Author's Note: Set after Getting Crazy By the Bottom of the Bottle and before the ficlet If I'm A Fool For Love. It's two parts, and heavily Santana-centric, especially part II. You've been warned.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

Don't Want To Wake Up Lonely

I don't want to wake up lonely.
I don't want to just be fine.
I don't want to keep on hoping.
Forget what I had in mind.
~Mother & Father, Broods

Part I: The Nights Are Getting Shorter

This isn't exactly Rachel's first choice of desirable ways to spend her evening off. If it was strictly up to her, she and Quinn would have stayed inside their warm, cozy apartment to enjoy an intimate dinner before thoroughly enjoying one another, never mind that they'd already spent the better part of the morning doing exactly that. The honeymoon is still very far from being over—well, the metaphorical honeymoon at any rate. The real one, the one that she's been planning since their wedding last summer, is happening just as soon as her contract with Funny Girl ends in exactly five weeks.

Rachel is a little sad to be saying goodbye to her dream role. Fanny has brought her a moderate degree of fame and that gorgeous, shiny Tony sitting in the center of her awards shelf, but after more than a year and a half of six days and eight performances a week, she's ready for a change. She already has a few irons in the fires of potential new projects, but first she's going to enjoy a much needed vacation. She can't wait to take Quinn to Paris and watch those beloved hazel eyes sparkle with delight.

Rachel can never seem to resist those eyes—or anything else in Quinn's vast arsenal of appealing qualities—which is why she's currently bundled up inside her winter coat and dodging the slush and ice on the sidewalks in Chelsea instead of cuddled up with her wife on their sofa on this snowy, January evening.

She shoves her hands deeper into her pockets to battle her shivers as she walks next to Quinn. The taxi driver had dropped them off on the corner of the block instead of fighting the traffic jam that had snarled up the intersection, and while they really don't have far to walk, the frigid temperature makes their destination seem much farther away than it actually is. "We couldn't have come on a warmer night?" she grumbles.

Quinn glances in her direction with an affectionate smile, sending her blonde hair flying into a face that's quickly turning pink from the bite of the wind. "We could have, but today is the opening, and you promised to come with me after I agreed to that Fred and Ginger film festival last week."

"You enjoyed that," Rachel accuses playfully. Quinn not-so-secretly loves those classic films from the golden age of Hollywood as much as Rachel loves musicals, so it had been a pleasant experience for both of them.

"I enjoyed what came after it more," Quinn reminds her with a sexy smirk, referring to the way they'd spent the rest of the evening engaged in their own version of dancing cheek-to-cheek. "And I know you'll enjoy tonight."

A (very) tiny bit of heat manages to register through the chill in certain parts of Rachel's body, and she quickens her pace to their destination. The sooner they get there, the sooner they can get home, and Rachel can discover what enjoyable activities Quinn has planned for later.

It's only another minute of walking before they're standing in front of the Agora Gallery. The local artist whose painting Quinn's publisher had used for the dustjacket of her latest novel is having a showing here tonight, and Aileen had sent Quinn the information about the opening event in case she wanted to show her support. After all, her novel is still bouncing around on the top of the bestsellers list after three months with Malcolm Holt's artwork on the front. They might as well see what his other paintings entail.

When they step inside the building, they're greeted by a blast of warm air, and Rachel exhales in relief, pulling her hands out of her pockets and briskly rubbing them together to generate a little extra heat. Quinn grins knowingly, shaking her head. "I told you to wear gloves," she admonishes as she tugs off her own.

"I thought we'd be getting dropped off at the door," Rachel points out.

She glances around the gallery, taking in the clean, white walls decorated with strategically spaced paintings that splash contrasting colors through the otherwise monochromatic space. There are a good number of people already inside, gathered in small clumps in front of the paintings—several with drinks in their hands as they discuss the artwork. To the left of the door is a shelf lined with booklets advertising the gallery and proclaiming the name of this particular exhibition to be Stripped. Rachel raises an eyebrow at that while Quinn reaches out to take one of the booklets, thumbing through it with interest.

"Hello and welcome to Agora," greets a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with black, horn-rimmed glasses who's made her way over to them. "My name is Georgia. I'm the curator here," she introduces with a polite smile. "Please feel free to enjoy the exhibition at your leisure. There are drinks and hors d'oeuvres on our second floor, and all of our featured artists are here tonight and available to answer questions about their work. If you have any questions about the gallery or wish to purchase any of the pieces, I encourage you to come and find me."

Quinn offers the woman a cordial, "Thank you," and Georgia nods before she turns her attention to the nearest group of people analyzing what looks like a blob of green and blue spirals that must somehow fit the theme of the evening.

Rachel unbuttons her coat as she follows Quinn farther inside the gallery. Everyone else is either still wearing theirs or carrying them looped over their arms, and she's still frosty enough from the weather outside to be comfortable keeping hers on for now. She's sure that she'll be shrugging it off eventually, especially if those drinks upstairs are of the alcoholic variety.

Quinn seems content to slowly move around the lower level, pausing in front of each painting to fully take it in before referring to the program in her hand.

Rachel is content to watch Quinn.

It's not that she doesn't like art—she does—but she won't deny that she has a preference for paintings that actually look like something. Most of the ones that she's seen so far are entirely abstract. "These aren't Malcolm's," she notes, reading the artist's name on the little plaque on the wall beside one of the paintings. "Aurelius Palmer is certainly fond of spirals."

Quinn tips her head thoughtfully as she studies the painting currently in front of them. "They obviously represent the path from the material world to spiritual enlightenment. You can almost feel yourself being led to a higher consciousness."

Rachel eyes her wife skeptically. "It's a big, orange corkscrew."

"It's a soul stripped down to its fundamental journey," Quinn insists, but the corner of her mouth is noticeably twitching.

Rachel's gaze narrows. "You're just making this up, aren't you?"

Quinn flashes a delighted smile. "Absolutely. It's a big, orange corkscrew."

Rachel laughs, shaking her head as she curls her hand into Quinn's elbow. "Come on. Let's go find Malcolm's work and maybe those drinks." Quinn quickly nods her agreement, and they set off in search of what Rachel hopes will be more appealing paintings.

There's a narrow staircase in the back corner of the gallery, hidden behind the maze of white exhibition walls, and in order to climb it, they have to step around a couple of young, urban hipsters who are milling around while they discuss snowshoeing in the Adirondacks. The area on the second floor is more open than the downstairs, peppered with a few small sculptures in the middle of the room. The small table with drinks and hors d'oeuvres is set up in front of the railing between two low divider walls.

Right at the top of the staircase is a colorful painting of clashing hues streaked into a crisscross design that almost makes it look like a wild plaid except for a darker patch in the center that appears to be a silhouette hidden beneath the pattern. It's almost like one of those wildly patterned pictures with the hidden three-dimensional images that Rachel never can seem to discern, no matter how hard or how long she stares at them. The artist on the plaque beside the painting reads Malcolm Holt.

"Resplendence," Quinn murmurs, softly reciting the title of the painting.

"Well, it's certainly…colorful," Rachel comments tactfully.

"It is," Quinn agrees neutrally. "It kind of reminds me of your high school wardrobe."

Rachel reaches over to poke Quinn's side. "Very funny."

Quinn squirms away from her touch with a barely restrained giggle, and then she catches her lower lip between her teeth before she offers a mischievous grin, winking at Rachel. "You know how much I loved those skirts."

"You loved me in those skirts," Rachel reminds her wife impishly, thinking of the small stash of high school era skirts that had been rescued from her childhood bedroom and safely tucked away into the bottom drawer of her dresser as a testament to just how much Quinn still does love her in those skirts.

"Actually, I prefer you out of them," Quinn husks, leaning close enough for the low timbre of her voice to tease against Rachel's ear.

Rachel's eyelids flutter shut as little shivers of pleasure race down her spine. "Mmm…careful, baby, your kink is showing," she warns, gazing at Quinn through her lashes. Museums and art galleries always do seem to inspire Quinn in the most interesting ways—not that Rachel is complaining.

"Speaking of kink," Quinn chuckles, tipping her chin in the direction of the next painting.

Curious, Rachel turns to look, eyes widening at the sight of a nude woman painted in an almost abstract style and surrounded by a background of deep magentas, fiery reds, and mint green. "Oh. My," she breathes. "Is that the same artist?"

Quinn glances at the plaque and nods. "Apparently he has a thing for clashing colors and erotica."

"Erotica with questionable anatomic proportions," Rachel points out, eyeing the woman's rather large breasts and practically non-existent waist with suspicion. She surreptitiously glances around the room, wondering which one of the gentlemen up here is actually the artist. "I can't believe this is the same person who did your book cover."

The art for Quinn's last novel, Ribbons of Fate, is a minimalistic portrait of a small girl in a white dress, sitting on the ground, knees drawn up and head buried in her arms. A tattered green ribbon is wrapped around one leg and snakes across the cover on a winding path down to a pair of scissors left open and abandoned at the end of the cut ribbon. The muted colors and realist technique are completely opposite of the paintings that Rachel is currently looking at.

"His style is certainly diverse," Quinn concedes, glancing along the wall at the next two paintings which also feature very colorful, very naked people in odd positions.

"We are not buying any of these," Rachel decides, putting her foot down.

"Probably not," Quinn hedges, still staring at the paintings with unexpected interest.

Rachel crosses her arms, glaring at Quinn. "Definitely not."

Quinn smirks. "There's always Resplendence," she reminds her, gesturing back at the first painting.

And now that Rachel looks at it again, the darker silhouette beneath the plaid does look decidedly lady-shaped. "No," she refuses. There will be no nudes on display inside their apartment. Well—no nudes that aren't them, and only in the flesh.

Quinn laughs, reaching out to pry Rachel's fisted hand out of its tucked position inside of her crossed arms and effectively loosening her defensive stance. "Come on," she urges, linking their hands together. "Let's check out the rest of the exhibition while we're here, and then we can head to the restaurant."

"Didn't you want to meet Malcolm?" Rachel reluctantly prompts. She might not be a fan of the paintings on display here, but she can't deny that she did like the one that Aileen had chosen for Quinn's book.

"He's probably busy explaining his work," Quinn muses, directing Rachel's gaze to a man with disheveled brown hair and a soul patch under his lower lip who's currently standing in front of the last painting in the row and gesturing empathically to the couple he's speaking with. "I don't think we really need to interrupt if we're not going to buy anything."

"That's him?" Rachel asks with a thoughtful frown. She didn't think soul patches were still a thing.

Quinn nods. "I think so. Aileen did say he looked a little like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo."

Rachel barks out a loud laugh, quickly pressing a hand to her mouth when more than a few people turn to look at her with censuring frowns. Quinn giggles much more quietly and leads Rachel away from the nudes, snagging them both a drink from the nearby table before they stop in front of another group of paintings somewhat more to Rachel's tastes. They're painted in much darker tones than Malcolm's work, and they each depict scenes of city life—or well, city life stripped of its actual life. Each painting features lonely buildings and deserted streets and—oh, an empty theatre. "I definitely like this artist better," she decides immediately.

"Why am I not surprised?" Quinn teases, glancing at Rachel with an indulgent smile.

Rachel shrugs. "I can't help that I prefer realism, Quinn." She considers the painting in front of her again. "Though perhaps not quite so…gloomy."

"I'd say they're more moody than gloomy," Quinn argues, examining the painting of the theatre. "This one reminds me of the night you proposed."

Rachel looks at Quinn, surprised. "Really?"

Quinn glances back to her with soft expression. "An empty theatre will never not remind of that," she admits tenderly.

Rachel feels a wave of affection wash over her as she remembers the night in question—the dark theatre and the stage and, most importantly, Quinn's loving yes right before Rachel had slipped the diamond engagement ring onto her finger. She gazes at the little plaque next to the painting, tickled when she sees that it's titled Fermata. "T.S. Rinaldi," she reads out loud before returning her attention to the painting. It more closely resembles the stage at the Majestic than the Winter Garden, but she can certainly see why it would remind Quinn of the night of their engagement. She can almost see herself standing there inside the painting. "He does have a very expressive style, doesn't he?"

"She, actually," comes an unexpected (and oddly familiar) voice from behind them, "but thank you for the compliment, Rachel Berry."

Rachel immediately spins around to see an attractive brunette with pale, blue eyes staring back at her with an amused grin. It only takes a few seconds for recognition to smack her in the face. "Oh, my God! Teresa?" she gasps in surprise, tugging at Quinn's hand in excitement. "Quinn! It's Teresa the bartender!"

"I can see that, Rachel," Quinn responds wryly, her own eyes busy assessing the woman in front of them.

It's been a good three years at least since they'd last seen her, and she'd been pouring drinks in the East Village at the time. Her hair is shorter than Rachel remembers, but the style looks good on her. Her black slacks are topped with a form-fitting vest over a stark, white button down that's been left untucked (and mostly unbuttoned) and pokes out from under the edges of the vest. The look is very hipster professional. Rachel can't deny that the years seem to have treated Teresa very well, but she probably won't bother to mention her opinion to Quinn unless Quinn happens to bring it up first.

"You're the artist?" Rachel realizes with a growing smile.

"I am," Teresa confirms with a nod, still grinning. "Teresa Rinaldi," she informs them, offering her hand in polite greeting. "It's nice to officially meet you." Rachel takes her hand reflexively, giving it a firm but brief shake.

"So I guess you're mixing paint instead of drinks now," Quinn comments.

"I still mix drinks too," Teresa reveals unapologetically, letting go of Rachel's hand and dropping hers to her side when Quinn makes no move to extend her own. "Bartending pays all those pesky bills that my art doesn't quite cover yet." She smiles affably, gesturing to the painting of the theatre. "And on that note, this is the part where I attempt to convince you to buy this painting that you've been admiring."

Quinn chuckles. "Very smooth sales pitch."

Teresa shrugs. "I suppose I could have tried to butter you up first by telling you that I think your latest book is amazing. I read it in one sitting when I should have been painting," she admits unabashedly. "You're a very talented writer."

A faint blush stains Quinn's cheeks at the unsolicited compliment. "Thank you," she says graciously. "If you made that connection then I guess you also read the dustjacket."

Teresa's eyebrows furrow in mild confusion. "Was I not supposed to?"

Rachel stifles a laugh. "Quinn likes to think that no one will recognize her since she insists on using a pseudonym when she writes," she explains.

Teresa's expression clears, and she nods in understanding. "Well, it did help that I remembered meeting you before I ever saw your photo on the book jacket. Both of you," she reminds them with a friendly smile. "By the way, congratulations on your Tony win, Rachel," she adds. "I saw you as Fanny last May, and you were spectacular."

Rachel positively beams at her, always pleased to hear how fabulous she is. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

"Other than her Sangria, you mean?" Quinn jokes with an arched brow.

"It's still the best in Manhattan," Teresa boasts. "You should stop by Weather Up in Tribeca sometime. I'll make you one on the house for old-time sake," she offers generously—even though Quinn never once allowed the woman to give them anything on the house during the small handful of times they'd returned to Ten Degrees with Santana.

"So that's where you disappeared to," Quinn notes with casual interest.

"Well, there and here, of course," Teresa qualifies, gesturing around them to indicate the gallery. "I tried to let some of my regulars know where I was going to be when I left, but I obviously missed a few of them," she confesses with a wistful smile.

Well, Rachel would call it wistful. In fact, she's absolutely going to call it wistful because there's really only one regular that Teresa would bother to refer to in this particular situation. She and Quinn were hardly regulars.

"You know, our friend Santana still mentions you from time to time," Rachel mentions innocently.

Quinn's eyes immediately flash with wary recognition. "Rachel," she warns lowly.

Okay—so maybe the mention isn't exactly innocent. "You remember, Santana, don't you?" Rachel pushes, ignoring her wife's eyes silently screaming at her not to go where Quinn knows she's going to go.

"I remember her terrible pickup lines," Teresa quips drolly.

"She's a doctor now, you know," Rachel informs her proudly.

"Rachel, don't," Quinn pleads softly.

"I vaguely remember her mentioning med school once or twice," Teresa recalls with a smile that Rachel is now absolutely going to call fond. Well—fondish. "I'm glad to hear that worked out for her."

"Oh, it really did. She's an excellent doctor." Her bedside manner might be slightly suspect, but the doctoring itself is definitely excellent. "I'm certain that she'd love to see you again. Would you mind very much if we told her where you're working now?" Rachel presses, already busy plotting ways to get Santana to—where did Teresa say she was working again? Weather something. The woman apparently has a fondness for working at weather themed bars.

"Please don't answer that," Quinn instructs quickly.

Rachel frowns at her wife. "Quinn!"

"Teresa, it's been so nice to see you again, but we should probably let you get back to your opening now," Quinn says determinedly, slipping her fingers in between Rachel's and getting a firm grip on her hand as she takes a step away from Teresa.

"But Quinn," Rachel protests, attempting to stop her.

"You really are very talented," Quinn directs at Teresa, interrupting Rachel's objection.

"Thanks," Teresa mumbles, her expression more than a little befuddled.

Rachel scowls, refusing to be deterred from her mission. "We'd like to buy this painting," she practically shouts in desperation, digging in her heels.

Quinn sighs, cutting her sharp eyes to Rachel before she flashes a saccharine smile at Teresa. "Would you mind excusing us for a moment?" she asks with forced pleasantry.

Teresa regards them both with barely concealed wariness. "Um…no, not at all."

"Thank you," Quinn mutters before she pulls Rachel several feet away into an unoccupied corner, dropping her hand as she turns to face her. "What are you doing?" she hisses.

Rachel clicks her tongue. "Really, Quinn? I am attempting to purchase a piece of art."

"You're attempting to set Santana up on another blind date," Quinn accuses, arching that damned eyebrow of hers.

"Don't be ridiculous," Rachel scoffs, crossing her arms. "It's hardly a blind date when Santana already knows Teresa."

"You promised her you would stop," Quinn reminds her, crossing her own arms to mirror her wife.

Rachel deflates a little at that, because she had said something to that effect—after Santana had threatened to give Rachel that nose job that she'd briefly considered back in high school with her fist if she didn't stop playing matchmaker. Really, you set up one or two (or four) unsuccessful chance meetings and suddenly everyone's a critic.

"Yes, but…this is different," she reasons. "It's Teresa. I already know that Santana is attracted to her." The woman had spent well over a year trying to sweet talk Teresa into a sexual assignation—well, the often crude innuendos that pass for sweet talk with Santana. "She'd agree to a date in a heartbeat."

Quinn sighs, her face softening. "You don't know that," she challenges gently. "Your meddling with Kurt might have worked out for the best, but I doubt Santana will be as accommodating."

A pleased smile pulls at Rachel's lips at the mention of Kurt, who just happens to be in his second month of an increasingly serious relationship with one of his old flames, Harry Jordan. Rachel had immediately recognized the man when she and Quinn had gone looking for an accountant to help them merge the last of their separate assets, so of course she'd encouraged Kurt to give him a call. Kurt was single and far less eager to mingle, and Harry was single and far removed from his days on the Fordham swim team, so it only made sense for them to see if the spark was still there. Rachel is happy to take credit for giving them a little (or maybe actually very persistent) push in the right direction. Why shouldn't she do the same for Santana and Teresa? Meeting the woman here tonight is positively serendipitous.

"And anyway, assuming that Teresa is even available," Quinn continues, oblivious to Rachel's train of thought, "what makes you think that she would agree? I clearly remember her shooting down every one of Santana's half-assed attempts to get into her pants."

"Exactly," Rachel exclaims with a smirk. "She already has a built in tolerance for Santana's…distinctive personality," she explains tactfully. "That's half the battle."

"That makes absolutely no sense," Quinn mutters with a perplexed frown.

"It can't hurt to ask her, Quinn," Rachel wheedles, determined to win Quinn's support. Santana finally seems to be over her desire for meaningless hookups, and she's mentioned more than once that she wants to be in a relationship again, but she's still unattached despite throwing herself back into the dating pool. She's also still showing up at their apartment to mooch food at least once a week, so finding her a girlfriend is really a win-win proposition for all of them at this point.

Quinn purses her lips. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Rachel reaches out to play with the buttons on Quinn's open, faux-leather coat, gazing up at her wife with pleading eyes. "MmmMm," she hums in denial, biting into her lip to adorn her best pitiful pout.

Quinn glances up at the ceiling, shaking her head. "I still think it's a terrible idea," she feels the need to voice, but her tone and expression are resigned.

Rachel releases a muted squeal of delight, bouncing on her toes as she grins at her wife. "Duly noted."

Quinn's eyebrow inches up again. "And we're buying that painting."

Rachel's grin fades just a little. "Oh…okay," she agrees slowly, not having quite anticipated that they'd actually have to make that particular purchase. "Wait," she hesitates, frowning in sudden concern, "you do mean Teresa's painting, right? Not the pornographic one?"

"You're scheming to set the woman up with Santana," Quinn points out sardonically. "The least we can do is buy her painting."

Rachel really has no argument for that, and Fermata is a nice enough painting. Nodding her agreement, they make their way back over to Teresa, whom Rachel is pleasantly surprised to find still waiting for them. She's either more interested than she'll admit in discovering more information about Santana or she really wants to sell her painting. Rachel is choosing to believe it's the former.

"Back again?" Teresa asks in mild amusement.

"We are interested in the painting," Rachel begins to be certain that she has Teresa's undivided attention, "but we also have a question."

"Actually, Rachel has the question," Quinn clarifies, absolving herself of culpability should this venture go poorly, and Rachel sends her a reproachful look. She could have sworn their marriage vows included a pledge of unconditional support in every endeavor—if it wasn't stated explicitly, then it certainly should have been.

"I'll be happy to answer any questions you have," Teresa offers agreeably.

Rachel decides to take the direct route before Quinn waylays her again. "Would you be interested in dating our friend Santana?"

Teresa's smile freezes in place. "That's…not a question about the painting," she mutters, clearly taken aback.

"Just tell her no, and we can all forget this ever happened," Quinn advises helpfully.

"Quinn, don't discourage her!" Rachel exclaims, lightly stomping her foot.

"Wait," Teresa interrupts, holding up a hand as her eyes dart back and forth between them in confusion. "Are you or are you not actually interested in buying the painting?"

"We are," Quinn assures her. "Rachel is buying it for me."

"I am?" Rachel questions in surprise. Quinn arches an eyebrow in challenge, and her lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk. "Oh, I am, yes," she confirms with a wide (only slightly inauthentic) smile. "It's a wonderful painting." And it is, even if it is a little on the moody side. "We have the perfect spot for it on our living room wall."

"Okay," Teresa says slowly, still eyeing them both suspiciously.

"My wife is trying to set you up on a blind date with Santana," Quinn explains to expedite the process.

"But technically not a blind date," Rachel hurries to clarify, "because you already know each other."

"Which is why we'll understand completely when you say no," Quinn adds with a smirk.

"But we're hoping that you'll at least consider it," Rachel continues, determined to get in the last word to counter her wife's cynicism. "Santana really does have a number of good qualities that tend to get lost beneath her…larger-than-life persona."

"And the notches on her bedpost, I'm sure," Teresa drawls skeptically, crossing her arms.

Rachel frowns, feeling suddenly protective of Santana, even if Teresa is technically correct about the number of conquests under Santana's belt—quite literally. "I can assure you that she has sown all of her wild oats. She's ready to settle down and be in a serious, committed relationship."

Teresa's disbelieving gaze shifts to Quinn. "Is she for real?"

"Rachel or Santana?" Quinn asks with amusement evident in her tone.

"Both."

"The answer is yes. To both," Quinn responds assuredly.

"Did I mention that Santana is a doctor?" Rachel intentionally queries, hoping to provide some more incentive for Teresa to give their friend a chance.

Teresa laughs, and the sound is unexpectedly light. "Yeah, you did."

"So, are you at all interested in seeing her again?" Quinn asks seriously, and Rachel is grateful for her assistance—woefully late though it is.

Teresa remains silent for several excruciating moments as she quietly considers them both, finally shaking her head and reaching into the side pocket of her vest to pull out a business card that's decorated with a tiny, colorful image that looks similar to the paintings on the wall. "Give her my card and tell her she can call me if she wants."

Rachel manages to contain her shout of victory—barely—but she can't quite resist a small bit of boasting. "I knew there was a spark there," she crows, reaching out to snag the business card before Teresa can change her mind. "Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me yet," Teresa warns her with a meaningful smile. "I'm only agreeing to talk to her, not date her. And only because I'm mildly curious what she's been up to since the last time she hit on me."

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised," Rachel informs her, safely tucking card with Teresa's number into her coat pocket. She can't wait to give it to Santana.

"We'll see," Teresa murmurs neutrally. "Now…about the painting…"

When they finally leave the gallery, Rachel is about two thousand dollars poorer, but she's happy for the chance to prove to everyone, once and for all, that she is actually good at this matchmaking thing. Quinn is happy with the painting scheduled to be delivered to their apartment by this weekend, and Rachel is certain that Santana will be happy with the business card featuring Teresa the bartender's phone number and an invitation to call her.

"You're pretty proud of yourself right now, aren't you?" Quinn muses as they step back out into the frigid night air.

Rachel burrows more deeply into her coat, stuffing her hands in her pocket as her eyes roam over the street in a fruitless search for a taxi. "I think the painting will look lovely on our wall. That empty spot behind the sofa really has been in dire need of something to dress it up."

Quinn chuckles and wraps an arm around Rachel, pulling her closer, and Rachel is grateful for even the tiniest bit of extra protection against the wind. "I meant getting Teresa's phone number. Again," she adds with feigned annoyance.

Rachel flashes a smug smile at her wife. She won't deny that she's pretty pleased with the accomplishment. "I guess I'm simply irresistible."

Quinn shakes her head. "I'll remember you said that when Santana is once again threatening to punch you in the nose for interfering in her personal life."

"I don't think she will this time," Rachel argues. "Not when she knows that I'm setting her up with her bartender."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You do realize that, regardless of whatever attraction might have existed between those two before, this whole thing still has the potential to go very, very badly. You don't even know that they'll have anything in common."

An incredulous laughs slips past Rachel's lips. "Has Santana actually had anything in common with anyone that she's dated? Other than sex," she amends quickly, thinking about a few of those women that had been in and out of Santana's life—or rather, bed—who had been frighteningly similar to her in certain regards. Jessica Foster springs to mind.

"Brittany," Quinn offers by way of an answer. Rachel refrains from commenting on how little those two actually seemed to have in common outside of their shared love for cheerleading and taunting their less popular classmates, but she can't deny that the relationship had worked for them for an impressively long period of time.

"First loves don't count, especially ones of the high school variety," Rachel dismisses, evading the compatibility issue entirely. "Hardly anyone knows what they really want at that age. Finn and I were a prime example of that."

Quinn frowns, slowing her steps. "You were my first love," she reminds Rachel softly. "What does that say about me?"

Delight tickles Rachel's belly at the predictable admission, and she stops walking, maneuvering around to face Quinn before snuggling into her familiar embrace and gazing up at her beautiful wife. "Obviously, you're the exception. You were much more mature than the rest of us and knew exactly what you wanted from a very young age. You also have extremely good taste," she adds with a cheeky grin.

Quinn laughs, sending hazy puffs of breath swirling like smoke around her head. Her arms tighten around Rachel's waist and pull her closer, warming Rachel's chilled body. "I do," she agrees easily. "And thank God you finally developed some too."

Rachel feels obliged to make a soft noise of protest, but she knows that Quinn's joking comment isn't very far removed from the truth. There are so many things that Rachel absolutely adores now that she hadn't yet discovered or fully appreciated when she was younger, and her gorgeous, sexy wife is certainly the most important one of them all.

With any luck, Santana will eventually have her own (not nearly as gorgeous or sexy) wife to appreciate. One who will hopefully feed her and entertain her and keep her from showing up at their apartment unannounced at the most inconvenient times—oh, and love and cherish her too, of course. And if Rachel gets to claim permanent bragging rights for introducing Santana to the future Mrs. Doctor Lopez, then even better.

But right now, she's more than happy to claim bragging rights for being intelligent enough to marry Quinn Fabray.

"Speaking of taste, I believe you owe me a dinner, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel prompts. "Preferably some place warm."

"Warm and vegan," Quinn promises with a smile. "And only three blocks away."

Rachel frowns slightly. "Does that mean you're going to make me walk?"

"It will probably be faster than flagging down a taxi," Quinn concedes apologetically. "But I promise to personally warm up every inch of your body when we get home," she purrs huskily.

The sultry tone of Quinn's voice and the images that her words create do a surprisingly effective job of heating up Rachel's blood just enough to make a three-block walk seem like it's not the worst idea in the world—especially when the New York taxi cabs are uncharacteristically elusive on this street. "Let's go before we freeze to the sidewalk," she commands, slipping out of Quinn's arms and practically dragging her into motion. "I need all of your extremities to be fully functional for later."

"Oh, they will be," Quinn assures her, holding up her hand to wiggle her leather-encased fingers. "I remembered to wear gloves."

"If I wasn't so incredibly fond of your hands, I'd be very annoyed with you right now," Rachel pouts.

Quinn chuckles, reaching across her body to cup Rachel's bare hand between both of hers. "My hands are pretty fond of you too, sweetheart…as are certain other parts of me. Like every other part of me," Quinn clarifies sweetly.

Rachel sighs through a happy smile, feeling a little bit warmer despite the cold weather threatening to turn them both into human icicles. No, this hadn't been her first choice of how to spend the evening, but Quinn will always be her only choice of who to spend it with, and regardless of how well her attempt at matchmaking for Santana turns out, Rachel knows that she's found her own perfect match in Quinn. When she gets it right, she really gets it right.