Wow, I am so, so, SO sorry about the long wait! The end of my semester just wrapped up and there was a lot going on at once...I had to try and be responsible for a little bit! Anyways, now that it is OFFICIALLY summer, hopefully updates will be more frequent. Thank you so much to all of the reviews, favorites, and follows! I appreciate it more than you all know.

Chapter 3: Will Fyodor Dostoevsky Excuse Me When I Kill You?

Quinn started walking away before Santana could even give her an answer.

"Well?" Quinn called over her shoulder to Santana. "Are you coming or not?"

As she willed herself to not think about the potential sexual innuendos of the comment, Santana uprooted her feet from the pavement with a shake of her head and quickly strode after Quinn.

"Last time I trusted you we ended up here at the zoo," Santana reminded her, falling in step beside the blonde.

"Exactly," Quinn agreed. "So you know I won't steer you wrong." She flashed a grin at Santana.

"Fine," Santana grumbled in response. Secretly, she had no worries about Quinn or where the girl was taking her. If it turned out to be anything like the zoo, Santana couldn't complain even in the slightest.

Quinn led her across the parking lot of the zoo and to a sleek, black Mustang Charger. Santana whistled, impressed.

"Wow. If we weren't friends before, we definitely are now," Santana joked as she gave a longing glance at the car.

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted or flattered," Quinn replied with a smile.

"Flattered," Santana told her, nodding. "Definitely flattered."

"You really are the charmer," Quinn said, coaxing a faint blush to tinge Santana's cheeks. "It's not my car, though. It's my dad's."

"Of course it is," Santana pronounced as she opened the car door and slid into the passenger's seat. "Hey, speaking of your father and his supremacy over you, where's your bodyguard man? The big guy in the monkey-suit from the museum last week?"

"Oh, Rob?" Quinn responded, and she turned the car on. "He's actually not my bodyguard. He's my driver."

"You have a driver?" Santana asked.

"Yes, but he was designated as such by my father, so his first and foremost job is to make sure I don't do anything my dad wouldn't approve of," Quinn explained.

"Okay then, how did you manage to escape your driver-slash-chaperone's watchful eye?"

"Over the years Rob and I have bonded over a mutual hatred of my father," Quinn stated as she began to back out of the parking space. "He's seen the sides of my dad which are only usually especially reserved for me, so he knows what kind of person my dad really is. We have this deal where, upon my request, Rob is willing to let me go and do my own thing, as long as I don't do anything stupid or reckless, and my dad doesn't need to know a thing."

"Well, hot damn, Fabray! You're kind of a rebel," Santana observed, and Quinn smiled sheepishly. "Do you ever bend the rules of this agreement?"

"No," Quinn admitted. "Never. I don't want to know what my father would do to me if he knew I was off and about without supervision. Not to mention Rob would get fired in an instant, and he's a good guy—I wouldn't want to be the reason for that."

"A rebel with good morals," Santana remarked. "I wasn't aware that kind of person exists."

"The world doesn't have nearly enough surprise in it—I'm happy to contribute," Quinn said, smiling.

An easy silence descended upon the car as both girls got lost in their thoughts. Santana still had no clue where Quinn was taking her or when they were even going to get there, but she had long since thrown caution to the wind.

Twenty minutes later Santana finally noticed Quinn giving her sidelong glances every so often; they were fleeting and brief, but the hazel eyes bore into the side of Santana's head as she stared out the windshield.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" she asked eventually.

"You seem like you're thinking in depth about something," Quinn told her.

"So why didn't you just ask me about it?"

Quinn shrugged. "I figured you would willingly start talking if you felt the desire to discuss whatever's going through your mind."

"I'm thinking about what we talked about earlier," Santana said as she turned to look out the window. She had wanted to say something, but didn't want to dump her thoughts all on Quinn.

"Anything specific?"

"Well," Santana began, and faced back towards Quinn, "I now realize how lame I made my life sound, and how lame my life actually is."

"What do you mean?" Quinn inquired.

"Right now, I'm making my living by singing to strangers as I wait on them hand and foot," Santana clarified. "It's not exactly a glamorous lifestyle."

"Okay, but so what?" Quinn replied. Her eyes flicked to Santana's face for a second before returning to the road ahead.

"What do you mean 'so what?'" Santana returned. "I told you I'm only able to pay rent because I sing to people I don't even know almost every single day, while catering to their every dining need. You don't see anything wrong with that?"

"Not really," Quinn said easily. She looked quickly at Santana again and saw a bewildered expression. "You're nineteen, Santana," Quinn continued in explanation. "You're not supposed to have your life figured out at nineteen. It's not like you plan on being a singing waitress your entire life, right?"

"No, of course not."

"Precisely," Quinn responded in affirmation. "The future is yours for the taking. And you said so yourself a little while ago, you know New York is where you're supposed to be in order to become successful."

"I guess you're right," Santana allowed, sighing.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything?" Quinn asked.

"It doesn't matter," Santana deadpanned, shaking her head. She didn't even bother trying to figure out how Quinn knew the whole truth wasn't being told—the girl seemed to have some sixth sense that possessed the capability to detect concealed and hidden things.

"Santana, come on, you know you can tell me-"

"Quinn, please," Santana interrupted in a soft, imploring voice, "another time." She didn't want to delve any deeper into her internal struggles and worries at the moment.

Quinn paused for a second before answering. "Okay," she surrendered. "You're implying that this isn't the last time we're going to hang out, so I will respect your wishes." Santana couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?" Santana asked, changing the subject.

"No," Quinn said as she threw a wink at Santana. "We're only five minutes away, anyway, so you'll find out soon enough."

"And should I be concerned?"

"Only if you don't have very good balance," Quinn replied.

"Only if I don't have—excuse me?" Santana questioned. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, you will have to be patient and wait and see."

Santana huffed in response and crossed her arms, realizing Quinn's lips were tightly shut on the matter and would stay that way for the short remainder of the drive.

Surely enough, five minutes later Quinn turned the car off the road and into the parking lot of a large building. Blue neon lights flashed the title of the place: DUFFY'S ROLLER RINK, and Santana swiveled her head to gawk at Quinn.

"I sincerely hope you're joking," Santana told her, and Quinn smirked.

"Oh, I assure you, I am not joking." The smirk turned into a bright, cheeky grin.

"I am not going rollerblading," Santana declared as she shook her head to underline her point.

"Roller skating, actually. And feel free to stay in the car," Quinn said flippantly, pulling into a parking space and cutting the engine. "But you're going to miss all the fun."

"I highly doubt it," Santana countered, then narrowed her eyes. "Why roller skating, anyway?"

Quinn looked at her as if she couldn't believe the question. "Because, it's-"

"Just as arbitrary as anything else," Santana finished for her through a sigh while answering her own question. "I should have guessed."

"Ah," Quinn commented, "so you were listening."

"Don't be stupid, of course I was listening."

"Well, not everyone is as good a listener as you apparently are, so forgive me for having my potential doubts," Quinn said.

"You are forgiven," Santana assured her. "And, since I am such a forgiving person, I think that should excuse me from partaking in roller skating."

"You're forgiving and funny then," Quinn remarked. "Because you are not getting out of this. Let's go." She flung open the door and gracefully slid out of the car. A second later, when Santana acknowledged the fact she really wasn't getting out of roller skating, she scrambled after Quinn.

"And you call me persistent," Santana mumbled as she caught up with Quinn.

"You are persistent, Santana," Quinn reminded her. "Or, at least, you were at the museum last week."

"But you're being, like, one hundred times more persistent than I was," Santana said, sounding as though Quinn's determination caused her great distress.

"Okay, fine, I'll dial it back a notch," Quinn responded in a tone that was weighed down with good-natured teasing.

"That's all I ask," Santana replied with a satisfied grin.

They reached the door to the roller rink and Quinn pulled it open, stepping aside to let Santana go in first.

"Such a gentlemen," Santana joked as she walked past the blonde.

"Always," Quinn agreed with a firm nod.

Santana was met with the smell of popcorn and the sound of 80s dance music blaring out of the speakers around the whole place. The place was packed: there were countless people in the middle of the rink skating in circles, and even more filled the area round the skating floor, waiting in line for concessions or sitting on benches as they put on their skates.

Quinn led Santana wordlessly to the skate rental counter. The teenage boy working looked like he was bored out of his mind and his voice was monotonous when he asked the girls what size skates they needed. Even his pace was slow as he strolled to the back room to retrieve the correct sizes, taking a lot longer than probably necessary.

When Quinn and Santana finally had their skates, they walked over to a nearby bench to put on their skates. Santana was still wary about the entire thing, and muttered under her breath as she sat down next to Quinn.

"Quinn, this is ridiculous," Santana whined audibly. "I'm going to make a fool out of myself."

"No you won't," Quinn dismissed without so much as looking at Santana.

"Yes," Santana implored. "Yes, I will."

"You know," Quinn started as she finished lacing up her skates and sat up straight to face Santana, "if you think complaining will get you out of it, you're very wrong. Fyodor Dostoevsky once wrote, 'Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.'"

"And will Fyodor Dostoevsky excuse me when I kill you?" Santana quipped. "Because my pain and suffering are going to result in me running you over on these roller-skates and crushing you to death."

"You've never been roller skating?"

"Once," Santana told her. "It was sophomore year in high school; as a glee club, we were kind of homeless for a little while, and our teacher thought it was a wise idea to try and find us a home at the local roller-rink. Unsurprisingly, it didn't go well. All everyone could focus on was roller skating and having fun, not song choices and choreography."

"You were in glee club?" Quinn asked as her lips pulled up into a smile.

"Please," Santana scoffed. "You are currently looking at a member of the 2012 National Show Choir Champion glee club. You're basically in the presence of royalty, my friend."

"Ohh," Quinn said excitedly. "Should I ask for your autograph now or wait to see if you do actually kill me? Because I'm not sure I'll want it if that happens."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so funny," Santana replied with a roll of her eyes. "Whatever."

"I'm sorry, I just never would have thought you would've been in glee club."

"Stick around, Fabray. There's a lot you don't know about me," Santana said, and winked at Quinn.

"Alright, Queen of Glee Club, let's go," Quinn announced as she stood up from the bench and balanced easily on her roller skates. "We didn't come here to sit down the whole time."

"I think me staying here and sitting would be a lot safer for everyone in the vicinity," Santana told her truthfully.

"Come on, Lopez!" Quinn hit Santana on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "You were a cheerleader, for God's sake! I know you have skills and coordination somewhere in there."

"Fine," Santana muttered. "But if I fall and embarrass myself it's on your conscience."

"How about I promise to catch you if you do end up falling?"

Santana glanced up to look at Quinn; the hazel eyes were staring at her fixedly, and they held a burning, blazing intensity in them. A grin was stretched across Quinn's lips as she waited patiently for Santana to respond.

"I'm holding you to that," Santana stated after a moment.

"Then I promise to catch you if you fall," Quinn repeated with conviction. "Now let's go."

Santana scrambled to her feet and gained her balance; once comfortable, she followed Quinn out onto the hardwood floor. As she pushed one leg in front of the other, gliding along next to Quinn, Santana felt all of the apprehension drain from her and excitement and sheer joy take its place. Her natural athleticism kicked in, and soon she and Quinn were racing around the rink, weaving in and out of all the people. Fits of giggles and laughs consumed them both at some point through the night, and they were forced to concentrate more so on what they were doing and where they were going as a result.

A while later, Quinn skated up next to Santana and lightly bumped her with a hip to throw Santana off her course, sending Santana into the wall.

"What the hell, Fabray?" Santana exclaimed while she tried to regain her footing and balanced. "That's cheating!"

Quinn didn't even stop roller skating as she threw a mischievous wink and grin over her shoulder towards Santana. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there!"

"Oh, okay, I see how it's going to be," Santana said with a nod. "You're so dead." She set off after Quinn as fast as she could go and caught up to the blonde within seconds.

Santana got too close, though, when she approached Quinn, and their skates got tangled up in one another, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Quinn softened the blow for Santana, as the latter fell on top of the blonde and landed with her head on Quinn's stomach.

Santana quickly became aware of her close proximity of Quinn; her senses were suddenly overtaken by the scent of Quinn: the sweet smell of lavender and lilac clouded Santana's mind, and she swiftly sat up to look at Quinn.

"Damn, that did not go as planned," Santana remarked as she rubbed at the pain in her elbow.

Quinn started giggling as she sat up, too, but promptly stopped and winced. "Ah," she said, and reached up to hold her shoulder, "I may or may not have broken my collarbone."

Now that she had straightened up, Quinn was close enough for Santana to feel her breath brush across her face. Their lips were within inches of each other, and Santana felt the sudden impulse to lean over and crash them together. She bit her lip to distract herself from the thoughts and let out a small chuckle.

"Psh," she scoffed, "you're fine. Besides, what happened to catching me if I fall?"

Quinn knit her eyebrows together. "Oh, yeah. Whoops."

"'Whoops?" Santana repeated incredulously. "You let me hit the ground—hard, by the way—while breaking a promise to catch me in the process, and all you can say is 'Whoops'?"

"Hey," Quinn defended, "you can't blame this all on me. You're supposed to give me a heads up or something when you're about to fall!" She reached over with her pain-free arm and shoved Santana in the shoulder. "Plus, you took me down with you!"

"Okay, okay. We're both at fault here. Let's just leave it at that."

"Deal," Quinn settled. She carefully stood up again and extended a helpful hand to Santana, who took it gratefully as she tried to ignore the spark that shot up her arm at Quinn's touch.

"Thanks."

"I think that's enough roller skating for one night."

"I think that's enough roller skating for a lifetime," Santana corrected Quinn with a grimace.

"No one even noticed our little accident," Quinn insisted, gesturing around them where people of all ages continued to skate seemingly unaware of the two girls' collision and fall.

"And next time we might not be so lucky," Santana pointed out, and Quinn rolled her eyes.

"You worry too much, Lopez."

"Watch it now," Santana warned. "I'm not above sending you to the floor again."

"Whatever," Quinn snorted. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"You don't seem like the daughter of a governor."

Quinn cocked her head to the side and looked curiously at Santana. "How do you mean?"

They sat on a bench in the middle of Central Park; after leaving the roller rink they had decided, yet again, to put off going home and Quinn ended up driving aimlessly until she ended up in Manhattan. Quinn had parked the car and they made their way to the park, not feeling the need to say anything while walking.

It was unusually warm for the middle of March, and even though it was closing in on midnight there was a great deal of people still ambling through the park.

"Well," Santana started, "you're so…carefree and easygoing."

"And those aren't qualities you normally associate with the daughter of a governor?" Quinn asked, and even through the dark Santana could see her eyes twinkling brightly.

"Not really," Santana told her. "Don't get me wrong, they're very good qualities to possess. It's just, usually anyone even related to politics is insufferably uptight and boring."

Quinn let out a small laugh and nodded. "I get that. But like I said at the museum, I am not my father. I'm not my mother either."

"Would it be the worst thing if you were?" Santana inquired interestedly. She knew Quinn's mother wasn't the shining light in her youngest daughter's life, but the woman's biggest problems seemed to be the need for attention and complacency—and Santana could think of worse things in life. Quinn's father, for example.

"Yes," Quinn answered without thought. "It would be the worst thing if I was like either of them. What I told you earlier at the zoo about them? I wasn't exaggerating. Look, my parents are power-hungry and obsessed with upholding and maintaining their reputation—that's literally all they care about. I don't want to be like that. I never want to be like that."

Santana's eyes flickered across the entirety of Quinn's face: her eyes held a gentleness within them, though they were deep pools of hazel, giving off the sense they had seen a lot in their lifetime, but not nearly everything they wanted to see. The sides of her lips were curved up slightly, and it made Quinn look like she was smiling faintly at all times. Her features were soft and smooth, and Santana couldn't comprehend how they hadn't hardened and become cold over time given everything Quinn was put through.

"How did you manage that, by the way?" Santana wondered after a moment. "Not being like either of them, I mean. How did that happen?"

"I don't know," Quinn admitted. "Growing up I never really gave much thought to anything. I just assumed all kids' parents were pretty much horrible and absent from their lives because that's all I ever knew. Obviously I eventually learned that's not the case, and I started to resent my mom and dad for it. I remember when I was around thirteen years old, there was this writing workshop offered at my school; it wasn't fancy or anything—it was run by the English teachers, but I wanted to go to it so badly. I brought it up to my parents and the only thing my dad said was 'Your mother and I raised you better than to use that already screwed up brain of yours for making up stories, lies, and fantasies for a living. So you can just forget about it.' That was the end of that conversation."

"And your mom?"

"Went right along with my dad," Quinn confirmed what Santana was thinking. "Anyway, my point is, when that happened, I realized that, yeah, my parents went around acting like they deserved some sort of award, but with every fake smile and grin they threw at me in public to keep up appearances, they were slowly killing me. They were molding me into what they wanted me to be. I grew up trying to do anything and everything I could to please them and make them proud, but when my dad told me to forget about the writing workshop, I knew it didn't matter what I did; with writing, I had finally found something I so thoroughly enjoyed, and my parents didn't even give a damn. They didn't even pretend to give a damn. I could become president of the United States, and my dad would still criticize how I did so. So, that was the day I promised myself I would never turn into either my dad or my mom."

"Damn," Santana said as she let out a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Quinn. That sucks. No one deserves that."

"You don't have to apologize, Santana," Quinn responded in a soft voice. "Which, speaking of, I think I've said too many times in the lone week we have known each other."

"I don't really know what else to say," Santana replied. "Although, I am very glad you've decided to become your own person—your own person, mind you, whom I very much like."

"Oh, is that so?" Quinn asked with a glint in her eye.

"Yes," Santana said firmly.

"Well, thank you," Quinn told her sincerely.

The silence that had become so comfortable and easy in the short time since Santana and Quinn had met once again surrounded them. Quinn tapped her fingers on the wood slats of the bench as she stared around at passersby and Santana had to resist the urge of reaching over and entwining their hands.

Pull it together, Lopez, Jesus Christ.

"So, a writer, huh?" Santana asked after a few minutes slid by in the silence, mostly as a diversion from the thoughts about Quinn's fingers and lips floating through her head now. "Is that why you made that comment earlier about never being a world-renowned author?"

"Yeah," Quinn answered somewhat sheepishly. "Go on, make fun like everyone else does. Tell me how I'm destined for failure, or how I'm never going to have any money. I've learned to handle it by now."

"No!" Santana returned quickly. "No, that's not what I was thinking at all."

"You don't think it's an absurd pipedream?"

"I think if it's really what you want to do with your life, then it's just as valid as any other dream you may have," Santana stated.

"You know, that's the first time someone hasn't scoffed and ridiculed me when I told them I was interested in writing. Everyone else has thought me completely insane," Quinn said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but I'm not everyone else," Santana reminded her with a smirk.

"That you are not," Quinn murmured in agreement.

"Are we talking being a novelist here or what?" Santana continued. She could picture Quinn as a writer; the girl so obviously had a way with words, and she seemed to look at the world through a different lens than most people.

"Not necessarily," Quinn said. "I'd be perfectly happy with journalism or anything along those lines, too. Though, that does require a degree, so college might be in the picture whether I like it or not."

"You would go to school, even though you essentially despise it, just so you could become a journalist?"

Quinn shrugged in response. "It would be worth it in the long run of things. But I don't know. I guess I'll just wait and see what the future has in store for me."

"How can you be so relaxed about those kinds of things?" Santana asked in wonderment. "I mean, how can you just sit back and patiently wait for whatever's coming? Doesn't it bother you or worry you in the slightest that you have no clue what's going to happen?"

"Worrying is a wasted emotion in my opinion. If you don't know what's going to happen you're not going to be able to change it, so what's the point? I'm more about living in the moment; everyone's so busy watching and waiting to see what lies ahead, no one takes time to appreciate and enjoy where they are."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Oh, it's the farthest thing from simple, Santana," Quinn remarked with a small smile. "Nothing in life is simple. Every day we make these random, arbitrary choices and decisions—as I've already said to you—based on our preferences and what we know; we think we know what we're doing, we think we have the whole thing figured out, but at the end of the day? Everyone is just hoping and praying that what they decided on was the right thing to do or say."

"So, not worrying is…" Santana urged.

"My daily decision," Quinn confirmed. "I have no idea if it's right or wrong, but it works for me. And, honestly, that's all that matters."

"How do you do that?" Santana inquired as she stared intently at Quinn.

"Do what?"

"Have an answer for everything," Santana explained. "You do seem like you have everything figured out in life. It's…different." She paused for a second. "But, like, different in a really good kind of way," she added quickly, prompting a giggle from Quinn.

"I appreciate that vote of confidence," Quinn responded, "but I have nothing figured out. Like everyone else, I'm just doing the best I can with what I have."

"Well, your best seems pretty superior to everyone else's," Santana told her honestly.

"You're full of compliments tonight, aren't you?"

"Only because it's the truth."

"And again, I thank you," Quinn answered. "However, I assure you my life is nowhere near figured out. I'm not even sure that's completely possible, to be honest."

Santana processed her words for a moment. "Elaborate, please."

"I'm not convinced anyone ever has their life totally figured out. Sure, we might get the job we've always thought was just a fantasy, or move to the city we loved since we were kids, but people always want something more. Something else, something different. People aren't constant—they are not consistent. We go to bed wanting one thing, and wake up the next day wishing for something completely different; we say we hate the rain, but as soon as it starts we whip out an umbrella; we say to treat others the way we want to be treated, but we turn around and do damage to people's self-esteems simply because we can; we wish others all of the success in the world, but once they get it we hate them for it; and we say we're so eager to fall in love and find our soulmates, but any time commitment begins to loom on the horizon we run as fast as we can. People never really know what they want, even if they have everything they thought they wanted, because people are not constant."

"I guess I've never thought about it like that," Santana commented.

"I've spent a lot of my life thinking about the world around me in an attempt to make sense of the hell I've been placed in thanks to my parents," Quinn told her.

"Okay, Oh Wise One," Santana started with a smile, "what do you recommend we do about the problem that is fickleness?"

Quinn tilted her head back and looked up at the dark velvety sky, as though she was searching for an answer among the stars. "I don't know."

"Care to hear my thoughts on the matter?"

"I would love to hear your thoughts," Quinn replied as she turned back to look at Santana with deep, interested eyes.

Santana nodded in acknowledgement. "I think…I think that's just the way life is." She chanced a look at Quinn and grinned when she saw a quirked eyebrow. "I know, I know," she added, "it's not some deep, philosophical answer, but I stand by it. People may not be constant, but change is. So no, you can't predict what a person is going to want, and you can't predict what they're going to change their mind about; you can, however, predict the fact they will change their mind. Eventually. That much is certain. If we would loosen our grip on trying to keep things the same all the time, and just kind of go with the flow of life and recognize change is always going to be a part of it, we'd all be better suited to take on whatever comes as us."

Quinn looked at Santana with the faintest trace of a smile on her lips; she gave no response, but her eyes never wavered from Santana's face, which was slightly veiled by the shadows and darkness of the night.

"What?" Santana asked after a minute went by and Quinn still hadn't said anything. "Was that answer not up to your 'I could kick it with the big leaguers of intellectual thought because I got accepted to Yale' standards?"

Quinn grinned and shook her head vigorously. "No, actually. I was thinking the exact opposite of that. For someone who claims to not have their life put together, you sure seem to have a good idea of the world we live in."

"I'm simply doing the best I can with what I have," Santana quoted Quinn from earlier, grinning widely.

"In other words," Quinn said as she glanced back up at the sky, "we're works in progress."

Santana stared at her for a moment before replying; the watery moonlight from overhead made Quinn's skin look even paler than usual, and it cast a soft, white light over the blonde hair. Once again, Santana fought off the incredibly strong urge to lean over and close the distance between their lips.

"Umm…" she mumbled, pulling her thoughts back together, "yeah. Works in progress. Yeah. I like that."

"Is a week too short to know a person and have in depth conversations with them about life?" Quinn's eyes never left the sky, and Santana wondered if it was a rhetorical question or if Quinn was genuinely seeking an answer. "Because," Quinn went on, "that's what is going on here."

Deciding the girl did want a response, Santana considered the question. "If you ask me, a week isn't too short at all. I don't think the depth of the conversation can be based on the length of time you've known a person."

"What can it be based on, then?" The hazel eyes locked with Santana's, causing her heart rate to pick up its pace.

"The initial connection you have with the person?" Santana suggested. "Some people you meet and right away you can tell you aren't able to have serious conversations with them; others people, though, you meet and immediately you know you could spend hours talking to them about anything and everything and never get bored."

You, Santana thought to herself but directed at Quinn mentally, covertly hoping Quinn would pick up on what she was implying. I'm talking about you.

"Like us." Quinn didn't pose it as a question; instead, she made it sound like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world as she kept her gaze upwards.

Santana didn't even try to stop the grin that stretched across her face. "Yeah," she agreed while trying to keep her breathing steady and her voice even. "Like us."

Quinn rolled her head back to stare at Santana, and Santana could've sworn she saw something flicker in the depths of them. Lust. Longing, maybe. But it was gone in an instant and made Santana second guess if she had even seen something in the first place.

"You don't meet people like that often," Quinn stated softly. "People who you can exhaust every conversation topic with and never lose interest."

"No," Santana said in affirmation. "You don't. They're pretty rare, those kind of people."

"Well then," Quinn began as she suddenly stood up, "I guess I'll just have to keep you around."

Santana felt her breath catch in her throat and nodded jerkily. "That sounds like a good plan." Quinn grinned in response.

"Alright, it has now passed midnight and I was supposed to be home almost two hours ago," she announced. "So how about I take you home?"

"You're two hours late?" Santana asked as she stood up and she and Quinn began making their way back to the car.

"Yes," Quinn answered. "It's fine, though. I'll just sneak in my bedroom window."

"Why do I feel like you've done that before?"

"Because I have done it before," Quinn told Santana with a playful grin. "Lots of times, actually."

"You've got more guts than I would have guessed, Fabray," Santana said, impressed.

"Thank you," Quinn responded with a satisfied nod. "Hey, one more thing." She gave Santana a sideways glance; when she received a raised eyebrow as encouragement, she went on, "So, I am well aware we've only been friends for one week. Meaning that I am also well aware that it may be too earlier in our friendship to ask this of you, but next week my dad's hosting this brunch for his campaign. All of the other local political figures will be there, and it's supposedly a pretty big deal for him." Santana kept walking, waiting for Quinn to arrive at her point. "My question to you," the blonde continued, "is would you maybe want to come? It's lame, trust me I know, but I'm going to need someone to help me get through the torture of it all, and you'd get free food out of it, so…"

Santana grinned amusedly at Quinn; the fact Quinn had considered her worthy of Russell Fabray's brunch filled Santana with so much elation and joy she thought she was going to explode.

"So, basically, you just want me to experience the torture with you?" Santana inquired, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

"Actually, I'm just using it as an excuse to see you again," Quinn replied smoothly. She grinned at Santana and there it was again: the fleeting flash of something unidentifiable in her eyes.

Santana cleared her throat before answering; her heart was pounding in her chest and she was grinning like an idiot. "Ah, you should have started with that."

"You'll come then?"

"Yeah, I'll come," Santana told Quinn, eliciting a wide smile from the blonde. "On one condition, though."

Quinn's eyebrows raised in surprise. "What's that?"

"After this brunch, no more zoos and no more roller skating. It's my turn to decide what we do together."

Quinn's smile grew bigger. "You've got yourself a deal."