Chapter Text
So.
It’s how every conversation she tries to have with Brittany about what happened starts.
So--Rachel and I had sex. But that doesn’t cover it in the slightest. Yeah, it might be technically accurate, but it’s also a load of shit because--it wasn’t about that.
So--Rachel thinks I hate her so I fucked her to show her that I don’t.
Shit, she can’t even convince herself that that’s what went down.
So--Rachel’s …
She doesn’t have the words, and after a while she just gets up off the couch again, reaching for the bag of frozen peas on Brittany’s knees, and she heads to the kitchen to replace it with a bag of frozen corn.
“Things are really messed up,” Brittany says, before exhaling slowly and leaning forward to tie the bag back around her knee with a towel. “I mean, not just with my ACL. I just mean everything.”
Other people would ask questions, like what the fuck happened with your leg, or what the fuck happened with Artie.
Santana just feels something inside of her collapse completely at the way they’re sitting in an apartment that doesn’t feel like her home anymore, and drops her head on Brittany’s shoulder.
Brittany tilts her head just enough for there to be contact.
They’ve sat like this so many times, but it’s never felt less like they’re actually with each other.
*
She knows, abstractly, what Rachel’s doing.
She didn’t ask, but Quinn volunteered the information. In kind, Santana let her know that Sam was back in Philly and hadn’t mentioned a thing. The semi-awkward halt in conversation was yet another thing she didn’t want to dwell on, because how the fuck can she be of any use to Quinn when she can’t even deal with her own life right now? Or ever, really?
Brittany’s camping out in Rachel’s bedroom.
She hasn’t heard the hum of the elliptical in days. God, she’s not even sure if she can sleep without it there, even though all it did when Rachel was around was wake her up.
“I’m... sort of still banking on staying in Rachel’s room this summer,” Quinn finally says.
“Is this your way of telling me she’s not coming back from whatever the hell she’s doing with Puckerman?” Santana asks, forcing the words out past a lump in her throat that just won’t give. She stares at her phone constantly. It buzzes all the time, but never with anything she needs to hear.
“If she does, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Quinn says, neutrally, and Santana rubs at her forehead, wishing that the parts of her that hurt could be banished with a dose of Tylenol.
“Of course you can come. Britt can sleep with me,” she finally says.
“Santana...”
“What?” she asks, almost angrily. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed millions of times before. It’s not like anything even has to happen. It’s not like I fucking owe her--”
And it all just stops there, because Quinn isn’t the person she wants to be saying this to. She doesn’t want to be saying it at all.
“Puck says she’s … working on something. To tell you,” Quinn finally says, tentatively. It comes out sour and unhappy, like the part of this that matters the most is still the part where Quinn hates Rachel and Rachel hates Quinn.
Santana only has bitterness in response, and takes a few seconds to finally just say, “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Britt needs me to go get her some sort of elastic thing to stretch with or whatever.”
“And what about you? What do you need?” Quinn asks, bluntly.
The first word that comes to mind blindsides her completely, and she hangs up before anything else happens without her permission, like her entire life seems to these days.
*
Her mind betrays her so hard.
She dreams about Rachel, spread out beneath her and arching up into her hands. She dreams about Rachel begging for her, and promising her the world in kind. She dreams of words coming out of Rachel’s mouth that she’s pretty sure Rachel would never even say, words like, “fuck me like you mean it, Santana”, in that pretty-girl voice she has, but rougher and more molten.
She dreams about waking up next to Rachel, after having fucked her senseless, and having her still there, with a small smile on her face and a hand that’s cupping her cheek and pulling on her face--like she’s going to be told the smartest of all secrets, and Rachel needs to pull her in close so that she can be sure Santana understands it.
She dreams of leaning into that hand, and--.
She wakes up with her own hand stretched across the mattress, reaching for something that isn’t there.
Brittany wakes up because of the crash her alarm clock causes when it breaks apart into a good twenty different pieces upon hitting the wall, and she spends most of the morning apologizing for that, between making breakfast for them and half-heartedly watching an episode of Spongebob.
Finally, just because bills are still going to need to get paid, and she doesn’t want to look as fucked up as she feels when Quinn gets in, she heads downstairs to get the mail and throw out the trash, and that’s when it’s there.
On the front of it is a picture of a starfish.
She knows who it’s from before she even flips it over, and then her hands shake so much the card fumbles to the ground, tipping over onto its front by her feet.
Rachel’s handwriting stares back at her. She’d know it anywhere. In a line-up of a hundred thousand fucking notes left for her, she’d be able to pick out Rachel’s handwriting, because Rachel writes like a fourteen year old boy and digs the tip of the pen into the paper too hard because whenever she writes anything she really means it. She signs with the letter “R” and jots a little star next to it, except that’s not there now--this is just from R, and Santana stops breathing at just the sight of that.
Brittany appears at the top of the stairs a moment later and says, “Did you die?”
“No, obviously not,” Santana snaps, before holding up a hand in apology. “What--”
“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Brittany says, and then hobbles the rest of the way down the stairs. Santana would say something, but the doctor’s instructions are pretty straight-forward on the fact that she needs to start using it again or it’ll only take longer for her to recover from the surgery. “What’s--”
And damn, her knee might be out of commission but she’s so damn flexible that that doesn’t stop her from picking the card up and looking at it quizzically anyway.
“I can’t,” Santana says, when it’s held out to her. The words wrench themselves out of her throat, and there’s tears in her eyes again and Brittany pulls her into a hug without asking anything else.
“Okay, okay. Let’s talk about this. I don’t know what this is, but--let’s go back upstairs and I’ll tell you about Artie and you’ll tell me about Rachel, because you’re my oldest friend and I love you, okay? That’s never changed,” Brittany murmurs against her head, and Santana feels her entire frame start to shake, but Brittany’s steady enough for both of them.
With a big gulp, she sucks all of the shit running through her mind back in, and then lets Brittany usher her up the stairs, back into the apartment that’s so much more Rachel than it’s her, until they’re sitting next to each other on the sofa and Brittany’s adjusting her knee.
“It’s not that I don’t love him,” she finally says, and then sighs, resting her head on her hands, and her elbows on her knees. “I do, and he loves me. But sometimes that’s not everything, is it?”
The irony is almost blinding, and Santana says nothing; just stares at the postcard on the table, where Brittany dropped it, and waits for her to continue.
“I tore my ACL doing hip-hop. It was awful, San. I mean, it like literally tore. You could hear it. Sometimes I still dream about it,” Brittany says, quietly. “And then my leg was at like this super crazy angle, and I mean, you know I’m flexible but it like, went way beyond that. I passed out, I mean, that’s what Artie tells me. They called him and when I woke up I was in the hospital and he had to tell me that I might never dance again.”
Santana closes her eyes and reaches for Brittany’s leg--the good one, and squeezes it. “Professionally, or...”
“It’s okay, the surgery went well. I mean, I can recover. It might act up from time to time but they have... I don’t know. Artie explained it all to me, but it’s not like it used to be, where like, if your ACL went, it was end of career,” Brittany says, biting her lip and covering Santana’s hand with her own.
There’s comfort in that touch, and Santana unwillingly thinks of kindergarten and sharing a sippy-cup of apple juice. God, things were better then.
“The thing is, … did you know that Artie wanted to be a dancer?”
Santana almost laughs; Jesus, what a terrible reaction to have. “No. But I mean--”
“Yeah, no, of course he knows,” Brittany says, with a squeeze. “But seeing me--lose what he lost, he just--”
There don’t seem to be any more words after that, until Brittany says, “I think it’s just one of those things. One relationship and three broken legs, it’s just too much to ask for. And I don’t want to hate him. He was there for me, even though it hurt him to see me when I really just couldn’t walk at all. I mean. He was there for me, you know? He even offered to call you.”
It brings up an interesting point, like, the one where she had no idea any of this was happening over in Boston. “Why didn’t you?”
Brittany’s silent for a long time and then says, “Because I really wanted to, and it wouldn’t have been fair.”
Santana feels her stomach twist uncomfortably at that fact, and then just says, “Yeah. I mean. We haven’t been close in--”
“Shut up, Santana,” Brittany says, taking a deep breath and then shifting her hand a little. “It was just too much. I didn’t want to hurt him, and I didn’t want him to be hurting, and I didn’t want him to hate me.”
“So you left,” Santana says, blinking until the postcard blurs over in the corner of her eye. “You left before it could get worse.”
Their pinkies tangle together automatically, and Santana sinks back into the couch and puts her free hand to her mouth.
“You slept with her, didn’t you?” Brittany finally just asks. “And she left. Before it could get worse.”
It’s as good a summary as anything, and Santana finally just nods, biting down on her knuckle and closing her eyes again.
“Do you want me to read the card to you?” Brittany asks, hesitantly.
The idea of Brittany reading whatever Rachel has to say is almost too much; Brittany’s voice, Rachel’s words. God, if only she could get a glimpse at the card without it killing her to find out what it says. If only she had the guts to read it herself.
“Yeah,” she finally says, in barely more than a whisper.
She keeps her eyes closed as the words wash over her.
“It’s number one. They’re numbered,” Brittany says, disembodied next to her, like the ghost of something that used to be hers. “And, okay. I’ll try to read this the way Rachel would, but I don’t have her breath control, so--”
The laugh that bursts from her chest hurts so much, but it’s also the thing to have her nudge Brittany with her knee and say, “Britt, come on. I can’t handle this, just--just do it. I don’t want to know but I need to know, okay?”
Brittany swallows audibly and says, “Yeah, okay.”
*
The night we spent together should’ve been one of the best of my life, but it wasn’t, because I wasn’t ready for it. And neither were you. So I’m taking this opportunity to start over. You think I ran because I’m afraid, and I was. I was afraid of you rejecting me the next day, and I was afraid of you not rejecting me the next day. In the end, I knew I needed time--and so did you. You’re going to make me pay for this, but it’s okay, because I think it’s worth it if there is something between us--more than just that one night, I mean.
I think there is. And this is me, trying to persuade you.
*
It takes everything in Santana’s body to not fly off the couch and out of the apartment, and if not for the fact that Brittany’s pinkie finger is still locked with hers, she’d be gone. Fuck knows where, but gone.
Brittany lets the card flutter back to the table with a quick toss and then says, “It’s a letter. You’re getting it in parts.”
“Why the fuck can’t she just--” Santana rasps out.
“Because she knows you, and knows that you’re going to get angry first, and she doesn’t want you to still be angry when you get to the part that matters,” Brittany says, calmly.
Santana’s head feels like it’s going to explode, and she tears her hand away. “That’s just fucking priceless. I’m just surrounded by experts on me, aren’t I.”
“San--”
“No, really. Keep telling me how well you know me, both of you. Because you sure have a fucked up way of showing it. You’ve done nothing but break my fucking heart for the entire time I’ve known you, and Rachel? Rachel just--” she says, but there’s that block in her chest again that she just can’t get past, and so all that’s left for her to do is to burst off the couch and storm into her room.
She doesn’t cry, this time; just listens to some Alanis while she waits for her heart rate to slow down, and wonders what Rachel would do if she put down her feelings on a postcard right now.
It’d be a pretty brief message.
Fuck you, you fucking coward.
*
It doesn’t even need to be said the next morning; Brittany’s eating some Fruit Loops from the box and staring at the door, and Santana’s just staring into space.
“What time does your mailman come?” Brittany asks, between loud crunches.
Dexter’s Laboratory blows up in the background.
“I have no fucking idea,” Santana says, and watches as Brittany puts the box down, grabs her keys from the key bowl, and heads out.
She can just about picture her going down the stairs, one aching step at a time.
*
I always thought I would go to New York by myself. That I’d cut all ties to Lima and start fresh, and let me just say, it used to be a relief. Up until May of our junior year of high school, it was a relief that I’d never have to see any of you again. But then something in your life changed, and I’m sorry if it’s heartless for me to say that I’m glad that Brittany broke you so completely--because if she hadn’t, you would’ve never been in my life at all.
New York was supposed to be about me, but it became about us instead. And I wouldn’t have it any other way right now. I can’t imagine living with someone else; you’re a terrible roommate, and possibly one of the least considerate people on earth full stop, but you’re the only one I want. Can you tell me that it’s any different for you?
*
Santana stares into space some more when this card gets added to the other one. Is two cards a pile yet? Whatever. Apparently, Rachel has a lot of words to get off her chest.
Not that that’s a surprise.
Brittany says, “This is pretty tame so far. I mean, it’s Rachel. I thought she would just.... I don’t know. Record a tape of herself singing I Will Always Love You or something.”
Santana snorts and says, “Yeah, because that would win me over.”
“So do you want to be won over?” Brittany asks, pointedly.
God damn it.
“I’m going for a walk,” Santana says, not looking at Brittany or the post cards, or at Rachel’s coat, still on the coat rack, like she’s going to come back any second now to collect it.
*
Quinn calls later and says, “You should be getting postcards by now.”
“What are you two, our fucking parents?” Santana snaps at her. “If Rachel wants to know if I’m receiving her obscure, bullshit doodles about her feelings she can ask me herself.”
Quinn whistles low and then says, “Right, so I take it she’s getting to you, then?”
“You’re getting to me,” Santana says, but the fight’s leaving her already.
“Just hear her out. She might have had a good reason for leaving,” Quinn says, neutrally.
“I thought you hated her,” Santana asks, because she honestly can’t even keep track of who is on whose side anymore. Or if there even are sides.
“It’s not hate, Santana. It’s--”
The sentence hangs in dead air for a while, and then Quinn just mumbles something about how they’ll talk about it in a week, when she’s moving in with them.
Santana looks at her bed, and at the side of where every morning, she expects to find something that isn’t there--except in seven days from now, there will be something there, and--
God. She really doesn’t need things to get even more screwed up than they already are, but the last time she and Britt slept in the same bed and actually just slept was when they were thirteen.
It doesn’t help that they’re both so lonely.
It doesn’t help that it would be so easy, either.
*
They run out of milk and coffee the next day, and Santana heads out to the corner store, where Kevin--the ginger garden gnome behind the counter--actually asks about Rachel, because she hasn’t been by to pick up her daily Sudoku in a while, and--
Santana has literally fuck all idea what he’s even talking about.
“She’s out of town for the summer,” she finally just says, in an ultimate none-of-your-business tone of voice.
He smiles a little. “Yeah, I can see why she’d hide her nerdy hobby from you.”
Fuck that guy and his fucking ginger goatee.
*
She tosses postcard number 3 to Brittany, and then says, “Sudoku is seriously the stupidest fucking hobby on earth, I mean, who the hell wants to fill in nine squares with the same numbers every single day?”
“Yeah, math totally sucks,” Brittany agrees.
Santana laughs for the first time in like, a lifetime, without it actually hurting, and then sits down on the coffee table and says, “Hit me with it.”
Her chest hurts a little bit less than it did yesterday. That’s nothing to do with the postcards, though.
*
New York isn’t just the place I live. It’s home. More specifically, our crappy little walk-up with its dingy plasterwork and second hand furniture and semi-predictable hot water supply is more home to me now than even my dads’ place in Lima is. No matter how many awful auditions I trudge through or how long I’m on my feet at either of my jobs, I know that at the end of the day I’ll go to bed happy because there’s someone waiting for me at home.
I don’t have a frame of reference for this, because I’ve never had a best friend, but maybe you can ask yourself if this sounds familiar, and if this is also how you’d feel if you lived with Quinn.
*
“That’s a pretty big question,” Brittany says, as the stack grows to three.
Santana doesn’t comment, but unwillingly thinks back to living with Quinn for the better part of her senior year anyway, and how they’d bitched at each other constantly about little things like who put the hair straightener where. It damn well hadn’t inspired her to start making Quinn dinner, or to predict what she’d want to watch on television later that night, because half the time they hadn’t even spent their evenings together.
She knows she’s sulking when Brittany pokes her in the shin with a toe, and says, “C’mon. Talk about what’s going on in your mind.”
“I can’t,” Santana says, and when Brittany looks at her questioningly, she just says, “It wouldn’t be fair”, because they don’t need more words between them than that.
The apartment goes from semi-okay to incredibly uncomfortable in a heartbeat, and something about the softening expression on Brittany’s face is like a red flag to Santana’s eyes.
“Why did she leave?” Santana finally just asks, when there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.
Brittany doesn’t answer for a long time, but then finally says, “Maybe because loving you is scary, sometimes.”
Rachel’s never said those words, and Santana doesn’t need a Britt-to-English translator to know that it’s possible they’re not talking about Rachel at all anymore.
“Why did you let her leave?” Brittany asks in kind.
“I didn’t,” Santana answers, and heads to the kitchen to clean something that absolutely doesn’t need to be cleaned.
It’s only a little pathetic that she considers texting Quinn with an SOS. Honestly, some people would argue that admitting that she’s losing it is a sign that she’s finally growing up a little.
*
Things have changed, somehow, and she reads fourth postcard herself, out by the mailboxes in the lobby.
I’m sure you have many questions, like--when did this start, for me? And the truth is, it started long before it should have. The biggest disservice you ever did to Sam was send him my way for prom, because he deserved so much better than he got from me. The reality of our relationship is that he loved me enough to spend the rest of his life with me, and I loved him only enough to not break his heart until it became clear to me that no matter what I did, I’d end up breaking it anyway. When the two of you sang to me right before Nationals last year, it was you I heard. So--this didn’t start for me in our home, in New York. It just grew there, with every passing day, until it all went horribly wrong.
She leans her head against the cool metal of the mailboxes and closes her eyes, because she remembers the song, and remembers looking at Rachel, and--shit.
*
Sam is one of her best friends.
She has no idea how she’s supposed to be a friend to him at all when Rachel’s off west somewhere, telling her cutely that she’s the basic reason that he got his heart broken.
She didn’t ask for this, and when he calls just to see if maybe she wants to play some CoD with him over XBox live, she feels so ill that she lies about having a migraine.
“By the way--has Quinn...” he says, awkwardly, and Santana sighs so deeply it hurts her lungs.
“Yeah, she has.”
“Did you tell Rachel?”
She almost just comes out with it--”Nope, but don’t worry, given that Rachel fucked me recently I don’t think she’ll care about you and Quinn too much”--but it would just be lashing out at completely the wrong person.
“No. And I’m not going to. Unless there’s some reason for me to,” she finally just says.
Sam’s silent for a moment and then says, “This is weird. You’re her friend, too. I mean, you’re closer to her than you are to me, but--”
“Sam--this isn’t about Rachel,” Santana cuts him off, pinching the bridge of her nose; maybe she won’t be lying, if this keeps up.
“No, I meant Quinn,” he says, before clearing his throat. “She--she won’t stop apologizing. I don’t really know what to do. I mean, I should be the one who’s sorry. It’s like the second time--I mean...”
“Did you do something totally fucking awful like call out Rachel’s name during?” Santana asks, because it’s better to just cut him off at the quick than to sit around and wish she was dying a little more.
“What? God, no,” he says, quickly. “Why would--I mean--they look nothing alike and I was drunk but I wasn’t that drunk. It was just a bad idea. She’s--I know she was saving herself, and--”
Santana exhales slowly. “Well, maybe she was done saving herself, or maybe she was saving herself for you. You decide.”
Sam’s silent for a second. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to not be a bitch for like five seconds. She’s your best friend.”
“Sam, we all have fucking problems. You introducing Quinn to the joys of orgasms is not at the top of my list, okay?” she says, and then hangs up.
*
A swell of anger hits her abruptly ten minutes later; Christ, she’s not even looking at or thinking about the postcards, but she’s just so mad about everything, and next thing she knows she’s sent her phone sailing across the room, right into the door frame.
The sound of it crashing to the floor brings Brittany to the doorway.
She doesn’t ask anything stupid like, “Are you okay?”
“Dude, Where’s My Car? is on,” she says, instead.
Santana feels an overwhelming amount of love for her literally out of nowhere, and just says, “C’mere.”
Brittany hobbles over and then stands in front of her, tall as ever, and Santana reaches around her waist and pulls her into a hug. “I’m sorry I was a bitch.”
“Well, geez, if I’m not used to it by now,” Brittany says, and Santana laughs softly, even though it’s weird, because that’s not something Brittany would’ve ever said to her before.
“Boston’s been good for you,” she murmurs, like that explains everything she’s feeling right now.
“Rachel’s been good for you,” Brittany responds, running a hand through her hair. “Seriously--are you just mad that she left, or is this a bigger deal than that?”
“I don’t know,” Santana says, pressing her forehead into Brittany’s stomach and sighing softly. “I really just don’t know.”
“Well, you need to figure it out,” Brittany says, quietly. “Because Rachel’s not going to be gone forever, and I’m not going to be here forever, either.”
There’s not much to say in response to that, and so Santana sits still, taking the comfort she’s being offered even if she doesn’t have a clue if she deserves it.
*
Postcard five is the first one that makes her cry; this one just has a night sky on it, and thousands of little stars dotted away in the distance.
When I think about who I want to spend the rest of my life with, it always boils down to three very simple things:
I want to be with someone who supports me when I need to be supported, reproaches me when I’m about to make terrible mistakes, and loves me and my family unconditionally.
For what it’s worth: if given a choice between us, I’m not even sure Dad would pick me these days.
Rachel’s not playing fair anymore, and that more than anything lets Santana know that her clock is running out. The cards feel like they’re building towards something, and even though it’s been two and a half weeks since she’s last seen Rachel, it’s now starting to feel like she’s just standing around the corner, waiting to toss the last remaining upright pieces of Santana’s life on their head.
And on top of all that, there’s Brittany.
you need to come today, she texts Quinn, before dropping the postcard to the floor and leaving it there.
*
Quinn arrives just in time for the postman to come, and Santana has the most ridiculous urge to strangle the guy--like it’s his fault that he keeps bringing more and more postcards that are driving her crazy.
It must show on her face, because Quinn gives her a funny look and then finally says, “Oh”, when the postcard is dropped in the Berry/Lopez mailbox.
(And Jesus, that’s never looked weird to her before now, but--)
They lug Quinn’s stuff upstairs, and Quinn takes a few moments to say hi to Britt--and something about the spontaneous and careless way in which they hug rubs Santana completely the wrong way. She doesn’t have the luxury of carelessly hugging anyone, except Quinn, maybe.
She retreats to her bedroom with the postcard, and reads it without hesitation this time, because at least the postcard isn’t going to talk back at her about what she’s doing.
You’re such a part of my life that it’s hard for me to even remember what I felt like before you were in it, but most of what I’ve written so far is big stuff--whole of life stuff, like how you fit within mine and how I hope I fit within yours. I don’t think you’re ready to think about those things, so here’s a much more basic thought about how we fit together:
Thinking about that stupid, cocky smile you get when you think you’re being clever gets me wetter than anything else ever has.
If you could talk back to these cards, I’d demand that you tell me what thinking about my legs does for you. (I’m not blind, Santana, and if you actually think that I don’t know that you’ve been looking since at least that pool party at Kurt’s, you’re underestimating me severely.)
She drops the card like it’s on fire, and then covers her face with both hands before laughing weakly.
Rachel’s really not playing fair, but somehow, this is the easiest card of all to process.
“Fuck you,” she says, out loud, and then laughs again before picking the card back up and shoving it under the rest of the pile.
When Quinn and Brittany look at her expectantly, she knows she flushes ridiculously on the spot, and then grunts out, “None of your business today.”
Quinn blanches even as Brittany says, “That’s stupid; I read all the other ones.”
“Not this one,” Santana repeats, gulping down some of the last Vitamin Water they have in the fridge without looking at either of them.
*
When nighttime hits, and they’re done playing poker on the coffee table, things suddenly get extremely awkward.
“You two should share a bed,” Brittany finally says, and maybe it’s just the five shots of tequila that are swimming loosely through her system, or the paranoid look that Quinn shoots her way, but suddenly Santana’s a little bit sick of not being able to be friends with her oldest friend.
“Fuck that,” she says, and reaches for Britt’s hand across the table. “We’re all grown ups. I figure we can stop from accidentally humping in the middle of the night.”
“It wouldn’t be accidental,” Brittany says, plainly.
Liquid shoots out of Quinn’s mouth and across the cards.
Santana closes her eyes and counts to five--backwards, from seven--or whatever. “Okay. Yeah. Quinn?”
“We’ll revisit our sleeping arrangements in the morning,” Quinn says, wiping slowly at her mouth.
“Yeah, good. That sounds great,” Santana says, dropping Brittany’s hand, and--man, Brittany’s legs. God, what is it about her and legs. Brittany’s legs, and Rachel’s legs.
She glances at Quinn’s.
… yeah, those are safe.
“Why are you staring at my legs?” Quinn asks, before nudging her in the chin until she looks up.
“Just making sure you hadn’t grown,” Santana mumbles, and then links their arms together. “C’mon. If you snore I’m smothering you.”
“As long as it’s not with your tits...”
“Quinn Fabray,” Santana says, before laughing and looking at Brittany, who grins back at her--and fucking hell, if only everything could be this simple.
Brittany, she can say no to, and things between them will be as they always have been. Rachel?
“I’m going to pay for this tomorrow,” she mumbles, and wonders if Rachel’s going to send her another smutty card, or if she’s just going to go straight for the bone from now on.
Everything is coming to a head, and she knows that they’re only five days away from the start of the Chicago summer school, which is when--well.
She has no idea what to expect, except that when Quinn takes off a shirt in front of her, she almost hugs her in gratitude for it just not meaning a fucking thing.
*
She wakes up the next day with a mouthful of Quinn’s hair, and then something hits her.
“You cut it again,” she asks, blearily. “I thought you hated it short.”
“It grew on me,” Quinn mumbles into the pillow.
There’s a lot of things that aren’t being said there, and Santana frowns before reaching past Quinn for her Blackberry.
“What are you--”
“Are you for real right now?” Santana asks, before showing Quinn her own outbox.
Quinn reaches for the phone and tosses it back onto the nightstand. “It’s not what you think.”
“Uh, what I think is that you are blowing up Sam’s phone like he’s your new squeeze.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not,” Quinn says, shortly, before flipping onto her back.
Santana stares at her questioningly for a moment, and then, without warning, her hangover kicks in with a vengeance. She drops her head back to the pillow and says, “Talk.”
“He’s …” Quinn says, and then hangs on that one word.
It sounds a lot like Rachel..., and Santana stills completely.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she then says, as sharply as she can.
“I’m not--God, don’t be ridiculous,” Quinn says, covering her eyes with her arm. “I just want to get past it. It was …”
“Bad sex?” Santana asks, carefully.
Quinn’s lips smile in a way that seems unwilling, and the smile drops as quickly as it shows. “No. I mean. This is none of your business.”
“Q, for God’s sake, it’s not like I haven’t …”
“Okay, and that is something I really don’t need to be reminded of.”
“Fuck, just about everyone in this apartment has slept with the guy, all I’m saying is that it’s not--”
“Yeah, well, maybe it fucking was to me,” Quinn snaps, and Santana shuts up as soon as the f-word registers, because... damn.
“You were both drunk,” she points out, when Quinn won’t look at her or say anything else, and just starts chewing on her lip.
“Yeah, and so what? You and Rachel were both hysterical and lying through your teeth about what you were doing,” Quinn says, not without venom. “Are you going to tell me that that meant nothing, too?”
God, she forgets what a bitch Quinn can be, now that they live so far apart and aren’t so up in each other’s business anymore.
“It’s not the same.”
“Of course it’s not. Rachel’s head over heels in love with you, and Sam’s head over heels in love with her,” Quinn snaps.
It breaks something in both of them, and Santana squeezes her eyes shut and turns her head away, but not before she can hear Quinn sniff loudly, once, and then say, “I would just like it to not have been about her. And maybe, if he and I can build a friendship or something, it won’t have been about her.”
A terrifying question hangs in Santana’s mind, and because her head’s splitting apart and she’s already swallowing tears anyway, it just flows out of her. “Q--if … if...” It hangs there, and then finally she just pushes out the part of the question that matters. “Is it going to be you or Rachel?”
Quinn says nothing for a long time, and then finally says, “I’ll always be here, but...”
It’s a basic repeat of what Rachel said to her that day when Kurt and Blaine left; but it’s so much worse now.
*
She doesn’t go and get postcard number seven until the next day.
It’s just too much.
*
Brittany and Quinn head off to go do something together and she has no idea what; they told her, but she’s too busy staring at a calendar in Rachel’s bedroom, and the date marked there as the start of summer school.
An hour proofreading something for her internship on Rachel’s desk later, and the urge to go downstairs and get the cards is almost suffocating her.
She doesn’t want to see them. But God, she needs to.
Every single one of Rachel’s words has only screwed with her head more, to the point where she now lies awake for hours each night, next to a snoring Quinn, wondering which parts of the things she remembers are true and which are just completely wrong.
Moments of hanging out with Rachel in the apartment, just fucking about or cleaning or something--it was them being best friends, but now, in Rachel’s words, it was never just that. But--does it change shit for her just because Rachel wasn’t on the same page? Is that how this is going to work?
The only thing that will shut her up is more of Rachel’s words, and so she skids down the stairs on her socks and props the mailbox open, only to find only one card there.
She frowns, but pulls it out anyway and reads it.
The last year has been incredibly difficult for me. I’ve never been anything short of the best at what I do, but with the choices I’ve made (and I can concede now that they were beyond stupid), everything about me that’s special has slowly been whittled away. Without my ego, and my talent, I’ve found out that I’m still not much more than but an insecure girl who got picked on a lot for being different. I’m working on it, but it’s going to take time, and I don’t want you to take it personally because this isn’t about anything you did in high school. It just is.
Even so, I’m not insecure enough to actually believe that you slept with me just to make me feel better, even if that’s what we said we were doing that night. I wanted you, plain and simple. And I think that if you weren’t so terrified of what it would mean, you would be able to say the same to me.
She almost crumples the card, and then jolts when the front door opens and the mail guy shows up.
“You have a postcard for me,” she says, holding out her hand for it. He blinks at her in surprise but then rifles through his bag and hands it over, glancing at the surrounding mail.
“You also have some bills--”
“Just drop them in the box,” she says, and heads back to the apartment, where she goes straight to Rachel’s room and sits down on Rachel’s bed and reads card number eight, because it’s not numbered eight.
It’s numbered 8/8.
I’ve said too many things; I’ve told you that you’re my home, my past, and hopefully my future; I’ve told you that I want you, in every sense of the word; and I’ve admitted that I made some terrible decisions and that I’m a work in progress. Still, I’ve missed out on probably the two most important things that I actually have been meaning to say.
I love you.
And I’m sorry.
See you tomorrow.
*
She wakes up when Quinn shakes her shoulder, looking at her with some concern.
She mutely hands over the eighth postcard, and then feels her face; dried tear tracks are stuck there, and she has to swallow twice before she can even ask what time it is.
“Tomorrow--as in tomorrow?” Quinn asks, without answering the question.
“I have no idea,” Santana confesses, because these postcard--God knows how long they’ve been underway. They’re sent from all over the place, like Puck and Rachel are just inching over to California one day at a time.
Quinn looks at the postcard again, her mouth twisting for a moment, and then she sits down next to Santana with a sigh. “Don’t let me make this decision for you.”
“See, that’s where I’m stuck on this,” Santana says, wiping at her face and reaching for the card.
“What?”
“The part where it’s a decision,” Santana says, before taking a deep breath. “The part where--I’m so fucking unhappy right now, but there’s two choices for me to make, and like--I don’t know, Quinn. This was a lot easier when I was actually just convinced I was going to die without Brittany.”
Quinn glances at the door for a moment, and then softly says, “You only feel that way once; it stops when you realize that moving on won’t actually kill you.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Santana admits, after another pause. “I mean--Rachel’s... I don’t know what I’d do in the city without her. I do everything with her. But--”
“What are you stuck on?” Quinn asks, placing a hand on her shoulderblade. “Is it being into her, or being with her?”
That’s the only easy question to answer, in all of this. “The latter. She’s--God, if you laugh I am actually going to kill you, but... there’s just always been something about her. I mean, it’s not just me. Look at all your boyfriends.”
Quinn rolls her eyes but otherwise lets it go. “I’d tell you you’re an ass, but it’s not like we’re not going to have to talk about your hang-ups about relationships, and I’m pretty sure that’s going to make you feel crappier than anything else could.”
“I just don’t--she’s my best friend,” Santana says, and she feels that tremble in her lip that means this is all going to go down hill. “How has it been three years, and I’m still just choosing between my best friend and something more?”
Quinn shakes her head and says, “I don’t know, hon. Maybe because with the way you do friendships, there’s not that much between that and more. I mean, if I was even remotely gay, we would’ve been dating for years now.”
Santana sighs and leans back into the hand on her back a little bit more. “I’m not ready for her to come back. I thought--I didn’t want her to go, but then she did, and now I’m just--shit, what the fuck am I even going to say to her?”
Quinn almost laughs, but then just says, “It’s Rachel. I wouldn’t worry about filling silences.”
They sit together silently for a moment and then Santana rubs at her eyes and says, “I told Britt to come find me.”
“In what way?”
“If she ever broke up with Artie. I made her promise to come find me, last year, and I meant it. I meant every word of it. And now she’s here.”
The hand on her back stills, and Quinn exhales noisily, lifting her bangs from her forehead for a moment. “And?”
“And--” Santana says, but before she can even complete that thought, the doorbell rings.
Her heart stops, and lodges in her throat, and she can hear Brittany pad towards the door, her walk still heavily preferring one leg, and then all that’s left is the sound she’s waiting for.
“Hey, Britt,” Rachel says, softly, from the other side of a wall.
There’s a muffled squeal and then some laughter that doesn’t sound like it comes from Rachel, and Quinn leans backwards until she can peer through the doorway to the hallway and then mouths, “It’s Mike” at Santana.
She has no idea what’s even going on anymore, but her time is up anyway, because Rachel is in front of her seconds later, and Quinn steels herself so quickly that Santana almost jolts forward.
“Quinn--”
“So help me God, if you don’t know what you’re doing, I am throwing your ass out the door and personally helping it down the stairs,” Quinn says, with so much buried anger that Santana would have smiled if she wasn’t staring at Rachel’s legs; tanned, in cut-off jean shorts, and--
Rachel completely ignores Quinn, and then crouches down in front of Santana and catches her eyes after a moment. Rachel’s own eyes are shining conspicuously, and Santana swallows against yet another lump in her throat, glancing away after a moment.
“Get out,” Rachel breathes at Quinn, whose hand tenses for a second, but then she does get up and close the door behind her.
They sit like that for almost five minutes, and then Rachel finally takes a deep breath and says, “I’m in love with you.”
*
It’s the only thing that she hasn’t said in her postcards.
It’s the only thing that Santana really just doesn’t want to hear.
She stares at her hands, on her lap, and then closes her eyes for a long moment, willing some words to come to her. But before they can, Rachel has more. More words about how this is going to change everything--no shit--and how there isn’t any rush on anything because she’s going to be in Chicago for the next two months anyway, and how it’s okay if Santana isn’t sure of what she wants, but that she hopes--hopes--that her cards have fixed at least some of the things that she’s screwed up, and if not she’ll spend the rest of her life trying.
It ends with, “I don’t need anything from you right now other than honesty”, and then a hesitant reach for her hands.
“Do you think... you could ever be with me?” Rachel asks, and Santana’s heart hurts. It actually hurts in ways that it hasn’t since junior year of high school, when she more or less told it to take a fucking hike and pretended that it didn’t exist for another two years.
It scares the shit out of her, and before she can help herself, the words slip from her mouth.
“You’ve ruined everything.”
The room is deadly silent for a few seconds, and then Rachel’s getting to her feet, slowly and wobbly.
“I--” she starts to say, but then just shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, because even though sleeping with you was stupid, I don’t regret it at the end of the day. I don’t regret forcing this, because I am in love with you, and I think you’re kidding yourself if you don’t want to admit that there’s something here for you too. You didn’t just sleep with me, Santana--you made love to--”
“Get out,” she says; the words wrench out of her chest, and then when she looks at Rachel, all of her other words finally spill over. “Just get out. What did you think, that you could put down some words on a postcard and it would make up for what you did?”
“I--”
“You left me,” Santana bites out, and fuck, she’s crying; this isn’t at all how she wanted this to go. “You manipulated me into sleeping with you, and then when I did, you fucking bailed on me. You think that’s what love’s about?”
“No,” Rachel starts to say, but Santana just shakes her head.
“You know what, Rachel? I don’t think you have a clue. I don’t think you have any idea what you’re talking about. My fucking roommate wouldn’t have done any of this shit to me, and now you’re telling me that that wasn’t even my roommate, but someone who’s been in love with me for what, a year? Longer than that?”
Rachel stares at her mutely for a moment and then finally drops her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come back. It’s too soon--”
“No. It’s too fucking late,” Santana grits out, and then gets off the bed and brushes past her, only stopping when Rachel pulls on her arm.
“You’re furious with me, but you wouldn’t be furious with me if there wasn’t something--”
She has to stop herself from slamming Rachel into a wall, and ends up just shoving her off with a snap of her arm. “Yeah, there is something here. There’s the fact that you just made the decision about who I’m going to live with a year from now a hell of a lot easier, Rachel, because Quinn would have never done this to me.”
“I know you like to draw parallels there, because she’s your best friend too, but Quinn does not and will never feel the way about you that I do,” Rachel says, not looking away, and fuck, fuck, Santana can’t handle her eyes right now; she’s so Bambi, and they’re saying so many things that she couldn’t believe, even when they were spilled on a postcard.
“Yeah, and that’s a bad thing how?” Santana forces out, running the back of her hand past her eyes, more to block Rachel from view than to wipe away any stray tears. “It’s not from where I’m sitting, because your fucking feelings have ruined everything we had going for us here. And I just--I--I just need you to leave.”
Something finally cracks through Rachel’s composure, and when she sucks in a deep breath, it’s wet-sounding, like all of her tears are stuck in her lungs and just now working their way up. “Okay,” she then says.
“No, it’s not okay,” Santana says, and wills herself to hold it together for just a few more seconds, because Jesus, her grip on everything is slipping. “Just--just get out. And find somewhere else to live at the end of the summer. God, I can’t even look at you.”
A wounded noise leaves Rachel’s mouth, completely without permission, and it nails Santana right in the chest in a way that all her words didn’t. Her hands clench into fists next to her, and she turns away, waiting for the sound of the door to open, and waiting for--
But then Rachel just pulls on her arm and fuck, fuck, she’s kissing her and this isn’t like before, when it was mostly about want; she doesn’t even know how to respond to it because this is probably the softest, most broken kiss she’s ever received from anyone, and when Rachel pulls away and just says, “I love you. And I’m sorry” before heading out the door, something in her literally caves.
She sinks down on the floor next to the bed and waits for someone to come find her, and when Quinn finally does, she hurts all over again.
“Just don’t; whatever it is you want to say about her, just don’t,” she says, just in time, before she starts crying harder than she has in years.
“Oh, Santana,” Quinn just says, easing down next to her, and pulling her into a hug.
*
Brittany and Mike find them there, just like that, and when Brittany pulls her up off the floor, into a hug that turns into a carry, and drags her back to her own bedroom, nobody says a thing.
She falls asleep with Brittany’s breath against her neck, and Brittany’s arm around her waist, and cries until she literally can’t feel a thing anymore.
It answers a question that she hasn’t wanted to think about anyway:
She’s not in love with Rachel, because being in love could never feel this fucking awful when it’s completely mutual.