Heart's False Start (2/5)
Pairing: Quinntana
Rating: NC-17
Description: It begins as most things do: with a kiss.
Word Count: 8,938/5,439 (this part)
Spoilers: None
Notes: For my wife, her long-awaited Quinntana army fic. Merry Christmas, Faye.
The bus up from base to Albany is a mixture of tenuous calm and excited rabble rousing. It’s the first time her company has been called up for any kind of duty before, and they’ve been training on weekends for a year, so a lot of the younger, more naïve members of the group are eager to get their feet wet in “battle.”
But Santana, who’d once thought that this Army Reserve thing was an awesome way to take back her life and find some kind of inner strength, is sitting on her hands.
She’d gotten the call in the early hours of Wednesday morning, and by eight she’d been sitting in the briefing room on base just outside Trenton, New Jersey. She should be focusing on what her staff sergeant is telling her about the situation they’re about to get thrown into, but her mind is elsewhere.
Namely, with the girl she’d left alone in bed that morning.
Yeah, okay, she’d written Quinn a note. And then she’d texted, because it’s Quinn, and she knows how Quinn is. But she’s still thinking about it just the same. How Quinn is probably sitting in their apartment, probably biting her nails (no matter how many times Santana tries to show her how to file them, Quinn still nibbles when she’s nervous) and watching CNN for updates on the riot, maybe hoping for a shot of Santana to make sure she’s okay.
And while Quinn’s doing all that, Santana’s also spent every second since she sent that third text second-guessing herself.
It had just kind of happened. Quinn was out cold, the ring from Santana’s phone not causing her to stir when the call came in. She’d slipped out of bed, a bed that was still distinctly Quinn’s, despite all the time Santana spent there, and pulled her things together. She’d written the note, tacked it up in the one place she knew Quinn would see it, and then went back to stand at Quinn’s door. She wasn’t nervous about leaving to do her job. It was something she’d trained for, something she’d grown excited about. The proposition of being a situation like that, where she saw chaos and created order, was thrilling.
But there was Quinn, bare-breasted in bed where Santana had left her. Her chest rose and fell, completely unaware of what was happening, and suddenly there was fear. Not on her own behalf, but for Quinn, who hadn’t signed up for this shit. Quinn, who took her in when she was basically homeless. Quinn, who never once questioned her decision, despite the fact that Santana was sure she disagreed with it. Quinn, who wrapped herself around Santana in the dark when she thought San was sleeping, and stifled confused tears into long dark hair.
Quinn, who took all the shit Santana dished out and didn’t complain.
So yeah, that third text message had just kind of happened, because she’d watched Quinn sleeping and something just kind of clicked because Jesus Christ, look at her. Look at that girl laying in bed, and she’s been nothing but there for Santana for a fucking year, in every possible way. Look at her, and try to think of something else to say besides what she sent.
Santana isn’t sure that she even means it in the way she’s worried about now. Quinn has been her best friend since they were kids. They’ve said shit like, “Love you, bitch” more times than she can count. Hell, Santana’s even gone so far as to leave off the “bitch” part before. But that morning, standing in the doorway of the bedroom and watching Quinn sleeping, had made it seem like they’d left the friendly endearment behind.
It just felt like something that needed saying, after all this time.
It’s well past twelve now, and she’ll be arriving in Albany by mid afternoon. She knows full well that Quinn’s been up for hours, and she keeps checking the phone in the pocket of her fatigues with the hope that maybe she got a text back. That she didn’t scare Quinn off by saying what she did, because it’s not like they talk about what they’re doing. They drink, they fuck, they go about their lives. They’re not dating, and they sure as hell aren’t in love.
Santana’s still reeling from the last time she made that horrible mistake.
She’d planned on college. Really, she had. But her father had wanted her to go to medical school, and that was the last thing she ever imagined herself doing, so she’d begged off applying at all while she tried to figure out what she wanted to do that would piss her parents off the least. Brittany had wanted to dance, and she couldn’t think of a reason not to go with her when an opportunity presented itself in Los Angeles. Maybe she could be a singer.
Her life in LA hadn’t been awful. She and Brittany had an apartment in West Hollywood, a secondhand Vespa and an aging Lord Tubbington to keep them company. Brittany got regular work as a back up dancer in music videos, and she taught a few classes to supplement her income. Santana had tried the nightclub circuit for a while, getting a few gigs singing in dingy lounges with Brittany and a few drunk old men as her audience, but the pieces never fell into place for her the way they did for Brittany.
She started tending bar, using the assets her father had paid for to help the bar’s owner see past the fact that she’d never had a service job before. Brittany danced, traveled, and she slung beer.
For four fucking years.
There are a lot of “what if”s that follow her thoughts when she remembers that day. What if she’d taken her normal route to work? What if she had met Brittany for lunch like she’d planned? What if the recruitment officer had gone inside the office for a drink as she’d passed by?
But she hadn’t taken her normal route because there was construction. She hadn’t met Brittany for lunch, because Brittany had taken over teaching the midday classes for a sick friend. And the recruiter has been there, on the sidewalk, waiting.
“You seem lost.”
She’d stopped, because no, she’s not lost. She’s lived in LA for four years. Why would he say something like that?
“It’s something in your face. Maybe you’re not physically lost, but you don’t know where you are, do you?”
It was pretty much her silent respect for his uniform that had kept her from telling him to go fuck himself, and who was he to assume he knew anything about her life? But it was in the three-second pause she took that she realized that, fucking hell, maybe he was right.
So she’d gone into the recruitment office with him, and three hours later she was both late for work and the newest enlisted soldier in the United States Army Reserve.
It wasn’t until she was halfway down the block that she’d even thought about Brittany and her penchant for saying, “Stop the violence” and how even cop shows on television made her uncomfortable with the number of guns that were brandished around. So when the subject came up when they were laying in bed that night, Santana wasn’t surprised by the reaction. Disappointed, but not surprised.
Brittany had made her choose. For the first time in their relationship, Brittany had said, “I won’t put up with your bullshit,” and made her choose. But by that time, the decision had been made. You don’t just tell the Army, “Whoops, sorry, my girlfriend didn’t like the idea very much. See you around.”
And then Quinn had opened up her home, and despite the fact that she spent the first two weeks in New York crying herself to sleep, Santana had gotten comfortable. Comfortable with Quinn, comfortable in her bed, comfortable enough to stop drinking herself stupid before they had sex every night.
It’s not a good comparison to make, Quinn versus Brittany. They’re two very different people in two very different circumstances, and history or not, Santana can’t put one against the other. It’s not fair to any of them, because God knows it’ll only confuse things more.
But as the bus arrives at the Albany city limit and she can see the pillars of smoke rising from the city center, that’s all she can do, really. Compare, and will her feelings away so she can focus on her job.
It’s not until she’s cocking her rifle over her shoulder and pointing it at a rioter that she realizes the comparison doesn’t exist. Her mind clears as she lines up the sight, aiming for her target’s knee because he doesn’t have a visible weapon, and there’s just one thing on her mind.
If I fuck this up, tell Quinn I love her.
//
The fires have been out for weeks, order restored and rioters arrested, but Quinn hasn’t seen Santana since the night before she was called up. The funny thing about the Reserve is that, even if the situation has been controlled, they can hold their troops in place until they feel the threat has been neutralized. So while the state senate is reviewing the bill they passed that caused the riots in the first place, Santana is guarding the capital by day, and calling Quinn by night.
She hasn’t mentioned the text, and Quinn isn’t going to prompt her about it. It’s scary enough having her far away and carrying a gun and keeping an entire city safe. There’s no room for them to talk about something as big as love. Not when she should have her mind on other things.
So Santana calls her every night, and they talk for a few minutes. Santana tells Quinn it’s because she’s sick of all the testosterone she’s surrounded with, but the soft little “Hey,” she murmurs when Quinn answers the phone tells her that Santana is happy to hear her voice. She tells Quinn about some dick move Williams made during rounds, or how Erickson’s wife is about to pop out a kid and he’s freaking out because she threatened to divorce him if he missed it. Quinn tells her about her classes, and her internship at a law firm downtown that’s assisting low-income families with immigration issues. She tells Santana she’s learning Mandarin and a little Spanish, and Santana teases her about how shitty her gringo accent is. But Quinn knows the only Spanish Santana speaks is what she learned from Taco Bell commercials and the telenovelas she and her abuelita watched before they stopped speaking. Gringo accent or not, by the time Santana gets back to the city, Quinn is betting she’ll speak the language better than Santana does.
It takes five weeks of nightly phone calls, a few murmured, “I miss you”s and some chiding on the other end of the line by Santana’s squad mates before they’re reunited again. Quinn picks Santana up at Penn Station as she gets off the PATH train from New Jersey, still in her Army fatigues and the duffel across her back, and the two of them ride the A up to 168th street in near silence. Santana, feeling like the protector in her uniform and still in the habit of saying, “Yes, sir” and “No, ma’am” to everyone she encounters, opens doors for Quinn and lets her walk first, which Quinn finds endearing, if a little uncharacteristic of the Santana she’s used to. They finally make it into their shared apartment, and the duffel is on the ground along with the fatigue jacket and boots before Quinn even has a chance to turn around.
When she does, she’s met with hands and lips and tongue and she just melts into it. Santana pulls her in close and presses her up against the wall by the door, much like she had that first time together. Except now they’re both stone sober and the desperation isn’t masking hidden loneliness or pain. This time they’re both just so fucking happy to see one another that buttons pop from Quinn’s cardigan and Santana swears she hears the zipper on her cargo pants rip in Quinn’s haste to pull them down.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, and kicks the pants off as Quinn’s thighs wrap tight around her hips. “Eager much?”
Quinn doesn’t give Santana the satisfaction of confirming that, yes, she’s fucking eager. It should be obvious in the way her lips mold to Santana’s pulse point and suck, or how her fingers push up the fabric of her olive green t-shirt, nails scraping up Santana’s back.
“Missed this,” she says in between little grunts as Santana grinds their hips together. “Missed you.”
She gets a soft, “mmhmm…” in response before Santana pulls them from that wall and carries Quinn to her bedroom. There’s no hesitation as their bodies mold together and the rest of their clothes are discarded, lips pressing together in familiar comfort. Hands find curves that haven’t been touched in weeks and Quinn lets Santana take over, kissing her way down her body and settling between her spread legs.
There’s a pause where Quinn feels Santana’s breath on the inside of her thigh, panting in quick, short puffs of heat that send shivers up her spine and make her skin break out in goosebumps. Her knees come up, lifting and bending so her heels are on Santana’s back, legs spreading a little wider to accommodate Santana’s shoulders. She thinks that it will be like it usually is with Santana, hard flicks of her tongue against her clit while her mouth encircles her and sucks, making her come fast. But the pause is long and the breathing on the inside of her thigh quickens as Santana presses her lips to the soft flesh there, trailing slowly up from just above her knee to the crook where thigh meets pelvis.
It’s purposeful, each movement aimed at making Quinn shudder just a little harder than the one before it. Santana’s arms wrap around Quinn’s legs, holding her hips down so she can’t buck up and force this slow foreplay to end. She groans with each graze of Santana’s lips against her skin, down one thigh and up the other, her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers fisting the sheets at her sides.
“Quinn…”
The kissing stops and she opens her eyes at the whispered sound of her own name. She looks down, eyes slitted and her chest expanding and contracting quickly in anticipation. What she sees causes her breath to hitch, and for a moment everything is quiet.
Santana is looking up at her from between her legs, eyes wide and scared and begging her for something that she’s not sure how to ask for with words. Quinn’s grip on the sheets loosens and her hand comes up to Santana’s cheek, the palm cupping her chin and supporting it when Santana closes her eyes and leans in.
“Quinn, I…” She trails off and sighs when the pad of Quinn’s thumb caresses her bottom lip, stealing her words before she can say them and change things forever.
“I missed you,” Quinn says, studying the subtle broadening of Santana’s shoulders and the way her strong arms make less work of holding her hips in place. “Isn’t that enough?”
Santana gets the hint with the way Quinn’s hand presses against her jaw, pushing head up so their eyes meet and the bite of her lower lips tells Santana not to finish the sentence.
“Okay,” she says, even though it’s really not, because she wants to say it, admit this vulnerability that Quinn brings out in her. “Okay, Quinn. I missed you, too.”
She inhales deeply when Quinn relaxes and rests her temple against her friend’s thigh. She takes in their nakedness, how exposed they are to one another, and mirthlessly smiles to herself and at Quinn over how this juxtaposes so sharply with everything they aren’t saying. But Quinn isn’t ready, for one reason or another, and maybe Santana can be okay with that. Maybe she can be okay with being missed instead of being loved. Maybe it’s easier this way, better even. Because if she leaves again and she’s just missed, not loved, she has less to worry about. She can handle being missed if something goes wrong and maybe she doesn’t come home. But if she’s out there, calming riots or damming flooding rivers, and she knows there’s someone depending on her back home, how can she be okay with leaving that person behind? How can she be okay if Quinn isn’t?
So she puts her lips once more to Quinn’s thigh and kisses her way to that heated center, tracing the word “love” into Quinn with her tongue again and again. Because even if Quinn isn’t ready, Santana doesn’t know any other way to make all this okay.
//
There’s a tornado in Pennsylvania two months later, and a hurricane in North Carolina six weeks after that. Quinn gets used to seeing Santana’s things missing for weeks at a time, but she pressure in her chest only increases as the days go on. She’s managing relocation of the victims, organizing clean up of the disaster zones, participating in the collection and disbursement of supplies. It’s safe, she tells Quinn. It’s not like the riot; they aren’t in the middle of chaos burning, they’re just sweeping up the mess.
But that doesn’t make it easier.
“I miss you” becomes their way of saying what they know they’re both thinking. Santana uses it more often, replacing “hello” and “goodbye” entirely, and emphasizing the word “miss” like the more weight she puts behind hit, the more it will mean. It’s enough, Quinn thinks. Enough to remind her that Santana isn’t there in her bed at the end of the day, and how she’s a fucking coward for not saying what she felt when she’d had the chance.
It’s there, though. Love. Like nothing she ever felt with any of the boys she’d dated in high school, or the slew of undergrads-men and women alike-that had come and gone while she was at Yale. She was comfortable with Santana, emotionally and physically. She didn’t feel like she had to hide anything.
Except this unnamed fear she couldn’t seem to shake.
It hits her on a Sunday, when Santana doesn’t call her after her shift like she always does. It’s almost midnight, long past lights out, and she lays in the dark, waiting for the phone to ring. She can’t sleep without hearing the familiar husk of Santana’s drowsy, “Goodnight, Quinn.”
She watches the clock tick by her bedside, the seconds dragging into years and the sun rising after a millennium without so much as a text. She’s a wreck, terrified and helpless because there isn’t an office number for the Army Reserve in the middle of a disaster zone in rural North Carolina. So she shoots off a text message that says simply, “Are you okay?”
The day trudges on, and despite her compulsive checking of every available news outlet, there’s nothing to be reported about the aftermath of the hurricane. So she waits, suffering through interviews with plaintiff while she tries not to think about how this little girl has Santana’s eyes, and wouldn’t a child of Santana’s be beautiful? If only she would call so Quinn can tell her as much.
But she doesn’t call. Not that day, not that night, and not for two days after. Her phone stays terrifyingly silent, as though the entire world knows not to bother her while she waits. Until someone disturbs the silence, and she can’t ignore it.
“Brittany, can I call you back? I’m waiting for a call from-“
“Santana, yeah, I know.” The tone is matter of fact, like, who else would Quinn be waiting for a call from? “She’s probably not going to call you, though. They took her phone at the VA hospital. She’s crazy pissed about it, too.”
Quinn can only stammer out her frustration, because all she hears is “Santana” and “hospital” and she really doesn’t have the patience to walk Brittany through the proper etiquette when discussing these kinds of subjects with people who are scared shitless.
“Care to elaborate on why she’s in the hospital, and how you’re the one who’s telling me? I’ve been out of my mind for three fucking days, Britt!”
There’s rustling on the other end as Brittany goes through what Quinn is sure are not-so-meticulous notes on the back of a takeout menu. “It’s just a broken arm. I guess the embankment she was reinforcing collapsed. I’m still listed as her emergency contact, so the VA in Durham called me a couple days ago. She’s fine, just a little banged up and pissed about her phone. They’re super strict about them there. Do you think they really interfere with the machines? Like, could Santana have upped her morphine drip using her phone? Do they have an app for that?”
Just a broken arm. A little banged up. No phone. And the hospital called Brittany. It might not have been Quinn’s worst nightmare, but it sure as hell was up there.
“A couple of days? They called you a couple of days ago, and you didn’t think it would be a good idea to get a hold of me?”
“She’ll be on a plane back to New Jersey by the end of the week, Quinn, chill out. How was I supposed to know you didn’t know? Why are you so upset? You’re not her girlfriend or anything.”
Her heart drops into her stomach, hearing the accusation in Brittany’s voice. She knows what’s going on, Quinn can tell. The sex-without-feelings thing. She’s been there, done that with Santana, only this time the roles are reversed. Santana is the one that wants to talk it out, while Quinn’s holding back. And yeah, maybe there’s a hint of jealousy there when Brittany says the word “girlfriend”, but that’s a small part. It’s mostly the way Brittany needles at her with her tone, making her feel like a monster for pulling Santana backward. They’d gotten past all the closeted bullshit in high school, and here was Quinn, dragging her back there, whether she meant to or not.
“Maybe not,” she admits through her teeth, trying not to explode or cry, she can’t really tell. “But I’m her roommate, and her best friend. I’m the one who takes her to the train station when she gets called up, and the one who’s there when she gets back. I have more right to know these things than you do. You hate this part of her life. It’s not fair.”
There’s a moment where both of them are silent, listening to the other breathing. Quinn knows she’s probably overstepped, that whatever happened between Brittany and Santana isn’t her business, but she can’t help but be a little defensive on Santana’s behalf. Especially now that maybe Brittany was right about all this, now that Santana is hurt.
“How about we don’t talk about what’s ‘fair’ here, Quinn,” Brittany says, and Quinn bites her tongue in regret. “I called you, you know what’s going on. Now do your job as her best friend-or whatever you are-and take care of her.”
Brittany doesn’t wait for Quinn’s response before she hangs up, and Quinn sets her cell phone down on the table. She stares at it, not sure of what she should do next. Call the Durham VA, find Santana? Wait for her to come home? Go down there herself?
Her heart is still floating somewhere in her gut, aching and flipping over on itself. Terror is creeping up her spine, even though she knows that Santana’s okay. That’s the important thing, right? That she’s alive, it’s just a minor thing, she’ll be home soon?
But what if it wasn’t minor? What if it had been worse? What if Quinn had been picking up a body from New Jersey, instead of a girl with a broken arm?
What if she gave herself to Santana, and then had to lose her?
//
The clean break heals in six weeks, and Santana is back to base for her monthly training session. Erickson slaps her on the back when she gets off the bus, and Williams gives her a wary sidelong glance before staring at his feet, shuffling apologetically. She punches him in the gut, punishment for not doing his job and double-checking the support beams they were laying when the embankment had collapsed, then rubs his bald head playfully to let him know she doesn’t hold it against him.
“You got some free time with your girl, at least,” he puffs as they run their first five-mile of the day. “Bet she took good care of you while you were a gimp.” He winks at her, which only earns him a sharp shove off the trail and a laugh from Erickson.
“She’s not my girl,” Santana says when Williams rights himself and rejoins the pack. “She’s just my roommate. My friend.”
It’s Erickson’s turn to chime in. “Doesn’t really sound that way when you were calling her every night. Your voice got all whispery and secretive like you were trying to keep us from hearing you. ‘Oh Quinn, I miss you, and when I get home I’m gonna eat the shit outta that pretty pussy, mmmmmmmmmwah.”
He mimics her, his voice rising an octave. He brings his arm up to his mouth and makes kissing noises into the crook of his elbow, and Santana stops dead in the trail and pounces on his back, wrapping her arm around his neck until she manages to withhold enough of his air supply that his knees buckle, and she eases off.
“Knock it off, Bobby,” she says seriously, letting him up. “Don’t talk about her like that. I don’t go around talking shit about your ball-buster of a wife, do I?”
Erickson stands up and coughs, dusting off his fatigues before the three of them set off again. His face turns redder than it had been before, and he holds up his hands in defeat.
“Whatever you say, Lopez. But you gotta admit, she’s not just your friend. Not the way you talk about her. Tell me you never tapped that. No, don’t tell me. Because then you’d be a liar.”
She keeps her eyes on the trail in front of her, arms loose and her pace quick, trying to catch up to the rest of the group. Williams and Erickson fall in with her, watching her and giving each other a shrug over the top of her head. She sees it, but says nothing. She doesn’t really want to talk about it anymore.
There’s an obstacle course at the end of the trail, and they’re assisting each other over the climbing wall when she finally decides they’re the only ones who might be able to help her with this. They’re probably going to bust her balls about it for a good long time, because these are two bros, not some chicks who she can have girl talk with. But Erickson’s married, and Williams has a girlfriend back home in Yonkers, so she figures they know something about women that she’s missing with Quinn.
“Say she is more than just my friend,” she says as she pulls Williams up to straddle the top of the wall. “Say we’re hooking up, but she’s not ready to commit, even though we’ve basically been together for a over year. How do I get her to talk to me?”
Williams grabs Erickson and hoists him over the wall, and the three of them descend down the knotted ropes on the opposite side, splashing onto the muddy ground and taking off for the second five-mile in the course.
“Just tell her, dude,” Erickson huffs, the sweat dripping down his temple. “Women like that upfront shit. They like it when you aren’t afraid to be emotional or whatever. I always get the best sex after I talk about my feelings.”
“Bring her flowers and take her out to dinner,” Williams says. “So you’re out in public and she won’t make a scene if she doesn’t like what you have to say, and she can’t bolt or lock herself in the bathroom. Jenny did that to me before. Wouldn’t come out for a fucking hour.”
Santana can’t help but roll her eyes, because it’s pretty much shit she already knows. She can’t trap Quinn, she can’t sit her down and talk to her, because look what happened the last time she tried to say something.
No, with Quinn, she’d just have to be patient.
“Fuck you guys,” she says. “What do you know about women, anyway?”
She takes off at a sprint, leaving them behind to shake their heads at her while she loses herself in the dirt and grit and work of her weekend away from Quinn.
//
“You have a pair on you, thinking you can talk to me about this.”
It’s not like she wants to be calling Brittany. It’s not like she has another option. No one else knows Quinn, knows her, as well as Britt does. And it’s been almost two years since they split, and she’d thought-hoped-that maybe they could have a frank conversation about this. They’re friends now, right?
“I’m not trying to hurt you, B,” Santana says sadly, holding the phone close to her ear as she walks up Broadway, under the guise of running to the grocery store. “You know I still love you and care about you. That never changed. But our lives just went different directions, and this is where we are now. I want you to be happy. Can’t you try to help me get that, too?”
Santana doesn’t know about the conversation Quinn had had with Brittany where she’d asked Britt the same thing, about helping Santana find happiness. Brittany bites her lip and sighs, knowing that two years should be enough time to get over someone. To forgive and move on and find her own happiness, too. But she’s sitting in the dance studio she’s come to love as a second home while Santana is across the country, picking up dinner to eat with someone else. Santana is right. They’ve taken two different roads, and there’s no more meeting up in the middle.
“What do you want me to say, Santana?” she asks. “Do you want me to tell you how to get Quinn to love you? Congratulations, she already does.”
Her heart does a back flip and she stammers a little. “How… how do you know?”
“You should have heard how scared she was when you got hurt in North Carolina. And how pissed she was when they called me instead of her. Trust me, San. That girl loves you.”
“So…” Santana’s not sure where to go from there. If Quinn loves her, cares about her enough to be scared for her when she’s hurt, what’s the hold up? “So what now, then? Why won’t she just tell me?”
Brittany is alone in the studio, sitting on the floor, grateful that no one is around to see the way her face contorts in agony. It had been a bad idea, inviting Santana back into her life after all they’d been through. She’d thought that she could handle it, hearing about Santana moving on and being with another person. She’d just never thought for a minute that person would be Quinn.
She’s pretty sure she knows exactly why Quinn is acting the way she is. It’s the same reason Brittany had made Santana choose: because she’s scared. Scared for Santana, scared for herself, scared to be in love with someone who knowingly and willingly puts herself in dangerous situations. But she can’t speak to that on Quinn’s behalf. She can’t give Santana the answers she wants. She isn’t Quinn, and she’s not going to speak for her. She’s not going to get in the middle of their fucked up relationship.
“I don’t know, San. But you can’t keep living like this. Just talk to her.”
Santana hears the sadness in Brittany’s voice, how she doesn’t want to be put in this position where she’s forced to listen to Santana complain about her love life when theirs is still an open wound.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay, B. Thanks. Love you.”
Brittany covers her eyes with her hand and stifles her tears. “Love you too, San.”
Rating: NC-17
Description: It begins as most things do: with a kiss.
Word Count: 8,938/5,439 (this part)
Spoilers: None
Notes: For my wife, her long-awaited Quinntana army fic. Merry Christmas, Faye.
The bus up from base to Albany is a mixture of tenuous calm and excited rabble rousing. It’s the first time her company has been called up for any kind of duty before, and they’ve been training on weekends for a year, so a lot of the younger, more naïve members of the group are eager to get their feet wet in “battle.”
But Santana, who’d once thought that this Army Reserve thing was an awesome way to take back her life and find some kind of inner strength, is sitting on her hands.
She’d gotten the call in the early hours of Wednesday morning, and by eight she’d been sitting in the briefing room on base just outside Trenton, New Jersey. She should be focusing on what her staff sergeant is telling her about the situation they’re about to get thrown into, but her mind is elsewhere.
Namely, with the girl she’d left alone in bed that morning.
Yeah, okay, she’d written Quinn a note. And then she’d texted, because it’s Quinn, and she knows how Quinn is. But she’s still thinking about it just the same. How Quinn is probably sitting in their apartment, probably biting her nails (no matter how many times Santana tries to show her how to file them, Quinn still nibbles when she’s nervous) and watching CNN for updates on the riot, maybe hoping for a shot of Santana to make sure she’s okay.
And while Quinn’s doing all that, Santana’s also spent every second since she sent that third text second-guessing herself.
It had just kind of happened. Quinn was out cold, the ring from Santana’s phone not causing her to stir when the call came in. She’d slipped out of bed, a bed that was still distinctly Quinn’s, despite all the time Santana spent there, and pulled her things together. She’d written the note, tacked it up in the one place she knew Quinn would see it, and then went back to stand at Quinn’s door. She wasn’t nervous about leaving to do her job. It was something she’d trained for, something she’d grown excited about. The proposition of being a situation like that, where she saw chaos and created order, was thrilling.
But there was Quinn, bare-breasted in bed where Santana had left her. Her chest rose and fell, completely unaware of what was happening, and suddenly there was fear. Not on her own behalf, but for Quinn, who hadn’t signed up for this shit. Quinn, who took her in when she was basically homeless. Quinn, who never once questioned her decision, despite the fact that Santana was sure she disagreed with it. Quinn, who wrapped herself around Santana in the dark when she thought San was sleeping, and stifled confused tears into long dark hair.
Quinn, who took all the shit Santana dished out and didn’t complain.
So yeah, that third text message had just kind of happened, because she’d watched Quinn sleeping and something just kind of clicked because Jesus Christ, look at her. Look at that girl laying in bed, and she’s been nothing but there for Santana for a fucking year, in every possible way. Look at her, and try to think of something else to say besides what she sent.
Santana isn’t sure that she even means it in the way she’s worried about now. Quinn has been her best friend since they were kids. They’ve said shit like, “Love you, bitch” more times than she can count. Hell, Santana’s even gone so far as to leave off the “bitch” part before. But that morning, standing in the doorway of the bedroom and watching Quinn sleeping, had made it seem like they’d left the friendly endearment behind.
It just felt like something that needed saying, after all this time.
It’s well past twelve now, and she’ll be arriving in Albany by mid afternoon. She knows full well that Quinn’s been up for hours, and she keeps checking the phone in the pocket of her fatigues with the hope that maybe she got a text back. That she didn’t scare Quinn off by saying what she did, because it’s not like they talk about what they’re doing. They drink, they fuck, they go about their lives. They’re not dating, and they sure as hell aren’t in love.
Santana’s still reeling from the last time she made that horrible mistake.
She’d planned on college. Really, she had. But her father had wanted her to go to medical school, and that was the last thing she ever imagined herself doing, so she’d begged off applying at all while she tried to figure out what she wanted to do that would piss her parents off the least. Brittany had wanted to dance, and she couldn’t think of a reason not to go with her when an opportunity presented itself in Los Angeles. Maybe she could be a singer.
Her life in LA hadn’t been awful. She and Brittany had an apartment in West Hollywood, a secondhand Vespa and an aging Lord Tubbington to keep them company. Brittany got regular work as a back up dancer in music videos, and she taught a few classes to supplement her income. Santana had tried the nightclub circuit for a while, getting a few gigs singing in dingy lounges with Brittany and a few drunk old men as her audience, but the pieces never fell into place for her the way they did for Brittany.
She started tending bar, using the assets her father had paid for to help the bar’s owner see past the fact that she’d never had a service job before. Brittany danced, traveled, and she slung beer.
For four fucking years.
There are a lot of “what if”s that follow her thoughts when she remembers that day. What if she’d taken her normal route to work? What if she had met Brittany for lunch like she’d planned? What if the recruitment officer had gone inside the office for a drink as she’d passed by?
But she hadn’t taken her normal route because there was construction. She hadn’t met Brittany for lunch, because Brittany had taken over teaching the midday classes for a sick friend. And the recruiter has been there, on the sidewalk, waiting.
“You seem lost.”
She’d stopped, because no, she’s not lost. She’s lived in LA for four years. Why would he say something like that?
“It’s something in your face. Maybe you’re not physically lost, but you don’t know where you are, do you?”
It was pretty much her silent respect for his uniform that had kept her from telling him to go fuck himself, and who was he to assume he knew anything about her life? But it was in the three-second pause she took that she realized that, fucking hell, maybe he was right.
So she’d gone into the recruitment office with him, and three hours later she was both late for work and the newest enlisted soldier in the United States Army Reserve.
It wasn’t until she was halfway down the block that she’d even thought about Brittany and her penchant for saying, “Stop the violence” and how even cop shows on television made her uncomfortable with the number of guns that were brandished around. So when the subject came up when they were laying in bed that night, Santana wasn’t surprised by the reaction. Disappointed, but not surprised.
Brittany had made her choose. For the first time in their relationship, Brittany had said, “I won’t put up with your bullshit,” and made her choose. But by that time, the decision had been made. You don’t just tell the Army, “Whoops, sorry, my girlfriend didn’t like the idea very much. See you around.”
And then Quinn had opened up her home, and despite the fact that she spent the first two weeks in New York crying herself to sleep, Santana had gotten comfortable. Comfortable with Quinn, comfortable in her bed, comfortable enough to stop drinking herself stupid before they had sex every night.
It’s not a good comparison to make, Quinn versus Brittany. They’re two very different people in two very different circumstances, and history or not, Santana can’t put one against the other. It’s not fair to any of them, because God knows it’ll only confuse things more.
But as the bus arrives at the Albany city limit and she can see the pillars of smoke rising from the city center, that’s all she can do, really. Compare, and will her feelings away so she can focus on her job.
It’s not until she’s cocking her rifle over her shoulder and pointing it at a rioter that she realizes the comparison doesn’t exist. Her mind clears as she lines up the sight, aiming for her target’s knee because he doesn’t have a visible weapon, and there’s just one thing on her mind.
If I fuck this up, tell Quinn I love her.
//
The fires have been out for weeks, order restored and rioters arrested, but Quinn hasn’t seen Santana since the night before she was called up. The funny thing about the Reserve is that, even if the situation has been controlled, they can hold their troops in place until they feel the threat has been neutralized. So while the state senate is reviewing the bill they passed that caused the riots in the first place, Santana is guarding the capital by day, and calling Quinn by night.
She hasn’t mentioned the text, and Quinn isn’t going to prompt her about it. It’s scary enough having her far away and carrying a gun and keeping an entire city safe. There’s no room for them to talk about something as big as love. Not when she should have her mind on other things.
So Santana calls her every night, and they talk for a few minutes. Santana tells Quinn it’s because she’s sick of all the testosterone she’s surrounded with, but the soft little “Hey,” she murmurs when Quinn answers the phone tells her that Santana is happy to hear her voice. She tells Quinn about some dick move Williams made during rounds, or how Erickson’s wife is about to pop out a kid and he’s freaking out because she threatened to divorce him if he missed it. Quinn tells her about her classes, and her internship at a law firm downtown that’s assisting low-income families with immigration issues. She tells Santana she’s learning Mandarin and a little Spanish, and Santana teases her about how shitty her gringo accent is. But Quinn knows the only Spanish Santana speaks is what she learned from Taco Bell commercials and the telenovelas she and her abuelita watched before they stopped speaking. Gringo accent or not, by the time Santana gets back to the city, Quinn is betting she’ll speak the language better than Santana does.
It takes five weeks of nightly phone calls, a few murmured, “I miss you”s and some chiding on the other end of the line by Santana’s squad mates before they’re reunited again. Quinn picks Santana up at Penn Station as she gets off the PATH train from New Jersey, still in her Army fatigues and the duffel across her back, and the two of them ride the A up to 168th street in near silence. Santana, feeling like the protector in her uniform and still in the habit of saying, “Yes, sir” and “No, ma’am” to everyone she encounters, opens doors for Quinn and lets her walk first, which Quinn finds endearing, if a little uncharacteristic of the Santana she’s used to. They finally make it into their shared apartment, and the duffel is on the ground along with the fatigue jacket and boots before Quinn even has a chance to turn around.
When she does, she’s met with hands and lips and tongue and she just melts into it. Santana pulls her in close and presses her up against the wall by the door, much like she had that first time together. Except now they’re both stone sober and the desperation isn’t masking hidden loneliness or pain. This time they’re both just so fucking happy to see one another that buttons pop from Quinn’s cardigan and Santana swears she hears the zipper on her cargo pants rip in Quinn’s haste to pull them down.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, and kicks the pants off as Quinn’s thighs wrap tight around her hips. “Eager much?”
Quinn doesn’t give Santana the satisfaction of confirming that, yes, she’s fucking eager. It should be obvious in the way her lips mold to Santana’s pulse point and suck, or how her fingers push up the fabric of her olive green t-shirt, nails scraping up Santana’s back.
“Missed this,” she says in between little grunts as Santana grinds their hips together. “Missed you.”
She gets a soft, “mmhmm…” in response before Santana pulls them from that wall and carries Quinn to her bedroom. There’s no hesitation as their bodies mold together and the rest of their clothes are discarded, lips pressing together in familiar comfort. Hands find curves that haven’t been touched in weeks and Quinn lets Santana take over, kissing her way down her body and settling between her spread legs.
There’s a pause where Quinn feels Santana’s breath on the inside of her thigh, panting in quick, short puffs of heat that send shivers up her spine and make her skin break out in goosebumps. Her knees come up, lifting and bending so her heels are on Santana’s back, legs spreading a little wider to accommodate Santana’s shoulders. She thinks that it will be like it usually is with Santana, hard flicks of her tongue against her clit while her mouth encircles her and sucks, making her come fast. But the pause is long and the breathing on the inside of her thigh quickens as Santana presses her lips to the soft flesh there, trailing slowly up from just above her knee to the crook where thigh meets pelvis.
It’s purposeful, each movement aimed at making Quinn shudder just a little harder than the one before it. Santana’s arms wrap around Quinn’s legs, holding her hips down so she can’t buck up and force this slow foreplay to end. She groans with each graze of Santana’s lips against her skin, down one thigh and up the other, her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers fisting the sheets at her sides.
“Quinn…”
The kissing stops and she opens her eyes at the whispered sound of her own name. She looks down, eyes slitted and her chest expanding and contracting quickly in anticipation. What she sees causes her breath to hitch, and for a moment everything is quiet.
Santana is looking up at her from between her legs, eyes wide and scared and begging her for something that she’s not sure how to ask for with words. Quinn’s grip on the sheets loosens and her hand comes up to Santana’s cheek, the palm cupping her chin and supporting it when Santana closes her eyes and leans in.
“Quinn, I…” She trails off and sighs when the pad of Quinn’s thumb caresses her bottom lip, stealing her words before she can say them and change things forever.
“I missed you,” Quinn says, studying the subtle broadening of Santana’s shoulders and the way her strong arms make less work of holding her hips in place. “Isn’t that enough?”
Santana gets the hint with the way Quinn’s hand presses against her jaw, pushing head up so their eyes meet and the bite of her lower lips tells Santana not to finish the sentence.
“Okay,” she says, even though it’s really not, because she wants to say it, admit this vulnerability that Quinn brings out in her. “Okay, Quinn. I missed you, too.”
She inhales deeply when Quinn relaxes and rests her temple against her friend’s thigh. She takes in their nakedness, how exposed they are to one another, and mirthlessly smiles to herself and at Quinn over how this juxtaposes so sharply with everything they aren’t saying. But Quinn isn’t ready, for one reason or another, and maybe Santana can be okay with that. Maybe she can be okay with being missed instead of being loved. Maybe it’s easier this way, better even. Because if she leaves again and she’s just missed, not loved, she has less to worry about. She can handle being missed if something goes wrong and maybe she doesn’t come home. But if she’s out there, calming riots or damming flooding rivers, and she knows there’s someone depending on her back home, how can she be okay with leaving that person behind? How can she be okay if Quinn isn’t?
So she puts her lips once more to Quinn’s thigh and kisses her way to that heated center, tracing the word “love” into Quinn with her tongue again and again. Because even if Quinn isn’t ready, Santana doesn’t know any other way to make all this okay.
//
There’s a tornado in Pennsylvania two months later, and a hurricane in North Carolina six weeks after that. Quinn gets used to seeing Santana’s things missing for weeks at a time, but she pressure in her chest only increases as the days go on. She’s managing relocation of the victims, organizing clean up of the disaster zones, participating in the collection and disbursement of supplies. It’s safe, she tells Quinn. It’s not like the riot; they aren’t in the middle of chaos burning, they’re just sweeping up the mess.
But that doesn’t make it easier.
“I miss you” becomes their way of saying what they know they’re both thinking. Santana uses it more often, replacing “hello” and “goodbye” entirely, and emphasizing the word “miss” like the more weight she puts behind hit, the more it will mean. It’s enough, Quinn thinks. Enough to remind her that Santana isn’t there in her bed at the end of the day, and how she’s a fucking coward for not saying what she felt when she’d had the chance.
It’s there, though. Love. Like nothing she ever felt with any of the boys she’d dated in high school, or the slew of undergrads-men and women alike-that had come and gone while she was at Yale. She was comfortable with Santana, emotionally and physically. She didn’t feel like she had to hide anything.
Except this unnamed fear she couldn’t seem to shake.
It hits her on a Sunday, when Santana doesn’t call her after her shift like she always does. It’s almost midnight, long past lights out, and she lays in the dark, waiting for the phone to ring. She can’t sleep without hearing the familiar husk of Santana’s drowsy, “Goodnight, Quinn.”
She watches the clock tick by her bedside, the seconds dragging into years and the sun rising after a millennium without so much as a text. She’s a wreck, terrified and helpless because there isn’t an office number for the Army Reserve in the middle of a disaster zone in rural North Carolina. So she shoots off a text message that says simply, “Are you okay?”
The day trudges on, and despite her compulsive checking of every available news outlet, there’s nothing to be reported about the aftermath of the hurricane. So she waits, suffering through interviews with plaintiff while she tries not to think about how this little girl has Santana’s eyes, and wouldn’t a child of Santana’s be beautiful? If only she would call so Quinn can tell her as much.
But she doesn’t call. Not that day, not that night, and not for two days after. Her phone stays terrifyingly silent, as though the entire world knows not to bother her while she waits. Until someone disturbs the silence, and she can’t ignore it.
“Brittany, can I call you back? I’m waiting for a call from-“
“Santana, yeah, I know.” The tone is matter of fact, like, who else would Quinn be waiting for a call from? “She’s probably not going to call you, though. They took her phone at the VA hospital. She’s crazy pissed about it, too.”
Quinn can only stammer out her frustration, because all she hears is “Santana” and “hospital” and she really doesn’t have the patience to walk Brittany through the proper etiquette when discussing these kinds of subjects with people who are scared shitless.
“Care to elaborate on why she’s in the hospital, and how you’re the one who’s telling me? I’ve been out of my mind for three fucking days, Britt!”
There’s rustling on the other end as Brittany goes through what Quinn is sure are not-so-meticulous notes on the back of a takeout menu. “It’s just a broken arm. I guess the embankment she was reinforcing collapsed. I’m still listed as her emergency contact, so the VA in Durham called me a couple days ago. She’s fine, just a little banged up and pissed about her phone. They’re super strict about them there. Do you think they really interfere with the machines? Like, could Santana have upped her morphine drip using her phone? Do they have an app for that?”
Just a broken arm. A little banged up. No phone. And the hospital called Brittany. It might not have been Quinn’s worst nightmare, but it sure as hell was up there.
“A couple of days? They called you a couple of days ago, and you didn’t think it would be a good idea to get a hold of me?”
“She’ll be on a plane back to New Jersey by the end of the week, Quinn, chill out. How was I supposed to know you didn’t know? Why are you so upset? You’re not her girlfriend or anything.”
Her heart drops into her stomach, hearing the accusation in Brittany’s voice. She knows what’s going on, Quinn can tell. The sex-without-feelings thing. She’s been there, done that with Santana, only this time the roles are reversed. Santana is the one that wants to talk it out, while Quinn’s holding back. And yeah, maybe there’s a hint of jealousy there when Brittany says the word “girlfriend”, but that’s a small part. It’s mostly the way Brittany needles at her with her tone, making her feel like a monster for pulling Santana backward. They’d gotten past all the closeted bullshit in high school, and here was Quinn, dragging her back there, whether she meant to or not.
“Maybe not,” she admits through her teeth, trying not to explode or cry, she can’t really tell. “But I’m her roommate, and her best friend. I’m the one who takes her to the train station when she gets called up, and the one who’s there when she gets back. I have more right to know these things than you do. You hate this part of her life. It’s not fair.”
There’s a moment where both of them are silent, listening to the other breathing. Quinn knows she’s probably overstepped, that whatever happened between Brittany and Santana isn’t her business, but she can’t help but be a little defensive on Santana’s behalf. Especially now that maybe Brittany was right about all this, now that Santana is hurt.
“How about we don’t talk about what’s ‘fair’ here, Quinn,” Brittany says, and Quinn bites her tongue in regret. “I called you, you know what’s going on. Now do your job as her best friend-or whatever you are-and take care of her.”
Brittany doesn’t wait for Quinn’s response before she hangs up, and Quinn sets her cell phone down on the table. She stares at it, not sure of what she should do next. Call the Durham VA, find Santana? Wait for her to come home? Go down there herself?
Her heart is still floating somewhere in her gut, aching and flipping over on itself. Terror is creeping up her spine, even though she knows that Santana’s okay. That’s the important thing, right? That she’s alive, it’s just a minor thing, she’ll be home soon?
But what if it wasn’t minor? What if it had been worse? What if Quinn had been picking up a body from New Jersey, instead of a girl with a broken arm?
What if she gave herself to Santana, and then had to lose her?
//
The clean break heals in six weeks, and Santana is back to base for her monthly training session. Erickson slaps her on the back when she gets off the bus, and Williams gives her a wary sidelong glance before staring at his feet, shuffling apologetically. She punches him in the gut, punishment for not doing his job and double-checking the support beams they were laying when the embankment had collapsed, then rubs his bald head playfully to let him know she doesn’t hold it against him.
“You got some free time with your girl, at least,” he puffs as they run their first five-mile of the day. “Bet she took good care of you while you were a gimp.” He winks at her, which only earns him a sharp shove off the trail and a laugh from Erickson.
“She’s not my girl,” Santana says when Williams rights himself and rejoins the pack. “She’s just my roommate. My friend.”
It’s Erickson’s turn to chime in. “Doesn’t really sound that way when you were calling her every night. Your voice got all whispery and secretive like you were trying to keep us from hearing you. ‘Oh Quinn, I miss you, and when I get home I’m gonna eat the shit outta that pretty pussy, mmmmmmmmmwah.”
He mimics her, his voice rising an octave. He brings his arm up to his mouth and makes kissing noises into the crook of his elbow, and Santana stops dead in the trail and pounces on his back, wrapping her arm around his neck until she manages to withhold enough of his air supply that his knees buckle, and she eases off.
“Knock it off, Bobby,” she says seriously, letting him up. “Don’t talk about her like that. I don’t go around talking shit about your ball-buster of a wife, do I?”
Erickson stands up and coughs, dusting off his fatigues before the three of them set off again. His face turns redder than it had been before, and he holds up his hands in defeat.
“Whatever you say, Lopez. But you gotta admit, she’s not just your friend. Not the way you talk about her. Tell me you never tapped that. No, don’t tell me. Because then you’d be a liar.”
She keeps her eyes on the trail in front of her, arms loose and her pace quick, trying to catch up to the rest of the group. Williams and Erickson fall in with her, watching her and giving each other a shrug over the top of her head. She sees it, but says nothing. She doesn’t really want to talk about it anymore.
There’s an obstacle course at the end of the trail, and they’re assisting each other over the climbing wall when she finally decides they’re the only ones who might be able to help her with this. They’re probably going to bust her balls about it for a good long time, because these are two bros, not some chicks who she can have girl talk with. But Erickson’s married, and Williams has a girlfriend back home in Yonkers, so she figures they know something about women that she’s missing with Quinn.
“Say she is more than just my friend,” she says as she pulls Williams up to straddle the top of the wall. “Say we’re hooking up, but she’s not ready to commit, even though we’ve basically been together for a over year. How do I get her to talk to me?”
Williams grabs Erickson and hoists him over the wall, and the three of them descend down the knotted ropes on the opposite side, splashing onto the muddy ground and taking off for the second five-mile in the course.
“Just tell her, dude,” Erickson huffs, the sweat dripping down his temple. “Women like that upfront shit. They like it when you aren’t afraid to be emotional or whatever. I always get the best sex after I talk about my feelings.”
“Bring her flowers and take her out to dinner,” Williams says. “So you’re out in public and she won’t make a scene if she doesn’t like what you have to say, and she can’t bolt or lock herself in the bathroom. Jenny did that to me before. Wouldn’t come out for a fucking hour.”
Santana can’t help but roll her eyes, because it’s pretty much shit she already knows. She can’t trap Quinn, she can’t sit her down and talk to her, because look what happened the last time she tried to say something.
No, with Quinn, she’d just have to be patient.
“Fuck you guys,” she says. “What do you know about women, anyway?”
She takes off at a sprint, leaving them behind to shake their heads at her while she loses herself in the dirt and grit and work of her weekend away from Quinn.
//
“You have a pair on you, thinking you can talk to me about this.”
It’s not like she wants to be calling Brittany. It’s not like she has another option. No one else knows Quinn, knows her, as well as Britt does. And it’s been almost two years since they split, and she’d thought-hoped-that maybe they could have a frank conversation about this. They’re friends now, right?
“I’m not trying to hurt you, B,” Santana says sadly, holding the phone close to her ear as she walks up Broadway, under the guise of running to the grocery store. “You know I still love you and care about you. That never changed. But our lives just went different directions, and this is where we are now. I want you to be happy. Can’t you try to help me get that, too?”
Santana doesn’t know about the conversation Quinn had had with Brittany where she’d asked Britt the same thing, about helping Santana find happiness. Brittany bites her lip and sighs, knowing that two years should be enough time to get over someone. To forgive and move on and find her own happiness, too. But she’s sitting in the dance studio she’s come to love as a second home while Santana is across the country, picking up dinner to eat with someone else. Santana is right. They’ve taken two different roads, and there’s no more meeting up in the middle.
“What do you want me to say, Santana?” she asks. “Do you want me to tell you how to get Quinn to love you? Congratulations, she already does.”
Her heart does a back flip and she stammers a little. “How… how do you know?”
“You should have heard how scared she was when you got hurt in North Carolina. And how pissed she was when they called me instead of her. Trust me, San. That girl loves you.”
“So…” Santana’s not sure where to go from there. If Quinn loves her, cares about her enough to be scared for her when she’s hurt, what’s the hold up? “So what now, then? Why won’t she just tell me?”
Brittany is alone in the studio, sitting on the floor, grateful that no one is around to see the way her face contorts in agony. It had been a bad idea, inviting Santana back into her life after all they’d been through. She’d thought that she could handle it, hearing about Santana moving on and being with another person. She’d just never thought for a minute that person would be Quinn.
She’s pretty sure she knows exactly why Quinn is acting the way she is. It’s the same reason Brittany had made Santana choose: because she’s scared. Scared for Santana, scared for herself, scared to be in love with someone who knowingly and willingly puts herself in dangerous situations. But she can’t speak to that on Quinn’s behalf. She can’t give Santana the answers she wants. She isn’t Quinn, and she’s not going to speak for her. She’s not going to get in the middle of their fucked up relationship.
“I don’t know, San. But you can’t keep living like this. Just talk to her.”
Santana hears the sadness in Brittany’s voice, how she doesn’t want to be put in this position where she’s forced to listen to Santana complain about her love life when theirs is still an open wound.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay, B. Thanks. Love you.”
Brittany covers her eyes with her hand and stifles her tears. “Love you too, San.”