Coffee

It started with a small twitch of her lip and a grimace, and the resonating sound of skin against skin.

The door slammed with a bitter clap at Santana's departure, and the cackling heat that had resonated through the room seemed to dissipate along with her as well, and the sudden chill caught up with Quinn. She didn't want to think about what had happened - it was too nice of a day and it had been too relaxing of the weekend for her to suddenly be bombarded with whatever happened minutes ago.

Her tired gaze fell on the black lump on the carpet, and with an exasperated sigh, she bent over to pluck Santana's phone, depositing it on her desk.

The stinging sensation that had spread through her cheek had ceased significantly, and her weary thoughts naturally dragged her back to Santana, and in her defence, it was impossible to think of her when she was living with her, but Quinn couldn't argue against the fact that she had been easier on her strained thoughts as of late. Despite her ignorance and snarky tongue and all that had happened in the past and the rest of the complicated list of flaws, Santana had been so much more bearable. Until of course, Quinn had to royally fuck things up, because if there's one thing she was good at, it was that. Sure, Santana started it, but didn't she goad her on?

She fluttered her eyes shut, wondering why the hell she felt guilty all of a sudden. She should have been holding the grudge, she should be charging back in there and basking in her distress.

But she didn't.

She didn't hate her, at all.

Plus,she would never say this out loud, but it almost felt good to have that constant presence around (the apartment could get lonely sometimes, she justified), even if it was forced, and said female could be a huge pain in the ass sometimes.

If this had been a few months ago, she would have stayed to argue who had slapped harder.

And she would have vehemently insisted that it had been her.

But she did neither, choosing instead to storm out of the apartment, leaving the blonde with her thoughts. It was too dramatic and too rash of a decision, and she was obviously going to end up regretting it, considering how she hadn't even bothered to bring her phone with her. For now, all she could feel was a dense and heavy weight pulsating against her chest and it chased away any other notions she could have had about her phone.

This wasn't high school - she couldn't just blame it all on Snix.

It was late into dusk when she found herself making her way back to the apartment. She had no inclination at all to do so, but the lack of a phone, and anything better to do, told her otherwise. The place was still too big and too chaotic of a city for her to navigate, and the colours of the day were drab to her and the birdsong so much like noise on a child's glockenspiel, grating on her nerves.

The winds were getting harsher and more piercing over the days, and it was almost commendable how clear they steered out of each other's ways If not for the given circumstances, Santana would have found herself awed that she hadn't spoken to Quinn for two whole days, considering how they lived two feet away from each other, only separated by a flimsy door. Had it not been for the occasional smell of food, occupied bathroom and small shuffles from inside her room, she might have questioned if the other had been in the apartment at all. Santana had contemplated letting herself into Quinn's room to rush out a string of rushed apologies, just for her sake, but she reasoned that it would possibly be a step in the wrong direction, and plus, it wasn't just her fault they were in this silent mess.

Their little mishap, as she preferred to call it, had ever so blatantly ensured that she would have to keep out of Quinn's way (for now, at the very least) and she almost referred to it as a blessing in disguise that the new assistant head manager, Nelly, made her stay back to work later and later by the day. Gunther had left, presumably on a vacation with his wife, and to take his place had come an aged lady with hair as shriveled up and pale as her soul, and on the second day itself, she had lead to Santana questioning deeply just what part of the the new found arrangement had seemed like a blessing to her.

While Gunther was probably heating it up under the sheets with his wife in Malibu, she was stuck here with a cantankerous catlady. Sue was almost a holy saint compared to the monstrosity of a woman she had to face, and that day was no different.

"You need to make sure the food gets to 'em in time, if not they'll go batshit crazy on you," the lady said, or droned, in this case, seeing how Santana was this close to falling asleep as she rambled on. "And smile at 'em all the time, maybe even show a bit if you want tips," she muttered airily, before re-adjusting her hair net. "Remember, the customer might not always be right, but you gotta' keep them smiling if you want to stay here."

Santana bit her tongue, swallowing back the words that threatened to jump out of her lips, starting with the fact that Gunther had already gone through her duties the first day in a much more applicable and concise manner, and also with the fact that adjusting that hairnet will do her no good at all; considering how Nelly needed to have enough hair to put on one of those in the first place.

"And smile more, will you? You look like someone took a piss in front of you," she drawled lazily, waving her spatula as she waddled away back into the kitchen. Santana hissed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She had cheered her way to a scholarship (sure, she lost it, but she still earned it) and in addition, had a flawless set of teeth - smiling had been her only way of showing them off, and that old hag dare question it?

Santana gritted her teeth, deciding against sighing loudly in case nettlesome Nelly decided to make a reappearance. Stamping out that tiny flicker of satisfaction that aroused from the alliteration, she slipped through the somewhat stereotypically cramped space of the restaurant and through the kitchen door, pushing past the chefs that shuffled against one another like an unfortunate deck of cards. Slipping past the steel tables, she balanced two plates of food on her arms, backing out again through the singular door. It was completely, utterly, fucking ridiculous (not just because she was working here, but that the couple at table nine were willing to pay so much for a plate of overpriced spaghetti bolognaise) and if anything, her exasperation showed on her face. Half the customers that slithered into the godforsaken place were naive, downtown yuppies who couldn't pronounce the names of most caffeine beverages on the menu, and if not for the fact that the final hour of her shift that she was currently indulging in was the most gratifying coast to freedom, she might have tossed the plate of spaghetti right at the moony-eyed couple in front of her.

With the last order completed and the last table wiped clean, it was with overbearing exasperation that Santana made her way back after the long day.

She rubbed her forehead, cursing as she entered the still apartment. Boring hours filled with painstakingly fake smiles and complaining customers were not her forte, at all, and the harsh winds screaming outside did nothing to ease her irritation. Tossing her bag over on the sofa, she sank into the couch, which felt more as home than ever. It was close to midnight, and as much as she needed a shower (the bathroom was beckoning with wide open welcoming arms) she was too lazy to move from the comfortable position she found herself in. It was chilly too, with the wind screaming like strangled humans, and it wouldn't do her good to shower when it was cold, she figured.

It occurred to her that she had been trying to give valid justifications to everything she did as of late, but it wouldn't do to dwell on her personal approaches to life this late into the night. She quickly abandoned the idea of gaining any sleep; she could calmly sit through the most colourful thunderstorm and listen to the beats of the pouring rain, but what she did not care for was a wind that sounded like a howling banshee. She might be a tough ghetto bitch, but she wasn't made of armour.

She remained huddled up at the corner of the couch for a few more minutes before peeling off her socks and reaching for her phone. Her exhaustion had exiled her to the couch, and she had no intention of moving anytime soon, and instead sought to seek solace with the warmth radiating off her phone as she surfed the web.

Only when her neck felt stiff and her arms were losing any sensation did she shift, she propped herself up on her elbows to steal a quick glance at the dimly-lit clock. She grimaced; it was incredulous, and she was almost convinced the clock was blatantly lying when it showed that it was half one; was she to believe that she had absently scrolled - refreshed, then scrolled all over again - through social media for more than an hour in one sitting?

Apparently, she had, and she expelled an agitated sigh when a small click broke the air. She paused, craning her neck over the top of the couch to find Quinn slowly leaving her room. Quinn's gaze trailed over to the pair of legs dangling over the side of the couch, and she halted momentarily glancing at the person on the couch. She expelled an agitated breath as she headed over towards the bathroom, choosing to ignore Santana completely.

It got on her nerves so often that she had to wake up at random hours to use the toilet, an inconvenient she cultivated when she was pregnant, and unfortunately had been unable to get rid of ever since. The nocturnal routine also comprised of her drinking water, and as expected, the kitchen was smothered in darkness when she entered, and Quinn fumbled around for a little while before finding the light switch, flicking it on promptly to shower the room with light.

Santana peered over her phone to Quinn's back. She thought twice before she spoke, but the words hurried out before she could have thought about it thrice. "Did I wake you?" she mumbled, half-hoping the blonde wouldn't hear her - it was better than being unsure if she was simply deciding not to acknowledge the question. Fuck, who knew why she thought asking was even a wise idea.

Quinn threw a quick glance behind, bewildered as she reaffirmed that yes, it was Santana who had spoken. "Um, no," came the reply, only barely louder than the trickle of fluid as Quinn poured a glass of water, all the while keeping her back to Santana.

"Well, then why-"

"I was thirsty," she offered quickly, pivoting on her heels and making her way past the couch back to her room. The water sloshed around in the glass, and just as she was about to close her hands around the handle to her door, she faltered. "Santana, wait," she said quickly, straightening her back and wondering exactly what on earth she even intended to say.

Santana flickered her eyes to the silhouette against the door frame. She had no clue why Quinn stopped short of her door, and she wasn't going to question it - lest she spontaneously decided to remember her constant desire to get away from her. But that didn't mean she had to swallow down her pride and not show her frustration at Quinn as well, and she sighed, like the latter was interfering with her currently non-existent schedule. "Yes?"

Quinn hesitated, turning around with the glass still in hand. "About that day...when we um, talked-"

Talked.

Quinn would have slapped herself if she could - talked?! Was that the most appropriate word she had dug out of the thesaurus embedded in her brain for the situation? Great; representing her glowing GPA in style, Quinn edition.

It had been one hell of a fruitful talk though; the result being lots of rotten fruits in that case.

"Which? When you decided to go all hoodlum Barbie on me?" Santana clarified in a stoic tone, carefully rising from the couch.

"You started it!" Quinn riposted indignantly, striding away from the door to her room, her demeanor changing drastically from moments ago.

Santana pursed her lips. Silence was tantamount to culpability, and she continued to watch sharply as Quinn brought the glass to her lips, the moisture glossing her lips. They parted, almost as if to say something, but Santana beat her to it. "Does it matter?"

"Well, no, but it was stupid," Quinn confessed, almost shyly, averting her attention to the clear drop of water sliding down the side of the glass. "Stupid of us, I mean," she corrected thoughtfully.

"It sure was," Santana mumbled bitterly, and there was an uncomfortable silence lurking blatantly around them.

"Well, um, yeah" Quinn hesitated, and licked her teeth. There were words threatening to tumble out of her mouth, but without another word, she headed back towards her room. Santana's gaze trailed over to Quinn, in her simple t-shirt and baggy pyjama bottoms, and she found herself holding her breath as the door started to close. If this were a movie, this would most certainly be the moment where the dramatic orchestral music crept in, coupled with the slow-motioned visual effects.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out hastily. She didn't have time to mull over or regret it , as Quinn's head quickly popped out from the gap between the door and the frame. Suspicion and shock almost made her choke on her drink, but Quinn caught herself, and Santana stared as Quinn's jaw twitched, forming a small smirk.

"What did you say?"

Santana glared at her, and she was willing to bet that Quinn had heard her perfectly fine the first time around. Never mind. "I said, i'm sorry."

"Did I just hear the S-word? From Santana?" Quinn asked, in a loud stage-whisper, toying with the handle briefly before taking a few steps back over the threshold.

"Oh, shut it," Santana bristled, "And its not like its just my fault, in case you forgot."

"I know," Quinn replied, the ghost of her smile still tugging at her lips as she lingered near the threshold. "Sorry I guess, I shouldn't have been, you know, so-"

"Nosy? Bitchy?" Santana prompted from the couch, scowling, but decided just then to not tell Quinn that she was long over their little feud. "Go on, Quinn, i'm a sucker for a little self-deprecating humour."

"Do you always have to be so annoying?" Quinn huffed, resting her palms against the back of the sofa opposite the couch.

"I thrive on sarcasm," she replied defiantly, eyes darting back to her phone screen. Quinn wondered if this was actually the time for conversation gambit, but it was better than the past few agonizing hours of dodging and hiding. Plus, by the flimsy flickering of the light radiating off her phone, Santana didn't look close to jumping down Quinn's throat any moment (a huge improvement); she looked more peaceful, surreal even - but maybe it was just the darkness toying with her vision and perceptions that made her linger awkwardly behind the sofa, and she flinched slightly when Santana sighed loudly and dramatically.

"Are you going to sit or what?" she asked suddenly, punctuating the awkward silence, and Quinn realised that she must have been silent for far too long.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her cautious stare shifting to Santana. "No, i'll go back," she muttered, shifting her weight away from the sofa. Just before she swung her door shut, she peered over the edge, for the second time that night. Santana cocked a brow, looking at Quinn expectantly.

"Sleep soon," she mumbled awkwardly, closing the door shut with a soft thud. There was a quiet shuffle of footsteps from inside her room, and soon everything was still and silent again. Santana scowled like the suggestion was absolutely ridiculous, but the kind gesture was more than welcomed. Maybe it was too late, and maybe Quinn had already gone off to sleep, but after almost a whole minute, Santana yelled, "You too!"

The following morning found Quinn up too early; earlier than Santana, at the very least. She plodded over to the kitchen, bleary-eyed. It was part of the unspoken routine to consume caffeine in the morning, because god forbid she ever try to get through a day without it. Additionally, in a city that never seemed to sleep, it was a habit that became unintentionally employed to satisfy the ongoing hustle and bustle.

The pot was full and steaming, the smell wafting around serendipitously, and Quinn's eyes drifted over to the shifting lump under the blankets. She stood patiently by the counter-top, scrolling through her phone and flicking occasional glances over to the couch when movement was detected.

It wasn't long before she heard the brunette's muffled objections to venturing out to greet the world. The sheets moved around vehemently, with the occasional silhouette of a limb stretching out, accompanied by the range of sounds of cracking joints.

"Morning," she spoke, as a grumpy Santana's crowning glory of unkempt hair peeked out from underneath the sheets. There was radio silence for a few moments, before Quinn's instigation elicited a groan. At least, that was what she thought it was; it was an indiscernible noise that sounded very much like a foghorn.

"Mmm," Santana grunted, presumably in response.

Quinn chuckled in spite of herself.

"You're so chipper in the morning," she commented, more to herself than to Santana, pouring herself a mug of coffee and turning to face her companion.

The latter heard her though, and Quinn looked up just in time to see that she had earned a scowl. A scowl that hovered between borderline jocularity and indifference - rather than the ones filled with complete disgust and anger that she had seen all too often.

"Do you want, um, coffee? I have some..." she asked awkwardly, having decided that the silence between them was bringing the fringes of discomfort.

That caught Santana off-guard. Of all the things she could have said after whatever that had happened, she didn't think those words would pass Quinn's lips in her company anytime soon - though it was certainly an intriguing development to the shitty situation. She didn't respond, but Quinn clearly decided she was making one for her anyway, and the smell of ground coffee mingled deliciously with Quinn's natural scent. (Whatever shampoo she was using, she was using it well, Santana thought.) She toyed with her phone while the blonde finished making the beverages, brought them over and set them on the coffee table. Santana looked at her pointedly when she retreated to the counter, the hazel orbs shifting cautiously from Santana to the steaming mug meant for her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her brows furrowing suspiciously and her flat voice subduing Quinn.

Quinn feigned innocence, "Me? I'm being a nice person, in case you didn't get the drift."

Santana raised her eyebrow in inquiry, earning a snort from Quinn. She regarded the brunette coolly, but the words that she spoke were weary. "I got the impression that you weren't enjoying the silence, so I attempted to relieve you."

"Yeah, well, now that we're talking, I prefer the silence."

Quinn's sharp features eased back into the bitter and all too familiar scowl temporarily, before she took a deep breath.

"Can we stop this? It's awful enough that we're on bad terms again, but it's kind of impossible to go through with it if we have to keep staring at each other's faces all the time and yes, I suppose I shouldn't have said all those things that day," she muttered, her face showing slightly more emotion than her phlegmatic tone.

The agitated drumming against the smooth surface filled the minutes as Quinn did all she could to stop staring at Santana. Her own attempts at being civilised were unnerving.

Santana looked up and frowned. "You suppose?"

Quinn's expression scrunched up in confusion, before she hissed in an annoyed manner. Santana's face broke into a smile at the gesture, and she slowly pushed herself up into a comfortable sitting position; ditching her heap of blankets (which tumbled down carelessly) for her growling stomach. The couch groaned quietly with the change in weight, and Quinn blinked away (just in case) but there was fortunately no need for it this time. "It was actually pretty cold last night, so my shirt decided to stick with me," Santana smirked nonchalantly from the couch, observing Quinn as she planted herself tentatively on the kitchen counter, legs dangling inches away from the tiled floor.

"So, how was work?"

"Shitty as fuck, and- wait, how do you know?" Santana paused abruptly, staring at Quinn suspiciously.

"That nametag..." Quinn paused to lap at her now tepid drink, "And that constant smell of burnt coffee might have been clues," she shrugged amiably, setting the mug down and clutching onto the ceramic edge of the counter.

"Well, Sherlock, good job," Santana smirked, before sighing loudly. "I didn't think it was physically possible, but the job both sucks and blows."

"That bad?"

"You could say that," she said with candor, observing her with more attention than possibly appropriate. Quinn lifted her own mug up from the table and brought it to those rosy lips of hers, forming her mouth into a small circle to blow the steam away. It shouldn't have held Santana's attention, but it did.

"It'll get cold," Quinn voiced out, regarding Santana quietly as she herself took a small sip. Santana blinked at her, to which Quinn piped up again. "Your drink, it'll get cold."

She inhaled sharply, but leaned forward to accept the mug in any case. Blowing the faint steam away, she took a long drag of the liquid; the first swallow of the beverage leaving her unwinding like a taut ball of yarn. It wasn't the best coffee she had, but it was certainly up there on the list. She took another sip, swallowing down the liquid as well as the urge to smack her lips to exalt the quality of it - she wasn't going to give the blonde the pleasure of seeing her enjoy it.

There were situations that would arise where some topics were just beyond boundaries, but the question had been lingering within her for days, and curse her inquisitive nature."So, how's your friend doing?" she asked evenly, curling around the warm mug as if it were life support. Anything remotely warm was more than welcome given the dropping temperatures.

She wasn't one to feed on the past, and she was clearly in no position to insert herself into Quinn's life, but she could start somewhere, couldn't she? Plus, she was genuinely curious, and desperate for affirmation that the blonde was not romantically inclined to that gelled up doll. She just needed the validation, she'd ponder as to why, sometime later.

Quinn paused, wondering what on earth Santana was talking about. She was about to make a fool of herself, this close to clarifying as to which friend the brunette was referring to when it came to her. God, she was so stupid sometimes.

Quinn narrowed her eyes. "Biff McIntosh? Seriously, Santana, it would serve you well to never bring that up, ever," she said squarely, having long decided that it was best that the incident was best tucked away at the back of beyond.

"I'm just asking," Santana reasoned carefully with a noncommittal shrug. "I'm making conversation here, Q."

Quinn scowled as if the suggestion was incredulous (it was), but considered her words. Nothing with Santana was just black and white, she'd come to learn that a long time ago, and she was guessing Santana meant something more specific and cynical.

"He's doing fine," she scoffed. "Like you mentioned, he's just a friend."

A fascinating mixture of relief stole Santana's face briefly before dissipating just as quickly as it had appeared. "Cool," Santana stated simply, before snapping her eyes back to Quinn. "Wait, his last name, its McIntosh?" she asked loudly, slowly.

Quinn nodded hesitantly from the counter, her confusion further heightened when an expression of rancor and disgust formed on her face. "He's named after apples? Seriously? The fuck were his parents thinking?"

Quinn couldn't help but giggle at the thought; she had been dying to know herself, but it wasn't the sort of thing she could just ask. Being inquisitive about ancestral fruit fetishes wasn't the best conversation starter in her books.

"Hey, don't judge," she snapped sternly, though the smile on her face gave her away. "Maybe they were avid apple lovers."

"Right. Apple maniacs," she muttered, taking a gulp of her coffee. She brought the mug back down, only to lock eyes with an expectant Quinn.

"What now?" Santana asked, bewildered. Was she supposed to give something in exchange for the coffee?

Her apparently cluelessness earned her a patented Quinn Fabray eye roll, and the ghost of a former cheerleading captain floated to the surface in that swift ocular arc of her eyes.

"The coffee" Quinn prompted, before pressing on. "How is it?"

"Its okayish," she scoffed with her best smug facade, without missing a beat. Average was as good as Quinn was going to get when it came to compliments. She had apologised more times in the past night than she had in the week, and if she was supposed to be offering the blonde words of gratitude now, that was just pushing the line.

It didn't lead to Quinn losing her momentum though, and she gave Santana a clean sweep through her hazel eyes. "Uh huh, and I suppose that's why you almost finished it even though its scalding?" A tight smile accompanied the accusation, and she merely glanced over at Santana with a darting swipe of her tongue to lick her coffee lips.

At her mocking accusation, Santana's eyes flickered to the mug in her hands, only to find a curiously small amount left. Instantaneously, she regretted the long slurps she had taken just moments ago.

"And just so you know, okayish isn't exactly a word," the blonde continued, regarding Santana with mirth from the countertop.

Setting the mug gingerly back on the coffee table, Santana narrowed her eyes in search of a rebuttal. The hunt for a satisfactory reasoning proved to be futile and all she could scrape up was a pathetic reply. "You think you're some kind of hotshit for making a cup of coffee? In case you haven't noticed, its cold as heck out here and i'm willing to take in heat even if its in the form of the abysmal mud water you call coffee. Plus, I just woke up." She waved her arms for good measure, to indicate just how cold it was.

Not that she needed to; just the past night, Quinn had to resort to constructing a shield of pillows around her to retain some of the fast depleting warmth.

Quinn laughed haughtily, before spitting out a breathy, highly unconvincing, "Sure."

The petulant, thirteen-year-old in Santana decided to make a spontaneous appearance, and the brunette riposted adamantly. "Your head's getting bigger by the day, you know." She was mildly agitated, but there was a smidgen of respect that slithered into her consciousness for Quinn - she had one upped her in any case.

"Great comeback," Quinn mocked, beaming when her successful bantering resulted in a glare from a pair of charcoal eyes. "So, do you want another cup, or are you warmed up enough by the one you gulped down like no tomorrow?"

"You're sucking the joy out of my morning glow, do you know that?" Santana shot back brusquely, looking at Quinn squarely in the eye.

"Oh, i'm sorry," Quinn exclaimed, all dramatics and teasing, staring her down till the latter rolled her eyes with a small sigh. "How exactly am I doing that?"

If it had been some other time - any other time in fact - just not when she just woke out of her slumber, Santana would have dealt a long string of rebuttals in Quinn's way, but she was too comfortable in that little post-awakening trance to think of any remotely witty ways to antagonize the smirking blonde.

"Don't apply logic to Lopez," she muttered, taking in a final swig of Quinn's rather perfectly concocted beverage.