Word count: 9280
Summary: Quinn wants to say I told you so because she’d pretty much predicted this the day Santana had dropped out of her freshman year of college in an effort to become a badass guitar-playing rockstar.
Notes: Written for Onomatopoetic. Title from Sara Bareilles’ song Gravity.
Another working week goes by without much changing. Santana asks to borrow her laptop one day, and when Quinn comes home, there are several job ads open on the screen. Quinn doesn’t say anything about it, and neither does Santana.
On Saturday, they go to Central Park, because Quinn thinks Santana has to at least know the tourist places in New York if she’s planning on living there. They end up strolling through the park, enjoying the weak winter sun, and Santana buys her a candy apple.
“I feel like we should be holding hands or something,” Quinn jokes.
Santana smirks. “You want to?” she asks back, her tone showing that she’s joking, but she actually reaches out and grabs Quinn’s hand. Quinn holds on without looking at her, and they hold hands all the way through the park, right up until they start to walk home again and Santana lets go.
Quinn’s hand feels cold. She shoves it in her pocket, and tries not to notice.
When they go out that night, Santana dances with a couple of guys, but she comes back to Quinn before midnight and says, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Quinn eyes her, startled, but Santana only raises her eyebrows. Her hand brushes against Quinn’s on the way out.
“We can watch something else, you know,” Santana says on Monday night over pizza, when Quinn flicks on American Idol. “You can choose.”
They’re sitting on the couch together as they eat. Their thighs are touching.
“I like it,” Quinn says. “It’s way better than hearing you sing.”
Santana glares. “Bitch,” she mutters, but there’s no venom in it. Quinn only smiles.
On Wednesday night, she finds Santana actually cooking when she gets home from work.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Quinn demands, staring.
“I’m cooking, Q, are you fucking blind?” Santana asks. “I can’t look another piece of goddamned pepperoni in the face.”
Quinn stares at the black mess Santana is poking at in the frying pan. “What is it?” she asks.
Santana scowls. “Cheese sandwiches,” she says. “I don’t know how to fry anything else.”
“Oh,” Quinn says, staring at the sandwiches. Their outsides are completely black.
“Do you think they’re ready?” Santana asks.
“Sure,” Quinn says brightly. “Let’s eat.”
Santana puts the sandwiches on plates, and hands one to Quinn. Quinn stares at it, and take an apprehensive bite.
“Well?” Santana demands.
Quinn tries to swallow, and fails. “It’s – it’s good,” she says, her mouth full.
Santana eyes her suspiciously, and takes a bite of her own sandwich. She gags. “Oh my god,” she says. “Q!”
“What?” Quinn says defensively, but she can’t help the smile on her face. “It isn’t my fault you burned the shit out of them!”
“Why didn’t you say?” Santana shouts. She spits her mouthful of sandwich into the sink, and glares as Quinn bursts into laughter. “I hate you,” she grumbles, reaching for the phone. “You want pizza or Chinese?”
“What do you want to do tonight?” Santana asks on Saturday afternoon.
Quinn looks up from her laptop in surprise. “I don’t know,” she says. “Don’t you have somewhere you want to drag me to?”
Santana shrugs. “You can choose this time,” she says.
They go to a cocktail bar that Quinn’s been to before with people from work. Santana complains about the prices and Quinn has to agree with her when she points out – loudly – that the waiters seem to think they’re gods of the hospitality industry.
After one drink, they go to the bar practically next door, where they can get cheap drinks and sit around without feeling like they’re being judged.
They nurse their drinks this time, so the buzz hits them slowly. Quinn turns down the couple of guys who look her way, and surprisingly Santana does the same.
“What?” she asks when Quinn raises her eyebrows questioningly. “I don’t sleep with everyone who looks at me, you know.”
“Tell that to our entire year at high school,” Quinn snorts.
Santana makes a face at her.
They manage to spend a couple of hours talking about nothing in particular, and at one thirty, Quinn decides it’s time to go home. She holds out a hand to Santana as they stand up, intending to lead her through the crowd, but Santana takes it and pulls her closer, and then she leans forward and kisses her.
Quinn stand still, frozen in surprise, but it’s actually kind of nice, and she finds herself kissing back. Santana pulls away after a minute.
“What are you waiting for, Q,” she asks, when Quinn stands still. “Let’s go.”
There’s an actual smile on her lips as she looks at Quinn, and she keeps holding her hand as they walk out. She doesn’t let it go all the way home.
They don’t mention the kiss all the next day, but Santana kind of smiles a lot. Quinn’s not surprised, even though it’s Santana, because she can’t help smiling too.
When Quinn gets home on Monday night, Santana’s waiting with take-out boxes as usual, and she kisses Quinn hello. It’s a quick kiss, no tongue or passion, but it leaves Quinn feeling warm.
She stays up later that night, wondering whether she should make another move, but she goes to bed around eleven thirty, and Santana just says goodnight and gets into her sleeping bag.
The next night, the welcome home kiss is a little longer. Santana leans on her when they watch American Idol.
On Wednesday morning, Santana wakes up while Quinn is getting breakfast, and she gives her a goodbye kiss as well. That night, Quinn’s kiss hello goes on for longer, and later, while they’re cleaning up after dinner, she finds herself being kissed again. This time, it lasts for minutes.
Afterwards, they actually snuggle on the couch.
On Friday nights, Quinn usually comes home from work and falls into bed, exhausted from a week of work. This week, though, she hesitantly suggests going out, and Santana grins at her.
“I fucking knew it,” she crows. “You love going to bars, you sneaky bitch. You were just trying to milk me for free drinks, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Quinn says dryly. “You caught me.”
She hits Santana’s shoulder. Santana retaliates by flicking her in the ear, and smirking when she whines.
“So where are we going?”
They go back to that first club that they’d gone to when Santana turned up unexpectedly on her doorstep. Santana orders them shots to start with, but then they nurse beers for a while.
“You want to dance?” Santana asks after their fourth round.
Quinn shrugs. “Ok.”
She’s half expecting Santana to latch onto the nearest guy and start showing him why he should take her home with him. She’s waiting for it to happen, but at the same time she’s terrified of it, because she’s really liked the way they’ve been this week. If she has to spend tomorrow morning listening to Santana talk about having sex with some random guy, it’s going to hurt a lot.
But Santana stays close to Quinn, and doesn’t pay any attention to the guys around. After a few songs, she places her hands on Quinn’s hips.
Quinn feels her mouth go dry. Tentatively, she puts her arms around Santana.
It takes two more songs for Santana to kiss her.
It takes another half hour of dancing, bodies bumping together, before she suggests that maybe they should go home.
They’re quiet on the way back to Quinn’s apartment, but they’re holding hands, and it makes Quinn warm. She’s more turned on that she’d like to admit, and she’s half scared that this is all going to end when they get back. She unlocks the door with a hand that shakes.
Santana pauses when they get inside, and Quinn turns around when she realizes that Santana’s no longer beside her. She finds her standing next to the couch, hovering uncertainly near her sleeping bag. Her eyes are questioning as she looks at Quinn.
Quinn summons up her courage. “What are you doing, loser?” she asks, trying to sound confident. “My bedroom is this way.”
There’s a lot of kissing to start with, just standing in the middle of Quinn’s floor, fully clothed, hands by their sides, kissing. It’s kind of like the kisses they’ve been sharing all week, except this time they’re both a little rougher, kissing with more intent. Quinn finally breaks away to slide her hands up Santana’s top and drag it over her head, leaving her in a bra and a very short skirt.
Quinn licks her lips. When they were teenagers and on the Cheerios together, she’d seen Santana practically naked almost every day. Back then, she’d been jealous of the other girl’s seemingly perfect body, with tan skin and toned muscle.
Seven years on, she looks even better.
Quinn brings her mouth back to Santana’s, kissing hungrily, and groping for the catch of her bra. She feels Santana laugh into her mouth.
“You’re even worse at this than guys are,” she says, and reaches around to undo the hook herself. She pulls Quinn forward again, pulling her dress up and off, until she’s standing there in her underwear, and a pair of high heels.
“We should be taping this,” Santana breathes into her ear. “We could make millions.”
Quinn shivers. “Shut up, she murmurs, and tugs ineffectually at Santana’s skirt. “Get naked.”
Santana obliges, stripping off her skirt and panties until she’s completely naked. She stands in front of Quinn, looking totally comfortable.
Quinn licks suddenly dry lips as she looks her over.
“Santana,” she whispers. “Fuck, Santana.”
Santana grabs her hand, pulling her towards the bed. Effortlessly, she unhooks Quinn’s bra and pulls it off her, before flinging it away. Quinn pushes off her panties without having to be asked. Santana grins at the heels she’s still wearing.
“Keeping those on?” she asks. “They are pretty hot.”
Quinn’s too turned on to glare, and the face she makes causes Santana to laugh.
“Come here,” Santana says, pulling her down so they sit on the bed. She pulls Quinn’s legs up so her feet are on the blankets. “Let me take these off for you.”
She takes off the shoes and then lets her hands linger, running up Quinn’s legs. Somehow, she’s hovering on top of Quinn, who’s half leaning back on the bed. It only takes seconds until Santana’s back kissing her again, leaning down so their bodies press together.
She’s actually never slept with another girl before, and she’s a little awkward and clumsy, but she work her hands downwards and finds wet heat, and after a few minutes she finds the rhythm at last. When Santana comes, she calls out Quinn’s name.
She’s inordinately relieved that Santana didn’t say ‘Brittany’.
Santana has no such inexperience, and Quinn’s arching off the bed before she knows what’s hit her. She doesn’t call Santana’s name, because she can’t remember it, or anything else for that matter, but when she comes back to herself, she pants, “Santana,” over and over. They fall asleep together, still tangled up in each other.
Quinn dreams of warmth.
When Quinn wakes up in the morning, she’s alone in the bed. For a second, she can’t remember why that’s disappointing, and then the events of last night come back to her. She turns over and stares at the empty space for minutes, hoping Santana will come back in with coffee or doughnuts or something.
After an hour, Quinn gets out of bed and goes into the living room. Santana’s stuff is still in the corner, and the sleeping bag is still on the couch, which gives her hope, but hours pass and she still doesn’t appear.
It’s Saturday night. For the first time in a while, Quinn spends it at home.
On Sunday night, she watches American Idol alone.
Santana’s still not there on Monday night, or Tuesday night, or even Wednesday. Then, on Thursday, Quinn pushes the door open, fully expecting the apartment to be empty, and finds Santana, sitting in front of a mountain of take-out boxes.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” Santana says, as Quinn stands there and stares. “So I got everything.”
Quinn turns away and puts her things down, trying to calm her heartbeat. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line.
“Where were you?” she asks tightly, without looking at her.
“I went to see Brittany,” Santana says quietly.
Quinn’s eyes widen. “You went to see Brittany?” she repeats, voice dangerous. Her fingers tighten around the keys she’s still holding.
She hears the scrape of a chair, and feels Santana come up behind her. “I needed to see her,” Santana says.
“So, what?” Quinn half shouts. She turns around to face Santana. “So you could tell her how much you love her? How you had sex with me because I’m blonde and you thought I could replace her?”
“No!” Santana says. “Jesus, fuck, Quinn! Of course that’s not why I went!”
“Yeah?” Quinn shouts. “Then why, Santana? We slept together, remember? And then you disappear to see your fucking ex-girlfriend without even telling me? What am I supposed to think, S?”
“Maybe you could fucking trust me!” Santana retorts angrily. “I didn’t go over there to try and get her back! I didn’t even go to have sex with her!”
“Then why did you go?” Quinn demands.
“Because I had to show myself that I was fucking over her, ok?” Santana shouts. “For some reason I thought I couldn’t move on until I saw her and figured that shit out! And I needed to remember that it’s ok that I’m thinking about someone else now!”
There’s a ringing silence after she finishes. Quinn exhales, and sits heavily on the arm of the couch.
“So, how was she?” she whispers.
“She’s married,” Santana says, letting out a short, bitter laugh. “To some douchebag. But she’s still teaching dance.”
“Oh,” Quinn says, somewhat shakily.
Santana grabs her chin, forcing Quinn to look at her. “It’s okay, Q,” she says. “I’m okay. I’m over that shit. There’s – there are other people now.”
Quinn swallows. “Okay,” she says. She hesitates, asking a question with her eyes, and Santana’s lips slam into her own, effectively answering her.
“Okay,” Quinn whispers again, when Santana steps back. “I guess it’s okay.”
The pattern doesn’t change so much, except that it involves more kissing, and more cuddling, and more sex. They go out on Saturday nights, and they come home together, and wake up in the morning together.
The sleeping bag is still present on the couch, but it hasn’t been slept in for a while.
Some Saturdays later, they go to a bar around the corner, get drunk and come home. They have drunk, sloppy sex, half laughing all the way through it because Santana’s keeping a running commentary until Quinn shuts her up with her fingers.
Afterwards, when they’re lying in hazy blissfulness and Santana is tucked into the crook of Quinn’s neck, Santana says, “So, are we going steady?”
Quinn pulls back a little. “What do you mean?”
Santana frowns. “Duh, Q,” she says. “I mean, are we official? Are you my girlfriend?”
Quinn stares, her heart rate picking up. “I – I don’t know,” she mutters. “We’re – whatever.”
She tries to lie back down again, but Santana sits up. “We’re ‘whatever’?” she repeats. “Are you fucking serious, Fabray?”
“What?” Quinn asks heatedly, sitting up as well. “What do you want me to say, Santana? This isn’t – this is – I don’t know what this is!”
“What do you want it to be?” Santana demands. “Am I just a good fuck?”
Quinn flinches. “Don’t say that,” she mutters.
“Why not?” Santana demands. “Am I your girlfriend or not?”
Quinn looks away.
“Okay,” Santana says, getting out of bed. She pulls on her hastily discarded clothes. “See you later, Q.”
“Santana, wait!” Quinn calls, jumping out of bed, but by the time she has clothes on, Santana’s already disappeared.
Quinn doesn’t see her again until late the next night. She’s rolling up Santana’s sleeping bag when she hears the door open and close, and she looks up to find Santana leaning against it, arms crossed over her chest.
“Kicking me out, Fabray?” she asks, tone cold. “I would say I’m surprised, but – well.”
Quinn tucks the sleeping under her arm. “You don’t need this anymore,” she says.
Santana tilts her head to the side. “What do you mean?” she asks cautiously.
“Well,” Quinn says, heart hammering. “My girlfriend doesn’t sleep on the couch.”
Santana pauses, and then takes a tentative step forward. “Really,” she says.
“Yeah,” Quinn nods. “Come on loser. Our bedroom’s that way.”
Santana pauses a minute, and then kisses her, sweet and soft and unhurried, as though she could do this all night. They lean into each other, and Santana grins when she pulls back.
That night, when they go to sleep, curled up together in her bed, Quinn puts her arms around Santana, her head on her shoulder.
“Stop being a fucking sap, Q,” Santana whispers into the darkness. “Go to sleep.”