seriousficTitle: Under peaceful conditions, the warlike attack themselves
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,639
Characters/Pairings: Rachel/Quinn, Santana/Brittany
Previous: Part 1
Summary: Quinn is Rachel’s newest project. She doesn’t care for it.
Quinn's talk with Rachel did do one thing. She got the idea to meet Finn halfway. She recalled he had always liked those Sci-Fi Channel Original Movies about giant crocodiles fighting large sharks fighting actors with no careers, so she gave Psalms a rest and read to him from a book about a skyscraper-sized shark terrorizing a beachside community. Apparently, a regular-sized shark wasn't scary enough.
“'He saw the swell of her breast flush,'" she read, "'and…” She read ahead silently a bit. Blushed. Flipped ahead. "And they have sex…" She continued flipping. "And more sex… When’s the giant shark going to eat people?"
From the doorway, Rachel coughed. She even coughed petitely, like she was afraid she might disturb Finn. "Good book, Quinn?"
"Oprah recommended it."
"And is he getting any better?"
"I think he moved his finger. Probably just my imagination."
Rachel had brought a glass of water with her. She sprinkled it on a bouquet of flowers in the corner. It was a somber, pretty arrangement. One Quinn hadn't sent.
"My offer still stands," Rachel said, apparently finding it easier to talk to Quinn when they weren't making eye contact. "And you can bring some friends. This Chinese diplomatic party just canceled. Apparently, they think it'd be really easy for an assassin to fake an accident. Julie Taymor also did The Lion King, did you know that?"
"Yes, I heard." Quinn chucked the book in the trash. Stupid idea anyway. "Anyone ever tell you that you come on real strong?"
Rachel shrugged. "Someone once told me I have a Type-A personality. I think I have an A+ personality."
"Yeah, well, I'm getting this real weird feeling that I'm your project and I don't like it."
"I don't project!" Rachel said defensively, facing Quinn and clasping her hands to her chest. "It's just that Finn always made it sound like the two of you were on your own. You moved here from Ohio together, he spends all his time coaching high school football, you spend all your time whatevering, so your only real social circle is teenage boys. I mean, Finn's social circle… I don't think there's anything inappropriate going on with you and teenage boys."
"So, I'm not your project, you just wanna take care of me?"
"I want to be your friend. You know, since Finn was my friend and he was your friend too… he'd want someone to look out for you. And I can be very nurturing. I work at a vet's office!"
"Don't let me keep you from the vet, Rachel, I have a lot of friends."
***
"Does anyone want to be Quinn's partner?" Professor Holliday called. Quinn kept going to her community college out of some surely-sadomasochistic subconscious reasons. It seemed easier to just keep going than to drop it, which would seem like admitting defeat somehow. She doubted Finn wanted her to admit defeat.
And maybe she was just a little grumpy or maybe people had heard about her boyfriend, but lab partners were in scarce supply for her. She didn't care—she usually got paired with someone who thought he could set the ice queen on Defrost. But now she'd finally run out of paramours and Holly Holliday had gone Good Will Hunting on her, trying to set her up with someone so she didn't become a chemistry class old maid.
"Come on," Holliday said, "I know she's a blonde, but it won't kill you to have her for a lab partner. Although it can kill you not to mind the safety protocols, so please do that, whoever your partner is. But hey, Quinn's a hottie. I'd Mary Kay Letourneau her if you got a few drinks in me. Hey, gang, think that'd contribute to your final grade? Couldn't hurt!"
Quinn closed her eyes and prayed for something, anything, to make Holly Holliday stop talking.
"Miss Holliday!" Rachel's voice cut through the air like a whistle with perfect pitch. Quinn turned her head so hard she nearly cut her circulation off. Rachel had arrived late, wearing a pink labcoat and some sort of Kanye West safety goggles. Why would anyone even make those? "I'll be Quinn's partner!"
"And for that, I won't even count you as tardy. See, class? A good deed is its own reward."
Quinn tightened her gloves as Rachel sat down beside her. Enthusiastically, the brunette set about squaring away their work area.
"What are you doing here?" Quinn demanded.
"I go to this school. I was in the Glee club with Finn, remember? What, did you think that was the only class I took?"
Quinn resolved not to look at Rachel, and not just because of her eye-gouging fashion sense. She paged through her textbook. "I thought you were dreaming of being Liza Minelli's adopted daughter. What, is boiling acid your day job?"
"No, I'm up for a role as a scientist that James Bond sleeps with in the next movie. The notice says she's ugly, but Hollywood ugly. My agent says that's me all over!"
How did a human being have that chipper a smile? Quinn had seen people on Ecstasy with more negative outlooks on life. "Look, have you ever seen Single White Female? They've made, like, twenty movies with the exact same plot. That's you. You're the single white female."
"Actually, one of my dads has a Cherokee grandmother, so I feel like 'white' is a misnomer."
Quinn sighed. At least she could be sure of one thing. There was no way Finn could be cheating on her with this… individual.
"Let's just get this over with so I can be grateful and we can move on."
Holliday was droning on about acid, like they hadn't handled it a million times before. At least Rachel was helpful. Quinn read out the instructions and marked down their findings while Rachel diligently mixed the chemicals. She held up a beaker to the light.
"Quinn, would you say this is black or beige?"
Quinn turned to look just as a passing student jostled Rachel. Like it was slow-motion, Quinn saw the acid detach as the beaker tipped, the shimmering globules of it scattering through the air, one landing on Rachel's forearm. Rachel went into hysterics, screaming and shaking her arm. Quinn didn't think either. She just turned on a faucet and held Rachel's arm under it until the acid washed off. When she looked up, their eyes met.
Rachel had never seen such fierce determination in anyone. It had come out of nowhere. Quinn relaxed her face, offering a supportive 'can you believe that?' smile. She wiped away Rachel's tears with the cuff of her shirt. "Come on. Let's get you to the infirmary."
***
They walked at a brisk pace through the late morning chill, ignoring the heavy sunlight and chirping birds. Rachel couldn't stop looking at the reddened skin. "I'm like the Phantom of the Opera!"
"It’s not quite that bad."
"It burns…"
"That’s good," Quinn consoled her. She was holding Rachel's hand, as if the other woman might get lost, and with her free hand she scratched Rachel's back comfortingly. "It means it’s not a third-degree burn. There, your nerves would be burned off. This is just a little thing."
"You’re trying to distract me. Keep it up."
"Ummm… okay. Lemme think." Quinn tried to think of a story to tell, but they all seemed to revolve around either fighting supervillains or spending time with Finn. She'd never had much of a life outside of those two, unless you counted Sunday school. And Quinn doubted Rachel wanted to hear about the midnight showing of Passion of the Christ. "I have some games on my iPhone."
"Do you know any songs?"
"What? Of course. I know songs."
"Sing to me."
"I'm not going to sing to you."
"You sing in the shower, don't you?"
"No. I wash in the shower."
"What about when you're in the car and listening to the radio?"
"It's a radio, not a duet."
"I bet you'd be a great singer. You enunciate very well."
"Thanks."
"And I think you have a lot of lung capacity."
Quinn glanced downward. This was what she got for wearing a push-up bra just because it was the only clean underwear she had.
"Maybe I could start," Rachel suggested, "and you just jump in whenever you feel comfortable. Alright?"
"We're here."
Quinn practically shoved Rachel into the doctor's office.
***
Santana had always known she'd have to take care of herself. Her parents had been worthless, squabbling over Range Rovers and yachts while it was just assumed she would be split fifty-fifty. And let some boy take care of her? Yeah, that had worked out great for mom.
The typical cheerleader dream of snaring a millionaire and sexing him out of a pre-nup didn't work for her. Just from the first line of her biography—brown, sexually complicated, bitch—she knew she'd never make it as half of a power couple.
Funny enough, her brain seemed like it was meant for science. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. She could read a chapter of her textbook, comprender it, and listen to her iPods for the rest of the period while the teacher power-stuttered through the lesson plan. When it came to science, she understood like it was Brittany.
Santana knew scientists weren’t well-paid either, which convinced her not to go the traditional route, doing research at the whip-crack of corporations or universities. Instead, she charmed her way into all the equipment and lab assistants she would ever need. She would get a patent, and with that, she'd be set for life.
Her project was nanoviruses. Not quite virii and not quite nanotech technology, the scientific world had given up on practical applications for them. But Santana saw no reason they couldn't be symbiotes, rooting out cancer cells or even strands of DNA. Like the genes responsible for impossible urges.
Santana had also always known that the only way to play was fast and loose. As she added the gay gene to the nanovirus's pathology, she thought of brave new worlds and who they'd be peopled with. People who'd be faster, smarter, stronger. People who could decide who they were going to be.
***
Sue Sylvester ran the Daily Corner, New York's most prosperous newspaper ever since the New York Times had been blown up by the Yellow Journalist. Although she was stridently anti-superhero, she kept Quinn on as a dissenting opinion. Besides, the only reason they'd sold 50,000 copies of the "Women of the Daily Corner" calendar was that Quinn was on the front cover. And people couldn't get refunds for "Sue is months February through October." As if she didn't look great in a sling bikini.
Sue's red business suit flared when she spoke, her coattails flying out with each impassioned swing, her necktie whipping back and forth like a cobra. "Where's Fabray!" she demanded of Becky, her ever-beleaguered advertising executive.
"Yes coach?" Becky asked from behind Sue.
Sue swung around. "Where's Fabray?"
"Right behind you, coach."
Sue completed a 360 degree turn to find Quinn just coming through the door.
"There you are!"
"Here I am."
"What are you doing with your life, Quinn Fabray?" Sue insisted, hands on her hips. "We’re about to go to print and you’re just lollygagging around?"
"In my defense, those lollies really needed gagging."
"Don’t get smart with me, Fabray."
"Sorry, it’s just I get tired of waiting for you to."
Ever since Finn's accident, Quinn stopped being meek and quiet like people under 30 should be. Now every other sentence was a comeback. Sue didn't know what had happened to the good girl who'd shown her the proper respect.
"You get your column turned in?" Sue demanded.
"I sent it to your e-mail."
"You know I never check my e-mail! I have Becky do it for me, just in case someone's sent a mail bomb."
Quinn almost waved as the easy punchline passed her by. "Listen, there’ve been some debts I have to pay, so if I could have a slight advance on my paycheck…"
"Slight! I don’t do slight! You want slight, go down on Times Square, play find the queen with some hooligan!"
For once, Quinn stood her ground. "They’re Finn’s debts. I’ve put the debtors off for as long as I…"
"You think having a boyfriend in a coma is hard? Try running a newspaper in the middle of the digital age! That's hard!"
***
As Quinn left the offices, she saw someone down on one knee, someone else saying yes. A hug, a kiss, a ring. She left before everyone could congratulate them.
***
That night, Quinn slept on her side. If she opened her eyes, she'd find her apartment spotless. When her parents had visited to offer their condolences, they'd remarked on how clean it was, obviously expecting a junkyard instead. She didn't get the surprise. It wasn't like her social calendar was too busy for her to fit in some spring cleaning.
For once, she didn't have the nightmare of running through the city, hunting down the person responsible, only to end up at a mirror. Instead, all she remembered was the sensation of a man's arm, thick and hairy, sliding around her. Holding her tight.
She'd smiled in her sleep, for the few seconds it took her to realize it wasn't Finn… couldn't be Finn. And she jerked awake.
One hand grabbed the neck of the intruder, the other cocked a fist, and her eyes showed her she was threatening a pillow.
***
The worst part of Santana's relationship with Sam—the worst part on his end, anyway, it wasn't like there was any competition—was that he didn't fight for her. He didn't get possessive, he didn't demand to know where she'd been late at night, he just gave up on her. Like he knew Santana was one of those. Like he'd been waiting all this time for their relationship to break apart along this one huge crack.
The nanovirus had required her to make injections through the skin and into her bones, where it was sure to take hold in the marrow. She thought of Brittany and the names she'd been called—dyke, lesbo, run-muncher—and she pushed.
She went home. Her body felt like it was tingling, but she knew that was just her imagination. It couldn't be taking effect yet. Could it?
Sam opened the door. He wasn't possessive, angry, surprised. He just pointed her to the kitchen table, where supper still waited.
Santana grabbed his face like she was choking him and kissed him hard. She didn't feel the same heat she felt with Brittany, but at least she didn't think of her. It was Sam. Only Sam.
"We're gonna be okay, baby," she said as she led him to the bedroom. "We're gonna be just fine."
***
Afterward, Santana washed up. Not like it was with Brittany, washing the smell off, the kisses. Just splashing cold water on her face so she'd look her best for her man.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Perfect. Beautiful. Only some of the color had gone out of her cheeks. She put on some rouge. And there was a hair out of place. She reached for it and a clump fell out, scattering apart in the air mockingly.
Santana looked at her reflection again. Perfect. Beautiful. She tapped the mirror.
It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
***
"Didn't you used to eat Lucky Charms?" someone whispered in Quinn's ear as she ate breakfast. A man's voice. A familiar voice.
She searched the apartment. Stripped the bed. The cushions. Threw the books off the shelf.
She did her exercises in the middle of the mess, trying to sweat out the memory.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,639
Characters/Pairings: Rachel/Quinn, Santana/Brittany
Previous: Part 1
Summary: Quinn is Rachel’s newest project. She doesn’t care for it.
Quinn's talk with Rachel did do one thing. She got the idea to meet Finn halfway. She recalled he had always liked those Sci-Fi Channel Original Movies about giant crocodiles fighting large sharks fighting actors with no careers, so she gave Psalms a rest and read to him from a book about a skyscraper-sized shark terrorizing a beachside community. Apparently, a regular-sized shark wasn't scary enough.
“'He saw the swell of her breast flush,'" she read, "'and…” She read ahead silently a bit. Blushed. Flipped ahead. "And they have sex…" She continued flipping. "And more sex… When’s the giant shark going to eat people?"
From the doorway, Rachel coughed. She even coughed petitely, like she was afraid she might disturb Finn. "Good book, Quinn?"
"Oprah recommended it."
"And is he getting any better?"
"I think he moved his finger. Probably just my imagination."
Rachel had brought a glass of water with her. She sprinkled it on a bouquet of flowers in the corner. It was a somber, pretty arrangement. One Quinn hadn't sent.
"My offer still stands," Rachel said, apparently finding it easier to talk to Quinn when they weren't making eye contact. "And you can bring some friends. This Chinese diplomatic party just canceled. Apparently, they think it'd be really easy for an assassin to fake an accident. Julie Taymor also did The Lion King, did you know that?"
"Yes, I heard." Quinn chucked the book in the trash. Stupid idea anyway. "Anyone ever tell you that you come on real strong?"
Rachel shrugged. "Someone once told me I have a Type-A personality. I think I have an A+ personality."
"Yeah, well, I'm getting this real weird feeling that I'm your project and I don't like it."
"I don't project!" Rachel said defensively, facing Quinn and clasping her hands to her chest. "It's just that Finn always made it sound like the two of you were on your own. You moved here from Ohio together, he spends all his time coaching high school football, you spend all your time whatevering, so your only real social circle is teenage boys. I mean, Finn's social circle… I don't think there's anything inappropriate going on with you and teenage boys."
"So, I'm not your project, you just wanna take care of me?"
"I want to be your friend. You know, since Finn was my friend and he was your friend too… he'd want someone to look out for you. And I can be very nurturing. I work at a vet's office!"
"Don't let me keep you from the vet, Rachel, I have a lot of friends."
***
"Does anyone want to be Quinn's partner?" Professor Holliday called. Quinn kept going to her community college out of some surely-sadomasochistic subconscious reasons. It seemed easier to just keep going than to drop it, which would seem like admitting defeat somehow. She doubted Finn wanted her to admit defeat.
And maybe she was just a little grumpy or maybe people had heard about her boyfriend, but lab partners were in scarce supply for her. She didn't care—she usually got paired with someone who thought he could set the ice queen on Defrost. But now she'd finally run out of paramours and Holly Holliday had gone Good Will Hunting on her, trying to set her up with someone so she didn't become a chemistry class old maid.
"Come on," Holliday said, "I know she's a blonde, but it won't kill you to have her for a lab partner. Although it can kill you not to mind the safety protocols, so please do that, whoever your partner is. But hey, Quinn's a hottie. I'd Mary Kay Letourneau her if you got a few drinks in me. Hey, gang, think that'd contribute to your final grade? Couldn't hurt!"
Quinn closed her eyes and prayed for something, anything, to make Holly Holliday stop talking.
"Miss Holliday!" Rachel's voice cut through the air like a whistle with perfect pitch. Quinn turned her head so hard she nearly cut her circulation off. Rachel had arrived late, wearing a pink labcoat and some sort of Kanye West safety goggles. Why would anyone even make those? "I'll be Quinn's partner!"
"And for that, I won't even count you as tardy. See, class? A good deed is its own reward."
Quinn tightened her gloves as Rachel sat down beside her. Enthusiastically, the brunette set about squaring away their work area.
"What are you doing here?" Quinn demanded.
"I go to this school. I was in the Glee club with Finn, remember? What, did you think that was the only class I took?"
Quinn resolved not to look at Rachel, and not just because of her eye-gouging fashion sense. She paged through her textbook. "I thought you were dreaming of being Liza Minelli's adopted daughter. What, is boiling acid your day job?"
"No, I'm up for a role as a scientist that James Bond sleeps with in the next movie. The notice says she's ugly, but Hollywood ugly. My agent says that's me all over!"
How did a human being have that chipper a smile? Quinn had seen people on Ecstasy with more negative outlooks on life. "Look, have you ever seen Single White Female? They've made, like, twenty movies with the exact same plot. That's you. You're the single white female."
"Actually, one of my dads has a Cherokee grandmother, so I feel like 'white' is a misnomer."
Quinn sighed. At least she could be sure of one thing. There was no way Finn could be cheating on her with this… individual.
"Let's just get this over with so I can be grateful and we can move on."
Holliday was droning on about acid, like they hadn't handled it a million times before. At least Rachel was helpful. Quinn read out the instructions and marked down their findings while Rachel diligently mixed the chemicals. She held up a beaker to the light.
"Quinn, would you say this is black or beige?"
Quinn turned to look just as a passing student jostled Rachel. Like it was slow-motion, Quinn saw the acid detach as the beaker tipped, the shimmering globules of it scattering through the air, one landing on Rachel's forearm. Rachel went into hysterics, screaming and shaking her arm. Quinn didn't think either. She just turned on a faucet and held Rachel's arm under it until the acid washed off. When she looked up, their eyes met.
Rachel had never seen such fierce determination in anyone. It had come out of nowhere. Quinn relaxed her face, offering a supportive 'can you believe that?' smile. She wiped away Rachel's tears with the cuff of her shirt. "Come on. Let's get you to the infirmary."
***
They walked at a brisk pace through the late morning chill, ignoring the heavy sunlight and chirping birds. Rachel couldn't stop looking at the reddened skin. "I'm like the Phantom of the Opera!"
"It’s not quite that bad."
"It burns…"
"That’s good," Quinn consoled her. She was holding Rachel's hand, as if the other woman might get lost, and with her free hand she scratched Rachel's back comfortingly. "It means it’s not a third-degree burn. There, your nerves would be burned off. This is just a little thing."
"You’re trying to distract me. Keep it up."
"Ummm… okay. Lemme think." Quinn tried to think of a story to tell, but they all seemed to revolve around either fighting supervillains or spending time with Finn. She'd never had much of a life outside of those two, unless you counted Sunday school. And Quinn doubted Rachel wanted to hear about the midnight showing of Passion of the Christ. "I have some games on my iPhone."
"Do you know any songs?"
"What? Of course. I know songs."
"Sing to me."
"I'm not going to sing to you."
"You sing in the shower, don't you?"
"No. I wash in the shower."
"What about when you're in the car and listening to the radio?"
"It's a radio, not a duet."
"I bet you'd be a great singer. You enunciate very well."
"Thanks."
"And I think you have a lot of lung capacity."
Quinn glanced downward. This was what she got for wearing a push-up bra just because it was the only clean underwear she had.
"Maybe I could start," Rachel suggested, "and you just jump in whenever you feel comfortable. Alright?"
"We're here."
Quinn practically shoved Rachel into the doctor's office.
***
Santana had always known she'd have to take care of herself. Her parents had been worthless, squabbling over Range Rovers and yachts while it was just assumed she would be split fifty-fifty. And let some boy take care of her? Yeah, that had worked out great for mom.
The typical cheerleader dream of snaring a millionaire and sexing him out of a pre-nup didn't work for her. Just from the first line of her biography—brown, sexually complicated, bitch—she knew she'd never make it as half of a power couple.
Funny enough, her brain seemed like it was meant for science. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. She could read a chapter of her textbook, comprender it, and listen to her iPods for the rest of the period while the teacher power-stuttered through the lesson plan. When it came to science, she understood like it was Brittany.
Santana knew scientists weren’t well-paid either, which convinced her not to go the traditional route, doing research at the whip-crack of corporations or universities. Instead, she charmed her way into all the equipment and lab assistants she would ever need. She would get a patent, and with that, she'd be set for life.
Her project was nanoviruses. Not quite virii and not quite nanotech technology, the scientific world had given up on practical applications for them. But Santana saw no reason they couldn't be symbiotes, rooting out cancer cells or even strands of DNA. Like the genes responsible for impossible urges.
Santana had also always known that the only way to play was fast and loose. As she added the gay gene to the nanovirus's pathology, she thought of brave new worlds and who they'd be peopled with. People who'd be faster, smarter, stronger. People who could decide who they were going to be.
***
Sue Sylvester ran the Daily Corner, New York's most prosperous newspaper ever since the New York Times had been blown up by the Yellow Journalist. Although she was stridently anti-superhero, she kept Quinn on as a dissenting opinion. Besides, the only reason they'd sold 50,000 copies of the "Women of the Daily Corner" calendar was that Quinn was on the front cover. And people couldn't get refunds for "Sue is months February through October." As if she didn't look great in a sling bikini.
Sue's red business suit flared when she spoke, her coattails flying out with each impassioned swing, her necktie whipping back and forth like a cobra. "Where's Fabray!" she demanded of Becky, her ever-beleaguered advertising executive.
"Yes coach?" Becky asked from behind Sue.
Sue swung around. "Where's Fabray?"
"Right behind you, coach."
Sue completed a 360 degree turn to find Quinn just coming through the door.
"There you are!"
"Here I am."
"What are you doing with your life, Quinn Fabray?" Sue insisted, hands on her hips. "We’re about to go to print and you’re just lollygagging around?"
"In my defense, those lollies really needed gagging."
"Don’t get smart with me, Fabray."
"Sorry, it’s just I get tired of waiting for you to."
Ever since Finn's accident, Quinn stopped being meek and quiet like people under 30 should be. Now every other sentence was a comeback. Sue didn't know what had happened to the good girl who'd shown her the proper respect.
"You get your column turned in?" Sue demanded.
"I sent it to your e-mail."
"You know I never check my e-mail! I have Becky do it for me, just in case someone's sent a mail bomb."
Quinn almost waved as the easy punchline passed her by. "Listen, there’ve been some debts I have to pay, so if I could have a slight advance on my paycheck…"
"Slight! I don’t do slight! You want slight, go down on Times Square, play find the queen with some hooligan!"
For once, Quinn stood her ground. "They’re Finn’s debts. I’ve put the debtors off for as long as I…"
"You think having a boyfriend in a coma is hard? Try running a newspaper in the middle of the digital age! That's hard!"
***
As Quinn left the offices, she saw someone down on one knee, someone else saying yes. A hug, a kiss, a ring. She left before everyone could congratulate them.
***
That night, Quinn slept on her side. If she opened her eyes, she'd find her apartment spotless. When her parents had visited to offer their condolences, they'd remarked on how clean it was, obviously expecting a junkyard instead. She didn't get the surprise. It wasn't like her social calendar was too busy for her to fit in some spring cleaning.
For once, she didn't have the nightmare of running through the city, hunting down the person responsible, only to end up at a mirror. Instead, all she remembered was the sensation of a man's arm, thick and hairy, sliding around her. Holding her tight.
She'd smiled in her sleep, for the few seconds it took her to realize it wasn't Finn… couldn't be Finn. And she jerked awake.
One hand grabbed the neck of the intruder, the other cocked a fist, and her eyes showed her she was threatening a pillow.
***
The worst part of Santana's relationship with Sam—the worst part on his end, anyway, it wasn't like there was any competition—was that he didn't fight for her. He didn't get possessive, he didn't demand to know where she'd been late at night, he just gave up on her. Like he knew Santana was one of those. Like he'd been waiting all this time for their relationship to break apart along this one huge crack.
The nanovirus had required her to make injections through the skin and into her bones, where it was sure to take hold in the marrow. She thought of Brittany and the names she'd been called—dyke, lesbo, run-muncher—and she pushed.
She went home. Her body felt like it was tingling, but she knew that was just her imagination. It couldn't be taking effect yet. Could it?
Sam opened the door. He wasn't possessive, angry, surprised. He just pointed her to the kitchen table, where supper still waited.
Santana grabbed his face like she was choking him and kissed him hard. She didn't feel the same heat she felt with Brittany, but at least she didn't think of her. It was Sam. Only Sam.
"We're gonna be okay, baby," she said as she led him to the bedroom. "We're gonna be just fine."
***
Afterward, Santana washed up. Not like it was with Brittany, washing the smell off, the kisses. Just splashing cold water on her face so she'd look her best for her man.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Perfect. Beautiful. Only some of the color had gone out of her cheeks. She put on some rouge. And there was a hair out of place. She reached for it and a clump fell out, scattering apart in the air mockingly.
Santana looked at her reflection again. Perfect. Beautiful. She tapped the mirror.
It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
***
"Didn't you used to eat Lucky Charms?" someone whispered in Quinn's ear as she ate breakfast. A man's voice. A familiar voice.
She searched the apartment. Stripped the bed. The cushions. Threw the books off the shelf.
She did her exercises in the middle of the mess, trying to sweat out the memory.
