all my dreams are coming true (now that they're about me and you)

chapter sixteen

"Santana?"

Rachel nudged her girlfriend's arm from her place on the bed, lying on her stomach with her legs crossed in the air behind her, Santana seated on the floor just below. They were surrounded by textbooks and notebooks, frantically trying to get their homework done as early as possible on this Saturday morning, so that the majority of the day could be spent on more enjoyable pursuits.

Looking up from her math textbook, Santana squinted owlishly through her glasses. She'd lost a contact lens the other day, forcing her to bring her glasses out of hiding. She absolutely hated them, but of course Rachel loved them – the shorter girl had actually swooned when Santana had put them on – so she supposed there was now a bright side to having to wear the stupid things while she waited for her new contact lenses to arrive.

"What?" she responded peevishly, although she was secretly glad that Rachel had rescued her from determining what x – or was it actually y? - was supposed to be, yet again.

"I want to ask you something."

There was an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty in her voice, which instantly piqued Santana's curiosity. It was rare for Rachel to not just launch into whatever she wanted to say, without asking for any sort of permission. She was the kind of girl who said what was on her mind, virtually the moment it popped into her head. It was one of the many things Santana had come to love about Rachel, that complete and utter lack of shyness she had about expressing her opinion on just about anything.

"As long as it has nothing to do with algebra, you can go right ahead and ask me anything you want. However, I reserve the right to light you on fire if you're just going to ask me why I've answered x, when the answer is so clearly and obviously y."

"Santana! I would never do that," Rachel objected with a frown, nudging the other girl's shoulder once again, harder this time. "Besides, you know you're better at math than I am."

Santana shifted in place, turning so that she could smirk at her girlfriend, suggestively raising her eyebrows as she did. "Among other things."

Rachel blushed at that infuriating, yet completely disarming smirk. It never failed to set butterflies churning in her stomach – and while she normally welcomed the feeling, and the activities it normally led to, she actually did have something on her mind, something about which she'd been thinking for a while. So she forced down the butterflies, taking a deep breath to refocus her thoughts.

"Yes, well. That is a topic best left for later in the day. But seriously, Santana – this is a question I've wanted to ask for some time now, but have refrained from asking, because I wasn't sure how to ask it without offending you."

Santana's eyebrows rose even higher, her eyes widening in surprise. "Offending me? Since when am I the kind of person who's easily offended by a simple question?"

"Have you met you, Santana? Since, I don't know, ever?"

"Pssht. That was the old me." She shrugged nonchalantly in that way Rachel found nearly as infuriating as her smirk. "This is the new Santana you're talking to. New and improved. Why, just the other day you were complimenting me on how well I control my temper these days."

"Yes, your restraint in not punching Jacob Ben-Israel when he attempted to take pictures of us when he saw us kissing in the choir room, choosing to destroy his camera instead, was most admirable."

"As I recall, we were doing more than just kissing, Rachel – and anyway, I did him a favor. If someone had discovered those scorching hot pics, he probably would have been arrested."

"How do you talk me into doing things like that, anyway? If it had been Mr. Schuester who'd seen us, I would have been too mortified to stay for Glee, which could have had a devastating impact on our chances at Regionals."

"Regionals are two months away, Rachel."

"All the more reason why I simply can't miss even a single moment of rehearsals."

Santana rolled her eyes, recognizing the obvious deflection from whatever it was Rachel was too nervous or worried or whatever to talk about – the thing she'd brought up in the first place.

"Anyway, your well-documented obsession with show choir perfection aside, you said you had a question for me? Ask it already, 'cause this math homework's not gonna get done on its own – and if it doesn't get done, Auntie Tana is not gonna be happy. Because then, she might not have time to get her mack on with her ridiculous but oh so hot girlfriend, and that would be all kinds of sad. And you don't wants to see a sad Auntie Tana, do you?"

Rachel laughed at Santana's deliberate lapse into Lima Heights-speak, an affectation she only used as a source of humor these days, rather than the instrument of menace it used to be. Somehow her girlfriend knew that was exactly what was needed to break the bubble of apprehension in which she'd trapped herself, letting her know that whatever she wanted to ask, it would totally be okay.

"All right. This is something I've always wondered about, because as I've gotten to know you during these last few wonderfully happy months of dating, it seems more and more at odds with who you really, truly are, and -"

Santana cut her off with an exasperated sigh. "Spit it out, Rachel! Whatever it is, I promise it won't offend me, okay?"

Rachel shrank back a little, but felt reassured when one of Santana's hands covered her own.

"Okay, I'm sorry. My question is this: why are you a Cheerio, Santana? I mean, what do you get out of it, besides the social armor it provides? What is it that you actually like about cheerleading?"

Santana blinked, considered the strangeness of the question for a moment. "Whoa. Totally not what I was expecting. I thought you were going to ask me if I've ever slept with Brittany, or something like that. And before you ask, don't. Britts and I have a lot of history, most of it good, but there are some things I'm still not ready to talk about, even with you."

"Um, okay, but one day -"

Santana nodded, giving Rachel a reassuring smile. "One day, maybe. First things first. You asked me why I'm a Cheerio - and well, there are a lot of answers to that question. Some of them that, if I think about it, don't really make sense to me anymore."

She pushed her math homework aside and stood, grunting softly. Rachel shifted on the bed to give her room to sit, patting the newly available space beside her.

"The first reason I'm a Cheerio is simply because Quinn and Brittany are Cheerios, and they're my best friends in the whole world. Long before I met you, long before we became the so-called Unholy Trinity, we were just three girls who went to elementary school together and bonded over their favorite colors and ice cream flavors. When we got to high school, knowing from Quinn's older sister Frannie what a pit McKinley was going to be, we made a pact with each other. We said we'd do whatever it took to protect each other, protect our friendship. So, again, acting on the knowledge that Frannie had passed down to Quinn, we knew that joining the Cheerios was the easiest, best way to do that. It would afford us the – what did you call it? - social armor to keep all the assholes in check and away from us, and it would also give us one more thing to bond over, so that we would have another common interest, another reason to stay friends."

Rachel watched Santana's face carefully as she spoke, knowing that her face and her eyes often told her far more than her words did. She could see the years turning back in those dark eyes, the threads of memory spooling back to a time well before they'd known of each other's existence.

"The second reason is that, whatever you think of the actual value of cheerleading – and yes, I agree that Coach Sue vastly over-inflates it, as reflected in the ridiculous budget she gets out of that idiot Figgins every year – I'm good at it. I might actually be better at cheerleading than I am at singing and dancing, in all honesty - which I know you can't believe, but it's true. When we joined Cheerios, Quinn brought with her a reputation for being super smart, which she is, and Britt – well, she's Britt. Everybody loves Britt, just because of who she is. But me? I didn't know who I was, not really, and I didn't know who I wanted to be."

She paused, and Rachel saw the first signs of strain, the difficulty the other girl always had whenever she spoke about her past, in the set of her jaw, the way she clutched her hands in her lap. It had taken a long time for the two of them to get beyond that first and tallest barrier, and Rachel wondered if it would ever get easier for Santana.

"What I did know," she continued with a sigh, "was that I was different, and in my house, to my abuela, different was bad. Especially my kind of different. In Brittany's house, it was no big deal. They didn't care when she came out to them; they just told her that her happiness was the most important thing. I knew my parents wouldn't care either, but my abuela...I couldn't exactly tell her that a big part of the reason I enjoyed being a cheerleader was being around all those girls, all the time. So I told her that I liked it because we got to watch the football players practice, and that was more than all right with her."

"So it wasn't just about protection at school," Rachel interjected quietly. "It was a form of protection at home too."

Santana's eyes moistened, her throat tightening at Rachel's perceptiveness. "Yeah. I guess you could say that. It was a way for me to hide in plain sight. I could use the Cheerios as a way to figure myself out while at the same time, I could pretend to my abuela that I was the 'normal,' boy-crazy girl she thought I was supposed to be." She wiped away a tear as the memories squeezed her heart, catching the air in her lungs. "At least, I could do that until the day she caught me and some baby Cheerio, whose name I can't even remember now, making out in the living room when she was supposed to be out playing mah jongg or canasta or some shit at the senior citizens' center."

There were so many colors of pain, and Rachel saw them all in her girlfriend's dark eyes, as the tears rolled down her lovely cheeks. Santana was so strong, so resilient – maybe that was something she'd learned from the torture sessions that Coach Sylvester called practices? - but every now and then, Rachel had learned, even the toughest girl had to break down and cry. And Santana was the toughest person, period, that she'd ever known.

"But anyway – yeah. After that, Cheerios gave me something to focus on, something to distract me from the way things were at home. I didn't like the way Sue treated us, but it was still better than the way my abuela was treating me. I had to develop a pretty thick skin in order to deal with it, and in a way, Coach Sue helped me with that. I'd never tell her, though. She takes enough credit for shit as it is." She paused, took a deep breath. "Anyway, what was being called a 'sloppy baby' compared to being called verguenza by my own grandmother?"

Rachel had learned a few words of Spanish over the months that she and Santana had been together (she now regretted choosing French as her foreign language elective, despite the fact that she fully expected to be attending the Cannes Film Festival one day, after she became a star), but this was one she hadn't heard Santana use before. From the tone of the other girl's voice, the way she spat out the word as though it had a foul taste to it, Rachel gathered that it wasn't a good one. But she still felt compelled to ask, as it was in her nature to learn what she didn't know, to understand anything and everything that eluded her.

"Verguenza?"

Santana's voice was quiet and subdued when she finally answered after a few taut moments of silence. "It means 'shame.'"

Rachel was stunned by the level of vulnerability Santana had just shown by admitting this dark and painful secret of her past. But the pain in her expression, the anguish in her eyes, were tamped down almost as soon as they were ignited; that was Santana's way.

"Oh, Santana. That...that's awful," Rachel breathed, squeezing her girlfriend's hand. "I'm so sorry that happened – that you were ever made to feel that way." She felt anger rise in her like lava within a roiling volcano. "I have half a mind to -" She smothered it. "No. It's not my place."

"Believe me, I appreciate the sentiment," Santana cracked. "Quinn and Britt reacted the same way when it happened." A thin, rueful smile quirked up the corners of her mouth, and Rachel sensed a change of subject was about to take place. That, too, was Santana's way. "But you know what? In addition to making me mentally and emotionally strong, cheerleading made me physically strong. Like, all that core strength I have that makes you all hot and bothered?"

She took Rachel's hand and placed it on her stomach, tensing the muscles that lay beneath the fabric of her shirt. Her smile widened at the flush of heat that colored the smaller girl's cheeks, knowing that particular part of her body was a major turn-on for Rachel.

"That's where it comes from. Honestly, I'd thought I was in pretty good shape before I became a Cheerio, but whether or not you think Sue Sylvester is a complete nut job - and yeah, she is - I have to admit that she knows a little something about whipping people into shape. Like, I didn't even know what a six-pack was until Quinn showed me hers, and then I was all about getting one myself. I was determined to have the best abs on the squad, to be in the best shape - and with Quinn and Brittany on the squad, that was no easy task - but I did it."

"You do have a lovely midsection, Santana," Rachel murmured. Then, remembering the point to which she'd been leading, she gently (if reluctantly) pulled her hand away. "But that's sort of the thing I was getting at – the way people, particularly the boys, objectify you. All this attention you get solely because of your body, for being physically attractive, without anybody ever acknowledging your mind...don't you ever get tired of it?"

She paused, watching the impact of her words sinking into the other girl's mind. "Don't get me wrong. I mean, it's great that people think you're hot or whatever, but as I once told Quinn: you're a very pretty girl, but you're also a lot more than that. Wouldn't you like that to be recognized too?"

"Wow. Okay, well...that was a lot. First of all, Quinn told me about that little chat you two had in the bathroom after it happened, and you know what she said?" A shadow crossed Santana's face then, a look of sadness unlike any Rachel had seen on it before. "She said it was the first time anyone besides her mother had ever said anything like that to her, and she couldn't understand why it was you of all people who said it. It should have been Brittany or me, but it was you."

The look of sadness changed to one of wonder as she continued, "After all the mean things she'd said about you, every terrible comment she made on your videos, all the jokes and put-downs, it was you that lifted her up, when you had every reason to put her down just as hard."

Rachel ducked her head, squirming at that look. To her, what she'd done wasn't special; it was just what a friend should do. And Quinn, by that time, was her friend – they'd spent enough time in Glee together to forge a tentative, delicate understanding of one another. She wasn't as close with Quinn as Santana or even Brittany was, but there was no doubt in her mind that the past had been put firmly behind them at that point, and she'd seen how much Quinn needed to hear those words, regardless of the source.

"It was nothing. I only did what anyone would do in that situation," she protested quietly. "Quinn was in distress, lonely and sad and hurting so badly. She needed someone to be kind to her in that moment, and I just happened to be there. Tina would have done the same thing, or Mercedes. I'm sure of it."

Santana reclaimed the hand that Rachel had pulled away and lightly kissed the back of it before threading their fingers together. She drew in a deep breath, released it in one long, slow exhalation, keeping her gaze focused on their entwined fingers. Rachel tried to will the other girl to look at her, wanting to see what was in her eyes, but Santana seemed just as determined not to let her. The Cheerio shook her head no before she began to speak again.

"Mercedes might have, maybe. But Tina's still afraid of Quinn. She's hardly ever said two words to her. When she looks at Q, it's like she thinks she's a mouse and Quinn's a hungry cat looking for an Asian snack," she said with a chuckle. "No, it's only you who would have had the cojones to step to Q like that – only you who could get away with it, without getting slapped across the face. She works so hard at not letting anyone see what's really going on with her. You'd probably say that she's like me that way, and you wouldn't be wrong, but trust me - she's better at it than I ever was."

Then Santana finally looked up, into Rachel's eyes. "You...you just have this way of, like, getting to people. You get them to look inside themselves, see the truth about who they really are, and you make them want to be better. Not just better at singing or dancing – God knows Finn will never be a good dancer, no matter what – but better at being a person."

Rachel could only stare for a moment before ducking her head again. No, no. She wasn't some kind of savior; she was barely surviving herself before Santana came along. She felt herself shrinking away, retreating into her own head, when Santana's finger lifted her chin, forced her to look back up, locking their gazes together once more.

"It's true, Rachel. You know who I was...before we got together. I was a miserable bitch who got off on making other people's lives hell because my own was so fucked up." Santana's fingers clutched harder around Rachel's, mirroring the tension in her throat, the words emerging harsh and raspy as she fought – and failed – to hold back tears. "Hell, I made your life hell a few times too, either throwing slushies in your face or getting baby Cheerios to do it for me."

"I know," Rachel said quietly. "I know, Santana, and I forgave you for all of that a long time ago."

"The Cheerios culture is...it's harsh. You know that too. It's kill or be killed, take no prisoners, cut them down before they get a chance to put the knife in your back. It's bleak, and it's brutal, and it...it's not me anymore." She paused to wipe away the tears escaping from the corners of her eyes, her lashes heavy with wetness. "You're right – I used to love the attention it got me from guys, from girls, everyone telling me how hot I am...but yeah, it's gotten pretty old at this point. See, you've made me realize that there's more to me than what everybody else sees. More than just a set of rambunctious twins, a pair of killer legs and a pretty face."

"Modesty becomes you, Santana," Rachel quipped, desperate to break the heavy mood that had fallen upon the room.

"Hey, you love the hotness," laughed Santana, grateful for her girlfriend's sense of humor and impeccable timing. "But seriously, honestly – I'm ready to show McKinley a different Santana Lopez." She sighed, pulled Rachel's hand up for another kiss. "I want everybody to know that I'm more than just the Latina chick on the Cheerios, the one with a sassy attitude and razor blades all up in her hair, the one twirling around in the short skirt, letting everybody get a free peek at what's underneath. And I have you to thank for that."

"I do love those twirls," Rachel mumbled under her breath, hoping Santana hadn't heard, knowing she probably had.

Santana's laugh told her that, indeed, she hadn't been quiet enough. "And you'll still get them, querida. But from this point on, you're the only one who will, because...wow, I didn't think it would be this hard to say -"

"Because...because what, Santana?"

Scenes from every tragic TV movie she'd ever seen assaulted Rachel's memory. Oh, God, please don't let her tell me she has some kind of rare, fatal disease!

"Because I'm quitting the Cheerios."

Rachel felt as if she'd just been slushied – the impact of her girlfriend's words was that sharp, that stunning. She...she wasn't serious, was she?

Granted, Rachel had always secretly hoped for this. Having watched the Cheerios practice numerous times, she'd worried constantly about the possibility of Santana possibly suffering a severe injury on the field - which would be devastating on a number of different levels, the least of which was how it would impact the chances for both the Cheerios and the Glee Club to win at Nationals later in the year – and leaving the squad would certainly eliminate that unpleasant possibility, but still...the girl had said it herself. She was good at it.

Could she really walk away from her talent like that? And what would replace it in her life? Glee was demanding, certainly, but Santana had the kind of mind, the kind of energy, that required more than one outlet. If it didn't find one, it could possibly be channeled into something unhealthy, something destructive, even -

"Hey, hey – stop that. I can see the wheels turning in that head of yours. Relax," Santana chided, bringing Rachel back to herself. They shifted together, Rachel pushing books and notes off the bed to make room so they could lie down. Santana settled in behind her girlfriend, curling her arms around the smaller girl's frame and pressing a kiss into the lush, dark hair on the back of Rachel's head.

"It's...really, I'm okay with it. Being a Cheerio, being part of the Unholy Trinity...it's been a big part of my life for a while now, but it doesn't make me happy anymore." She paused to press a series of small kisses to the back and side of Rachel's neck, eliciting a small, soft giggle. "You know what does? You. You make me happy. And yes, I know you're going to gloat hearing this, but God help me - Glee makes me happy too. And I'll be able to find something else to fill the void, something to take the place of Sue Sylvester's non-stop ranting in my ear. That damned bullhorn is loud. It'll be good to get away from that."

Rachel turned in Santana's arms, smiling. "Well, I'll be more than happy to audition for that role. Less time on the practice field means more time...here...after all."

With that, she pressed her lips firmly to Santana's, and within minutes, all else was forgotten – homework, clothing, and especially the Cheerios.

As expected, Sue Sylvester was nearly apoplectic with rage when Santana informed her that she was no longer a Cheerio, firmly placing the dry-cleaned, pressed and perfectly folded uniform on the coach's desk in a manner that was meant to convey the finality of Santana's decision. Eyes popping, neck veins bulging, spittle flying, the furious coach swore up and down that Santana – indeed, all the Cheerios - had sworn a blood oath upon joining the squad, and the only ways a member of the squad could leave were injury, death or dismissal by one Sue Sylvester.

"I wasn't aware that I'd joined a gang," Santana deadpanned when Coach Sue finally had to take a moment to breathe in the midst of of her rant about how loyalty and honor meant nothing to this generation, and that was why the world was rapidly descending into hell.

"You did, actually," the coach snarled. "Well, not technically, but I did take the oath's wording pretty much verbatim from the constitution of the Hell's Angels, circa 1972. I saw that guy get stabbed at the Stones concert at Altamont, and it was a formative experience for me – I knew then that I wanted a group of cheerleaders that would actually cut a man down if necessary."

Santana crossed her arms, rolling her eyes at the woman she would be happy never to call "Coach" again. "You're insane, Ms. Sylvester. Completely certifiable. With all due respect."

"I beg your pardon," the coach roared. Santana continued to look completely unruffled. "That is a racist statement, and I'll have your apology immediately, along with two hundred laps around the track right now!"

Santana stood her ground, her stance a picture of poise. "No. And no. It's not at all racist to say that you're an absolute lunatic," she replied coolly. Rachel's advice for her to remain calm and collected, no matter how much the coach raged at her, was working perfectly. The more centered Santana remained, the more unhinged and out of control Sue got. She was actually enjoying this. "And I'm no longer obliged to do any laps anywhere, because I'm not on the Cheerios anymore."

"You're a Cheerio until I say you're not, and I'm not saying you're not a Cheerio! So you're still a Cheerio!"

"Nope. I've already returned my uniform, along with a formal letter of resignation, typed, signed and notarized, which you'll find tucked in there between the top and the skirt. It's a done deal."

"NO! IT'S NOT!' the coach shouted, loud enough for everyone in the hallway outside to hear. The rage on her face suddenly disappeared, replaced by a look of desperation. "Oh, come on! You're our best flyer, Sandbags. We can't lose you now! Who's going to replace you, Kitty? That's not cheerleading, it's – it's – it's dwarf tossing, for God's sake! Not that I'm against that, strictly speaking, but I'm pretty sure it's not exactly legal, so –" Santana could see a new thought popping into Sue's head, braced herself for yet another new level of ridiculousness. Her eyes widened, and her face twisted into a snarl. "Wait a minute."

The coach towered over Santana, using her height to try to intimidate the much smaller girl, leaning forward to let her see the full force of the wrath she'd incurred.

"This is because of Streisand, isn't it?" Her voice was low and dangerous, dripping with malice. "That – that little singing mushroom? She put you up to this, didn't she? What does she have on you that I haven't already got? Wait – did she steal my files? Why, that sneaky, thieving, conniving little – just wait until I get her and that appalling Will Schuester into Figgins' office. I'll have 'em both crying like the little girls they are by the time I'm -"

"HEY!" Santana yelled, her patience finally at its breaking point. There was a line, and the coach had just crossed it. "Rachel has nothing to do with this. It's my choice, my decision. Look, I just don't want to be - I don't want to be you in twenty or thirty years, OK? Friendless and alone and so mad at the world that hate is all I have for everyone around me, and all they have for me in return. Do you get it now? Do you understand? No one wants to be the great Sue Sylvester – not even you. And definitely not me."

The blaze of righteous anger in Coach Sylvester's eyes blinked out, gone as if it had never been there at all. The woman seemed to shrink, deflating like one of those giant Thanksgiving Day parade balloons, so large and impressive when filled with air or helium or whatever, so sad and withered when something happened to take it out of them, like a collision with a streetlight or a building. She walked around the large desk that dominated the room and let her tall frame sag down into the luxurious office chair behind it, her expression vacant. It was a look Santana had never seen on the woman's face before.

A look of defeat.

After a long, tense, almost unbearable few moments of silence, the coach let out a long, slow sigh. "Get out of my office. And close the door behind you," she said quietly, and Santana did as she was told without another word.

Santana knew the coach had once claimed, famously, that she'd had her tear ducts removed because she never used them, but she would always wonder whether the woman had cried after she left. She could have sworn she'd heard something, some kind of muffled sound coming from behind the closed office door, but she supposed it could have been anything. The stricken expression on the coach's face would haunt her for a while, she knew, but Santana had made up her mind. She had resolved that nothing would divert her from the path she had chosen to walk from this point forward.

And walk she did, ignoring the looks of stunned disbelief that greeted her as she passed by the few early morning arrivals in the hallways of McKinley on her way to meet Rachel at her locker. Yeah, you know you've never seen anyone look this hot before. Get to steppin', afore I ends you all, she thought, meeting the gaping, slack-jawed faces and wide eyes with a satisfied smile on her face. She hadn't felt this good in ages. Hadn't felt this...free. Yes, thatwas the word she was looking for.

Free.

Then two blondes in Cheerios uniforms barred her path, and her smile instantly morphed into a frown of displeasure.

"Is it true?" Quinn asked in a brittle voice, anger flashing in her gold-flecked hazel eyes. "I mean, it must be true, since you're not in uniform, but God, why? Did Rachel put you up to this? What, did she give you an ultimatum? Did she tell you it was her or the Cheerios, and you're so whipped that you chose her over the squad?" She gestured between the three of them – herself, Santana, and Brittany, who stood next to her, looking concerned. "Over us?"

"Settle down, Q. And lower your voice," Santana hissed, pulling Quinn aside, causing a bunch of other students to scatter like pigeons. "Keep it up and we'll have JBI and his AV Club loser minions all up in our faces with cameras and microphones in about thirty seconds."

"I don't care, Santana. I don't care who sees, who hears, who knows. Nobody else matters. Just the three of us. Right? Isn't that what you said when we came to this god-forsaken school? It was you, me and Brittany against the world, and screw everyone else. And then it was you, me, Brittany and the Glee Club - and that was fine, because we love Glee and you know that."

Brittany put her hand on Quinn's shoulder, trying to calm the agitated Head Cheerio down, but the shorter blonde shrugged it off, implacable. "Hey, Q, come on – I don't want to fight with Santana," she pleaded. Again she put her hand on Quinn's shoulder, and again Quinn shrugged it off.

"You don't?" she snarled. "Well, fine - but I do. Look, Santana. I like Rachel, but it was us way before her, if you recall. In this world, loyalty matters. In some places, it's the only thing that matters. Or does the Unholy Trinity mean nothing to you now? Does Rachel even have the first clue about what we've done for you, what you've done for us? About what we've all meant to each other?"

Quinn barked a short, sharp, hollow laugh, so caught up in her hurt and anger that she failed to notice the predicted arrival of Jacob Ben-Israel and his minions, not caring that her tears were ruining her carefully applied makeup and being captured on video.

"God, Santana! You could have at least told us first. I mean, we shouldn't have had to find out that you were doing this in a text message from Coach Sylvester! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? How that makes Brittany feel? Do you even care anymore?"

"Hold up, Princess." Santana held up a hand in the universal stop sign. "Since when do I have to run all my decisions by you before I make them? Damn, do you realize you're the second person this morning to accuse me of being some sort of puppet who's being controlled by my girlfriend? And do you realize how insulting that is?" She looked down, let out a frustrated sigh. "Look, I – yeah, maybe I should have told you I was quitting the Cheerios. I just...I didn't think about it. Or maybe I did, and decided against telling you because I knew that you would try to talk me out of it."

Quinn wiped her eyes, blinking, and when she finally saw Jacob and his crew standing around them, the icy glare she directed at them was so fierce that Jacob actually dropped his voice recorder, drawing laughter from some of the other students.

"You're damned right I would have tried to talk you out of it, Santana. Because this is crazy. You're acting crazy. How are you going to get a full ride to Columbia or wherever it is you want to go now? Yes, your grades are good, but they're not so spectacular that they'll earn you that kind of scholarship. Cheerleading was your ticket out of this town, your way of getting free and clear of Lima without saddling your parents with a ton of debt. That's what you always told me you wanted most. Now you're selling them out for - "

Suddenly Rachel was there, appearing at Santana's side out of nowhere. She stared questioningly at Santana, at the two Cheerios, at Jacob and the AV club members, trying to understand what was going on, quickly realizing that whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Her?" Quinn finished, sniffling. "You're selling everybody out for her. Well, I hope you're happy, Santana. I really do. Just...understand something, okay? We're still friends, we always will be, but – don't talk to me for a while."

And with that, Quinn turned on her heel and marched away, the AV club guys falling all over themselves to clear her path.

"Britt?" Santana said, pleadingly. "You...we're okay, right?"

Rachel's eyes shifted from Santana to Brittany, wordlessly pleading with the tall blonde to forgive Santana, hating the air of tension that still filled the buzzing hallway.

Brittany nodded, first at her, and then at Santana with a small, sad smile on her lips. She reached her hand out, and Santana gratefully took it. "We're okay, Santana. You and me? We're always going to be okay." She let Santana's hand drop, turned her head in the direction in which the other Cheerio had gone. "Quinn's going to need a little time, though. I'll talk to her, but – San, she's really sad. And you know how she gets when she's a sad Q."

"I know. Listen – tell her...just tell her I'm sorry, okay? And tell the rest of the squad that I'll miss them. Will you do that for me?"

"Of course. I've got to find Q and get to homeroom. Are you going to be all right?"

Santana put her arm around Rachel's waist, lightly squeezing their bodies together. There were unshed tears glistening in her eyes, and she felt incredibly tired, but one look at Rachel's hopeful, reassuring expression made her believe - at least for the moment - that everything would be just fine.

"Yeah," she said, looking down at girl beside her, meeting Rachel's encouraging smile with one of her own. "I think I'll be okay. Go on, Britt. Go find Q. Take care of her."

"Okay. Bye, Rachel. Bye, Santana." Brittany turned to go, then stopped. She fixed her gaze on the shorter of the two girls standing in front of her. "By the way, Rachel. Quinn doesn't hate your relationship with Santana. She...she kind of wishes she had one like it, actually. But don't tell her I told you that. If you do, I'll have to deny it and then blame Lord Tubbington again, and he's still mad at me for the last time I did that." And then she was off, bounding down the hall with long strides.

"What was that all about?" Rachel asked, and then caught herself. "Oh! You went to see Ms. Sylvester."

"Got it in one," Santana replied dryly. "You really do have a sixth sense, don't you?"

Rachel laughed. "No one else believes me about that but you." Her expression turned somber as they approached her locker. "How...how did it go?"

"About as well as we imagined it would. Coach doesn't take bad news well. She's not good with change, you know. It's all about order with her. Any change – at least, any change that wasn't her idea - invites chaos, as far as she's concerned."

They stopped at Rachel's locker, which she quickly opened. Rummaging through its contents, she didn't miss the need to stash away an extra set of clothing or two as she'd used to do. It made the small space so much neater.

"It's not just that, though, is it? You've been a really important part of the team for a while now. She's come to rely on you for things, not just the stunts – which, admittedly, I won't miss – but off the field things too, like maintaining discipline among the other Cheerios. And now she doesn't know what she's going to do without you." She paused, looking at Santana's full, downturned lips, wanting to kiss away the sadness she found there. "Like...like I wouldn't, if I didn't have you anymore."

After she filled her backpack with the books and notebooks she'd need for the first half of her day, Rachel closed the locker. Santana surprised her then by pulling her close, so close that their noses were almost touching. "You'll never have to worry about that, Rachel," the now-former cheerleader whispered, pressing their lips together in a soft, sweet kiss that was over far sooner than Rachel would have liked. "This was a choice that I made for me. Crazy-ass Coach Sue will just have to get over it."

Rachel bit her lip, thinking about how hurt and angry Quinn had looked earlier. "And Quinn?"

Santana drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled it in a long, low sigh. "She will, too. At least, I think she will. If anyone can get her to understand, it's Britt. She knows Q better than anybody. Those two go way back. I mean, way back, to like, nursery school."

Rachel took Santana's hand as they began to walk towards the Glee star's homeroom, swinging their arms gently, grateful that her backpack left her hands free for such silly, yet romantic gestures. "I'm sure you're right, Santana," she said after a few moments of contemplative silence. "And you know what? I'm proud of you. I know that none of this has been easy for you, but you've followed your heart, and I don't think you can ever go wrong when you do that."

"Thanks," Santana replied simply. "Well, this is you. I'll see you at lunch. Auditorium, choir room or cafeteria?"

They'd arrived at the classroom door far sooner than either girl had wanted. Rachel peered into the bustling classroom with a sigh. The homeroom bell rang, letting the denizens of McKinley know that they had exactly two more minutes to get where they needed to go, or risk detention by being late. "Um, auditorium. I really don't think you want to take the chance of running into Quinn in the cafeteria." She looked at her watch. "You'd better get to your own homeroom before the late bell rings."

"As if. No one writes up Santana Lopez," the ex-Cheerio scoffed, despite Rachel's stern look, which was so earnest she almost had to laugh. "Don't worry, though. I'll get there in time. Promise."

"Good. Now get going. Go! Scoot." She made shooing motions with her hands, and this time, Santana did laugh, shaking her head as she backed away from the smaller girl.

Rachel watched the other girl saunter down the hallway, then let out a wistful sigh. Reluctantly, she turned and sought out her desk in the classroom, wondering what other drama fate might hold in store this day.

Happily, the rest of the day – and indeed the rest of the week - was drama-free, apart from the few confused and forlorn looks sent Santana's way by some baby Cheerios (who had apparently not gotten the message from Quinn to leave their former squad mate alone, and would suffer the head cheerleader's wrath later on as a result). Still, Rachel worried about how Santana would fill the time she'd been so used to spending on the practice field with the rest of the Cheerios, so she made sure to ask Santana out on more dates.

(The idea, of course, being that anything that kept Santana away from the confines of McKinley during after-school hours was a good thing.)

So it was that one fine Friday evening, Santana sat in the cozy Berry living room, waiting patiently for Rachel to come downstairs, having tickets for a movie she wasn't particularly interested in seeing. She knew what Rachel was doing, and because it was genuinely sweet of her to worry so much, Santana kept a lid on her slight annoyance. As she sat there, she noticed a book sitting on the little table by Rachel's father Hiram's super-comfortable reclining chair – which was off-limits to everyone else, even her other dad, Leroy – next to the elegant lamp he used to illuminate his nightly reads. It had an interesting title, this book, and it fired something in Santana's mind, made her curious as to its contents.

She reached over and grabbed the book, careful to see if there was a bookmark in place, not wanting to disturb it. To do so would certainly incur the wrath of Hiram, who was only slightly less perfectionistic about his books than his daughter was about her singing, and although he was also about as threatening as Rachel, she would still rather not have to hear a long rant about the importance of leaving things as you found them if she could possibly help it. Happily, she saw that there was no bookmark, so she was free to peruse the book as she wished.

The cover image was as intriguing as the title, and Santana flipped the volume open to a random page. To her surprise, she realized that this was a book of poetry – but the poem on the page didn't look like any poem she'd read in school. For one thing, it didn't rhyme, and as she softly read it to herself, it didn't sound like Shakespeare or any of those other old white guys. Turning back to the cover, she saw that it was written by a woman. Well, that explains that, she thought.

She went to the beginning of the book, and before she knew it, she was lost in the words, the images, the pictures painted in swirling colors in her mind. This was language as she'd never seen or experienced it before, telling stories in an entirely different way, and she was completely fascinated. So much so that she didn't even notice when Rachel finally came downstairs and stood before her expectantly.

"That's one of Daddy's favorites," Rachel said softly, not wanting to startle her girlfriend, who started at the sound of her voice anyway. "He would be thrilled to see you reading it."

"Oh?" Santana closed the book, placed it back on the table, trying to appear nonchalant, and not quite succeeding. "I mean, yeah, it's cool, I guess. I've never read anything like that before."

"She's one of his favorite poets. In fact, I think Daddy mentioned something the other day about her having a reading somewhere nearby – he was disappointed at having to miss it because of work or something."

"Poor Hiram," Santana joked. "All work and no play."

Rachel laughed as she walked over to the coat rack that stood near the Berry front door, grabbing her jacket and Santana's. "Hardly. He just has a different idea of what constitutes play than most people. I think he was born with a book in his hand. He'd rather read than do just about anything else, but Dad makes him actually go out and do things."

As she zipped up her jacket, Santana's eyes went back to the book on the table. Rachel, of course, being the highly observant person she was, didn't miss the subtle shift in her girlfriend's gaze. She brought Santana's jacket over to her, and as the other girl slipped into it, she smiled, knowing that an opportunity to make Santana happy had just presented itself – and she prided herself on never missing such opportunities whenever they arose.

"I don't think Daddy would mind if you borrowed that. In fact, I believe he might have another copy of it somewhere – a different edition or something."

Santana blinked. How did she - ? She cleared her throat, embarrassed at being caught out. Clearly, her sneakiness game had declined since she'd been with Rachel.

"You sure? I wouldn't want to interrupt your daddy's playtime or anything," she said, looking down, around, anywhere but at her bemused girlfriend.

"Yes, I'm sure, Santana," Rachel replied with a chuckle. "So go ahead, take it – but just, please, whatever you do, be careful with it. Daddy is very protective of his books, like Dad is of his records."

Rolling her eyes, but saying only, "Thanks, Rachel," Santana lifted the book and cradled it against her chest as she might a precious, sacred object. "I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"Good. Because I can't be held responsible for what he might do if anything happens to it..." Rachel teased, laughing again as she took Santana's free hand in her own.

"Oh, please. We both know I could take him."

"You probably could," Rachel agreed. "Now come on – we don't want to be late. And it's your turn to buy the popcorn, Little Miss Snack Monster."

"Hey! I resent that."

"You only resent it because it's true," Rachel said sweetly as Santana followed her out the door, then stood behind her as she locked it.

"Remind me why I love you again?" Santana pouted.

"I will, later. Your car's back seat is quite comfortable, and it is a beautiful night to drive to Lookout Point and watch the stars..."

Santana's jaw dropped and she fumbled her keys, failing to unlock the driver's side door in the process. Rachel giggled. She loved flustering Santana whenever possible. The keys jangled in Santana's hand as she finally unlocked and opened her door, then pressed the interior button that unlocked the rest of the doors.

"Get in," the former cheerleader growled. "Damn, I hope this is a short movie."

A/N - Next: Santana discovers a new talent, and Rachel makes a surprising breakthrough of her own. As always, reviews and PMs are greatly appreciated and encouraged. I love getting feedback from you!