Vodka, tequila, gin.

They're not the only supplies she and Kurt have collected, but they are, according to everyone, the most important. They also have bread, candles, and batteries.

"Kurt, do we have orange juice?" Rachel calls down the aisle. "And please don't start with me, again. I'm sorry if it offends your sensibilities, but people like what they like."

For whatever reason, this is what they fight about.

She isn't sure what she thought they would fight about, but it's become clear over the last couple of months that they are going to fight about two things: what Rachel mixes with her alcohol, and who should have won lead actress in a musical at the 1984 Tonys.

"Here," Kurt sighs, dropping a bottle of juice into the basket hanging from her arm. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

New Yorkers are weird, she thinks as she wanders along the dairy case, looking for some vegan cheese. It's just some rain, but everyone is preparing like it's the end of the world. And in New York City's case, that means getting drunk and violating fire codes.

"You two are the weirdest people I see each day," Johnny behind the register says when they're done debating how much toilet paper they can be bothered carrying the two blocks back to their apartment.

"We can't be the weirdest every day," Rachel laughs. It's the same thing she says every day when Johnny says that.

"You, you're starting to fit in," he nods at Rachel. "Homie in those pants? Who let him off the island?"

"I heard that," Kurt says. "These pants are McQueen. Show some respect."

He comes over with a stack of Poptarts boxes. "Don't say anything," he sniffs, dropping them on the counter. "Also, I might need a box of condoms."

…

It starts to rain as they're walking home, and they both scream as they run towards the entrance to their building, water splashing against her bare legs.

She finds it constantly surprising that she even has a place to call "hers" - or "theirs", but she's talking about herself here. The simple act of telling someone that she lives in New York City still gives her a thrill, but it's the keys on her keychain, collecting the mail, even carrying home groceries in the rain that makes her believe that, yes, she does in fact live in New York City.

Living in the dorms was like summer camp, but this finally feels like real life.

…

"He did not!" she cries, not caring that she's getting loud because the wind is howling outside and she can hardly hear herself think.

Kurt buffs his nails against his shirt, rocking back in his seat. "He did."

"Oh my god, this is so exciting! What are you going to wear?"

Maybe she's going a little bit overboard, but it's not like she's going on dates that she can get excited about. Finn appearing out of nowhere and then disappearing again seems to have scared Brody off, and honestly, she doesn't blame him. If she's tired of the drama in her life, she can't imagine anyone else wanting to deal with it.

"I have a few ideas," Kurt says, jumping up. "Follow me to my lair."

She grabs her glass, and then for good measure brings the gin bottle, too. Kurt's not going to listen to anything she has to say about his fashion choices anyway.

…

"Oh, damn, there we go," Kurt sighs, hitting refresh on his browser. "Internet's out."

"God help us all," Rachel giggles from her place hanging upside down over the edge of Kurt's bed. "I still have 3G on my phone."

She uploads a photo of the empty gin bottle and a candle to Instagram, 'Bushwick storm party!' and '#supplies' underneath, cross-posting it to Twitter but not Facebook because parents don't need to see this.

They've killed at least three hours working out Kurt's outfit for his date-slash-whatever, and the rain started to get noisy some time around the kilt that was very quickly dismissed.

Kurt's looking through his scarves when their intercom lets out a burst of static and what sounds like somebody saying, "Would you like fries with that?"

Kurt frowns from his place on the rug. "Who on Earth would be out there in this weather?"

"Don't answer it, it's probably a homeless person."

"Rachel!" Kurt's disapproving face is going to give him premature lines, but she's in a happy, alcohol fueled daze, and she's not in the mood for Kurt's freakout about how he's going to need plastic surgery by the time he's twenty-five, so she doesn't mention it.

"Who else would be out there?" she asks instead, since she knows about ten people in all of New York well enough to know their first and last names, and only four of them might know where she lives. One of them lives with her, two of them would have to find it on her school records, and the other is a nice guy who she hasn't seen in a few weeks.

"Rachel, there are no homeless people in Bushwick. It's probably a drunk hipster." Kurt hauls himself to his feet, and she has no choice but to roll off the edge of the bed to follow, landing on her feet as gracefully as possible.

"You should definitely not answer it then," she calls after him.

"I'm not." He's about to switch the intercom off, when the static clears up for a moment, "...if you don't open this door, Berry, I'm going to come up there and undeviate your septum..." coming through clearly.

"Oh my god, Santana?" Rachel shouts at the speaker, before realizing the person on the other end can't hear her. She pulls Kurt out of the way, slapping at one of the buttons. "Santana?"

"No, Rachel, it's the Queen of England," comes the exasperated reply, nearly drowned out by the sound of rain. "Yes, it's me, and yes it's raining out here. Let me in!"

Rachel holds down the other button for the front door, the intercom giving up cooperating any longer and letting out a screech of feedback, while Kurt pulls the apartment door open. It's not raining on the landing, but they both lean around the doorframe like it might be, watching the top of the stairs.

This is so different from Kurt's arrival, which was equally unexpected but came at exactly the moment she needed him. Now, she feels like she's finally ready to begin this new part of her life, the Funny Lady to her high school Funny Girl, and she wants to fill the cast with the only the best supporting actors and guest stars. This metaphor might be getting away from her, but the point is friendly faces - okay, familiar faces - are rare these days.

"Oh dear god," Kurt bursts out laughing as Santana reaches the landing, "I'm sorry. But you look like a drowned rat."

Santana, actually looking like a drowned human and incredibly pissed off about it, drops her suitcase with a very loud thud and shoves her duffle bag into Kurt's arms, just in time for-

"Oh my god, what are you doing here!" Rachel cries, stumbling around Kurt to throw her arms around Santana's soggy shoulders.

"Just thought I'd drop by," Santana says, actually letting Rachel hug her for a moment before extricating herself from Rachel's arms. "If you two alcoholics had a working intercom, you might have heard me buzzing half an hour ago."

Kurt pushes off the wall he's sagged against under the weight of Santana's bag, dropping it inside the door. He looks at Rachel, and she pointedly jerks her head in the direction of the apartment.

"Can we offer you a drink?"

"Took you long enough," she says, heading into the apartment. "I bought cupcakes - housewarming gift and all that - but they might be a little soggy."

Maybe Rachel's just drunk enough to be pleased by the surprise, instead of annoyed that Santana didn't give them any notice she was coming. Either way, she bounces inside after her, leaving Kurt to bring the bags.

…

The next morning the power's back on, Santana's passed out on their couch, and Rachel's wondering what on earth she's doing here.

There's an awkward moment when Santana's blindly stumbling out of their bathroom, hair a mess and wearing a three sizes too big shirt, and Rachel just stares at her. She doesn't mean to be rude, it's just so weird that Santana is in her home.

…

Kurt's sitting beside her as they both gape at Santana wolfing down a burger. The storm doesn't appear to have done much damage beyond washing the falling leaves everywhere. It's a little chilly, but the sky is clear.

It's 10am and they've taken Santana to the diner they consider "theirs" because Rachel wants to show Santana the real New York City, starting with the fact that you can get awesome food at 10am on a Tuesday within a block of your apartment. Also because all three of them are incredibly hungover, and Rachel desperately needed coffee.

"Okay, I don't have class until four, so if you want we can go to Central Park, or the Empire State Building, or whatever you like."

"I, sadly, have work to attend to at Vogue," Kurt says, spine straightening with pride. Rachel doesn't think he's ever going to get tired of telling people where he works.

"I don't care," Santana shrugs. "Whatever you want to show me's cool with me."

Rachel and Kurt share a glance, and Kurt shrugs. Rachel has no idea how to deal with people who aren't excited about being in New York City, but she'll make do.

…

Santana pulls a face as Rachel leads them into the building, but the view from the top of the New Museum is one of Rachel's favorites.

They have the space to themselves. Santana wanders around, coming to stand by the floor to ceiling window, staring out at the view of downtown and the bay, although Rachel doesn't think she's really seeing it.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, hovering behind her, squinting against the glare of the sunlight.

Santana's hardly said anything since they left Kurt back at the diner. She guesses Santana took a cab the night before, because she didn't have any idea how to buy a Metrocard and her eyes had bugged out at the price. Rachel could see her popping her ears as they crossed under the river, and she'd nudged Santana's knee. "Manhattan," she'd whispered with a grin, but Santana had just nodded.

"Brittany and I split, and I dropped out of college."

Rachel's mouth opens to say something, anything, but what exactly do you say to that without it sounding completely meaningless? No one ever managed to say anything at all comforting to her after Finn put her on a train and ran off to join the Army.

This painful laugh comes from Santana, and she turns around, leaning back against the glass. "Yeah, I'm kind of speechless about it myself."

"I'm really s-"

"If you say you're sorry, I'll punch you."

Rachel doesn't think she means it, but with Santana you never know. "Okay."

"I'm moving here," Santana says, voice tightening further. "I'm gonna be on stage, and Britt'll come later, and then, I don't know. We'll see."

"How does- I mean, are your parents okay with this? I mean," she continues without giving Santana a chance to answer, a million thoughts tumbling around in her head. "You're welcome to stay with us until you get settled, of course. You should audition for NYADA next semester! Oh, this will be great. Kurt's so busy all the time now and-"

"Rachel!" Santana cuts her off. "Thank you. For the place to stay."

Even though Santana seems anything but excited, Rachel squeals a tiny bit, unable to stop herself from hugging Santana as she stands there stiffly.

"We're going to have so much fun!"

…

…

That doesn't exactly turn out to be true.

Rachel does not understand how anyone could find walking along the High Line drinking chai lattes boring. It's the perfect place to just wander; a tiny strip of nature surrounded by the City. She thinks it's romantic, walking along in the twilight.

Admittedly, Santana's been a little out of sorts since she arrived. Rachel's taken her to Central Park and The Met and Santana meets her after class most days and they've been all over SoHo and the West Village. But, before today, Santana hasn't complained about anything they've done - in fact, on the days she knows Rachel doesn't have class she always asks what they're doing - so Rachel's choosing to take the complaint as a positive sign.

"Can we just grab dinner and go home?" Santana says, tossing her empty cup away.

Apparently the one place Santana likes in New York City is Kurt and Rachel's diner.

…

…

The upperclass dancers like her, or are stupidly entertained by her battle against Cassie July— either way, even after Brody fades out of her life they still talk to her, which is nice. They didn't know her pre-makeover, so she has no reason to be quietly annoyed like she is with the girls in her dance class who kiss her ass now that she has an "in" at Vogue. She's not even sure how Lara and Tegan know Kurt exists.

She's having lunch with them in a cafe by the main NYADA building after her final class for the semester, and Michaela, a senior who's in the chorus in Chicago, is just inviting her to a post-class, pre-finals party when Santana shows up.

"Rachel," is all she says in greeting, and Rachel waves up at her from her spot in their booth.

"Girlfriend?" Michaela asks, looking between Rachel and Santana."She's invited, too. You're invited, too," she says to Santana.

"Santana's not my girlfriend," she corrects, smiling at Santana so she doesn't get the wrong idea.

"She isn't?" Rachel nods. "Honey," Michaela eyes Santana up and down, "you're definitely invited now."

Santana blushes to the roots of her hair, but Rachel thinks it's nice that people don't just assume she's straight. And that they'd assume she'd be dating a girl as pretty as Santana.

…

The party's in Hell's Kitchen, and Rachel makes them stop to get some wine on the way.

"Would you at least put it in your bag," Santana whispers anxiously, eyeing the people around them on the train. "I don't want to get arrested."

"Whatever happened to that girl from Lima Heights Adjacent?" Rachel says slyly. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you're afraid of the NYPD."

Santana ignores her for the rest of the trip. Thankfully the party's only a couple of blocks from the subway, and they huddle inside their coats as they hurry.

It's already loud and crowded when they arrive - she still hasn't quite worked out how to time her subway trips properly, but she can work with a late entrance. Santana hovers nearby while Rachel chats to some people from her stage direction class, but she excuses herself to go get another drink and it's a while before Rachel notices how long she's been gone.

She's having an awkward conversation with Brody, even as she keeps a lookout for Santana, when she appears at Rachel's shoulder.

"Is it okay if I... go," is all she says, head jerking in the direction of the front door.

"Oh, are you not—" Rachel frowns, and then looks over to the door. Some friend of Michaela's is standing there watching them, or she's watching Santana, and oh. "Oh."

"Yeah. Don't wait up," Santana says awkwardly, before turning and disappearing into the crowd for a moment. Rachel watches her walking over to the girl—Rachel thinks her name is Maria—and it's soweird watching them, knowing what they're leaving to do. She doesn't know Santana well enough to know this about her, even with their, in hindsight very odd, shared history with Finn, and she turns away, swallowing down her drink.

…

Coffee, coffee, coffee, is repeating over and over in her brain, and she runs right into Santana on the sidewalk as she heads towards the bodega.

"Hey, how was your, um—"

Santana's eyebrow quirks, even as she still manages to look uncomfortable. "Yeah, please don't finish that question."

"Okay, yes. That is not something I need to, um..." she trails off, shaking her head. She really needs coffee and not details about whatever Santana got up to last night. "Anyway, I'm going in to rehearse for a while. Kurt's at some art exhibition with Isabelle, so the apartment's all yours for the day."

"Cool," Santana nods. "I'll try not to burn the building down. Oh, wait," Santana nudges her and finally cracks a smile, "that's you."

"I'm never cooking for you again," Rachel says as they walk away from each other.

"Technically you never did!"

…

When she gets home, Kurt and Santana are in the kitchen making a pizza.

This is not something she would ever have imagined happening, basically ever. For starters, Kurt has flour all down his shirt, and he doesn't even seem bothered.

"Hi," she says, but it comes out like a question.

Kurt waves her over. "You're home! Come make pizza."

She drops her dance bag by the door, making a mental note not to leave her sweaty clothes in there overnight, and joins them. "What are we making?"

"Fun," Santana replies, flicking flour at Rachel from the tips of her fingers.

The dough Kurt and Santana have already made is vegan, and it's silly, but they didn't know she was going to be joining them—she's been so busy they probably expected she wouldn't—and the fact that they thought of her anyway leaves a burn of happiness in her chest.

She grabs a shower while the pizza's cooking, and when she returns, toweling her hair dry, there's a glass of juice waiting for her in front of her spot on the couch.

Kurt's chosen Hedwig and the Angry Inch for them to watch, and she happily settles into her seat, grabbing some pizza when Kurt brings it over.

"Have you seen it?" she asks Santana when she flops down beside her.

"Are you kidding? This looks ridiculously gay, and not the kind I enjoy."

It's not like it's Rachel's favorite movie ever, but her dads used to sing The Origin of Love in the car to school when she was in the first grade, so it's got good associations. She knows her childhood wasn't exactly the same as most people's, though people might be surprised at how normal it was, but when she hears Santana say things like that she's torn between being even more appreciative of how amazing her parents are, and wanting to trade them so someone like Santana could have had the benefit of having them.

"Well I think you'll enjoy it anyway," Rachel says, rolling her eyes. "Even if it's not your kind of gay."

…

Rachel's humming The Origin of Love under her breath as she comes out of the bathroom, and is about to grab her bag and switch off the lights when a sound from the couch stops her.

Maybe a movie about the ambiguity of the concept of soul mates wasn't the best idea for someone currently without her own, if the muffled sound of hitching breaths is any indication.

She tiptoes the rest of the way over to the entrance, and when she kills the lights there's a pause. She's about to say something, if she could just think of what, when the breathing resumes and she can hear Santana pressing herself harder into the couch.

It's not her place to say anything, and she doesn't think Santana would appreciate it anyway.

…

...

"Come outside."

"No."

"Come outside!" Santana whines, tossing a pillow at her.

The covers pulled over her head are doing nothing to block Santana out. She knows she isn't being the best host right now, nor for the last week, but she's tired. It's the first day of her winter break, and she just wants to sleep. Instead, apparently there's been enough snow to stick for the first time, and Santana wants to go out and... Rachel has no idea what Santana wants to do out there, but she doesn't care.

"No!"

"Can you two both please be quiet," Kurt calls from his side of the apartment. "Some of us have auditions to rehearse for."

"Please, you're just going to drop out anyway," Santana says, wandering away from where she's leaning against Rachel's bed, and Rachel buries her head under her pillow as Kurt lets out a yell of frustration, which she joins him in.

"I am not going to drop out!" This is an ongoing argument.

Santana's been there for almost a month, and she hasn't found a place to live yet. Rachel's doesn't think she's been looking very hard; in fact she thinks Santana spends all her time coming up with ways to annoy Kurt about how he's going to bail on NYADA.

Santana's moved away from Rachel's side of the apartment, but it doesn't make a difference when she and Kurt are both shouting at the top of their lungs - and Kurt's going to regret that immensely when he has to sing tomorrow.

"Can you please just shut up and get out," she shouts over the argument, and their voices stop.

There's silence for a moment, and then there's some scuffing noises followed by the front door slamming shut.

"Well that was harsh," Kurt says from somewhere close by.

"I meant you, too," she snaps, and immediately regrets it, tossing her pillow aside with a sigh. "Sorry. I'm just really tired."

Santana taking over their living area meant she didn't have enough room to practice anymore, so she'd been going into school a lot more to get some time in the dance studio, and it was easier to stay and use the rehearsal booths for all her other practice. The closer she'd gotten to finals, the later she would stay, and now that it's all over she's realizing just how drained she is.

Kurt's standing in the gap between the sheets that make up her walls, arms folded. "This isn't working, is it," he says, stepping closer.

He's not wrong. But that doesn't mean she wants Santana to leave. "We can't kick her out."

Santana is annoying as hell. But, and Rachel can't believe she's come to feel this way, it's kind of endearing. When she's not sulking, she's intense about things in a way that Rachel recognizes (The day Santana managed to navigate the subway on her own she came home talking a mile a minute about everything she'd seen, and it was the cutest thing. But mostly she's intense about how much people on Craigslist suck and coming up with insults. It's funny when it's not directed at her.) and it's nice to have that around. It makes her wish they'd managed an actual friendship in high school.

But more than anything, she sees how close Santana is to drowning, from being here and being without Brittany, and Rachel gets that. If Kurt hadn't arrived when he did, she's not sure what she would have done.

"I think we should make it official," she nods, the idea growing in her head.

"Make what official?" Kurt asks suspiciously.

"Santana living here. She should get some walls, and stop living out of her bags, and, I don't know, pay rent." She pushes the covers off her legs and climbs out of the bed. "Yes. She should live here. It'll be good."

Kurt makes that face where he's trying not to show how much he hates an idea but is failing miserably. "Is there anything I can do to talk you out of this?"

"Nope," she says, kissing his cheek as she moves past him in the 'doorway'. "Now come wait with me. She won't be long; I know she's forgotten her coat."

…

They're sitting on the couch waiting when Santana returns, shivering visibly—Rachel just knows these things, okay.

"I'll be gone in the morning," she says, and her voice makes Rachel frown.

"No you won't," she says, standing up. "We're going to Ikea."

Santana just stands there, fidgeting with the strap on her purse. "Why?"

"Because you need a bed," Rachel replies, coming around to stand in front of Santana. "Rent's $500 a month, and you have to buy your own walls. Also, some earplugs."

Santana just blinks at her, frown creasing the top of her nose. "What?"

"You're officially moving in. We've decided," she says, waving between Kurt and herself, and so what if Kurt didn't exactly agree, he'll come around eventually. He'll see this is the right thing to do.

"I am?" Santana asks, and Rachel's incredibly sorry that she snapped the way she did, because she can't deal with Santana's voice sounding so small.

"Yes," she says, and then Santana's hugging her, arms all awkward angles like she's not sure how this works.

The back of her shirt is getting wrinkled in Santana's fists, but she doesn't mind, not when she can hear Santana's mumbled "thank you" against her shoulder.

"Oh god, you two are gross," Kurt moans from the couch, and Rachel can see Santana flipping him off out of the corner of her eye.

…

Once Santana gets herself under control, Rachel suggests they go look at the snow. She's not sleeping anyway, so why not.

"We don't have to," Santana says, but she's clearly trying not to look pleased.

They walk two blocks, fat snowflakes catching on her hair and coat, and then Santana pulls them into McKibben Park.

"This is where you wanted to go?" Rachel asks. Santana doesn't answer, just leads them over to the swings and wipes the snow off one of the seats.

"Sit," she says, and when Rachel doesn't move she manhandles her into the seat. She wipes the other seat off before settling herself into it, but Rachel still has no idea why they're here.

"Swing," Santana says when Rachel just stares at her, so she guesses that's why they're here.

So she swings. The snow's not falling heavily, but it's enough to look pretty, and she's swinging back and forth, not very high, when Santana breaks the silence. "I used to have a swing set in our yard at home."

Rachel doesn't really know what to say to that, so she settles for an encouraging noise.

"Britt and I," she continues haltingly, "we would sneak out at night to swing in the snow."

"Aw, that's cute." She didn't know Brittany and Santana in elementary school, but she can imagine them as two little girls in their nightshirts and coats, maybe wearing rainboots, sneaking across the yard hand in hand.

Santana lets her swing bleed its momentum, coming to a stop with her feet still pulled up off the ground. "She's not coming to New York."

"Of course she is—" but she stops when Santana shakes her head.

"She told me. Now that her grades are up, some dance school in California wants to give her a free ride."

"I'm sorry," she says, not knowing what else to say. She just asked Santana to live with them, and Santana said yes, but… "You could go to California."

Rachel watches a puff of breath materialize in front of Santana's face. "I don't want to."

"Oh." She doesn't say she's glad, but she is.

"Here's where I want to be," Santana says, pushing off the ground again. "If there's one thing I know, it's that I'm not very good at pretending something that isn't true."

They swing for a little while longer, until Santana kicks off her shoes and then throws herself off the swing at the top of its arc, landing like a gymnast and doing that chest thing they do when they're finished.

"Come on, Grumpy LuPone, time to get you back to bed," she says, catching Rachel's foot to slow her down.

…

…

Kurt goes home for Christmas, so it's just the two of them.

"The two of them" mostly involves a lot of lying on the couch watching 90s teen dramas on dvd—boxes of Santana's stuff arrived earlier in the week, and the communal dvd collection of the apartment is now ten times larger than it was.

Her dads are in town for Hanukkah, and she's seen them every night since it started. But it's Christmas Eve and she has other plans tonight.

She was helping Kurt force his suitcase closed when she realized Santana hadn't mentioned when she was leaving. Santana didn't even glance in Rachel's direction when she asked. "I'm not," she said, buried under a pile of blankets on their couch watching some cartoon about a vampire and a talking dog. She didn't offer anything else.

Rachel thinks it has something to do with Santana's grandmother, but it might also be Brittany, and she doesn't want to pry. Whatever the reason, Santana's here for Christmas, and Rachel's begged off with her dads, and she has a plan. She just has to convince Santana to leave the apartment. They've officially been roommates for two weeks now, and Rachel wants them to spend time together doing something besides eating and watching tv.

"Ugh, I don't like cinnamon," Santana complains, sitting on the bench beside the tray of cookies Rachel's just finished decorating.

"It's a good thing they're not for you then, isn't it."

"Well that's rude," Santana says, snagging a cookie and biting it in half.

Rachel ignores her. "You should go get dressed."

"Uh, no I shouldn't," Santana replies. "It's like a shvitz in here."

Sometimes their heating is a little dysfunctional, and despite the snow outside the windows are propped open. Tomorrow it might be freezing inside. Rachel's called their landlord about something almost once a week since they moved in, and she's yet to see him come and actually fix anything. She hasn't giving up hope, exactly, but she has pulled out her summer loungewear again.

"Please stop trying to speak Yiddish," Rachel sighs.

"Unless you can't handle all of this," Santana indicates herself, and the pajamas that are more suited to the middle of summer on a tropical island.

"They're just legs, Santana, not instruments of psychological torture. But what I mean is, you should get dressed so we can go out."

Santana snags another cookie before hopping down from the bench. "I'm not going out there. Bitches be crazy this week," she says, tossing her arm like the boys Rachel sees riding skateboards in Union Square sometimes.

"Not even if it involves scantily-dressed women dancing?" Rachel asks coyly. Santana's in a good mood today, and she's going to take advantage of it.

Santana pauses midway back to the couch. "Are you taking me to see strippers?" she asks, and Rachel can't tell if she's excited or scared.

…

"Okay, seriously, I hate you right now. Why are you making me go out in this weather when it's like the Bahamas at home?" Santana kicks at a beam on the subway platform, then squints to make sure she didn't leave a mark on her boots. "This is so unnecessary. I don't care about strippers."

"Christmas cheer is never unnecessary," Rachel replies, looping her arm through Santana's and pulling her onto the train that's just arrived. "And you've never been to the Bahamas."

"You're the worst Jew ever," Santana mutters, and Rachel snickers when she shrinks under the glare of half the people on the train.

…

"This is not strippers."

Rachel has harbored a secret desire to be a Rockette since she was seven. Not as a career, but she always thought it would be a fun step in her path to Broadway superstardom. She's not going to tell Santana this, because even Rachel can see the short jokes that would come from that. But she thinks Santana will appreciate the experience, so she's multi-tasking entertaining her and reliving a childhood dream.

"I never said it was," Rachel says, handing the usher their tickets.

"Can we agree you lied when you said scantily dressed? Because, at best, this only meets the 1920s definition of scantily dressed."

"Are you going to be like this all night?" Rachel asks when they reach their seats.

"Maybe," Santana says, looking around. "Depends on how much up-skirt action we get from this angle."

"Please, you'd probably pass out if you saw anything more than spanks."

Santana turns in her seat to face her. "I don't pass out when you walk around the house half dressed."

"That's different," Rachel says, ignoring Santana in favor of looking through the program.

"Only if you're telling me you're some kind of robot," Santana says, and then offers to get them drinks.

…

Whoever serves Santana doesn't card her, and an hour and a half of dancing girls and Grey Goose doubles later, they're standing on the street. Rachel's a little giddy from the alcohol, but Santana's got some kind of overstimulated buzz going on that's making Rachel laugh.

"Come on," she says, and pulls them around the corner.

Santana pulls them to a stop when she realizes where Rachel's leading them. "This isn't some Home Alone recreation, we are not going to gawk at the tree like a bunch of tourists."

"Who said anything about the tree? There's a million things in this direction."

Even as they continue to walk, the streets relatively empty, Santana points at her, "I know you, Rachel Berry. Of course we're going to see the tree."

"Okay, we are," she concedes.

"Ha!"

Rachel glances at Santana sideways. "But we could also be going to engage in some drunken ice skating."

"Okay, hold up. Even I think that's dangerous!"

…

"You just have to let go," Rachel says for the seventeenth time.

"Are you, like, drugging me in my sleep?" Santana asks, still not letting go of the rail. "Because that's pretty much the only explanation for how you got me to do this."

The tree wasn't that exciting to look at after about ten seconds, but if she'd known it would be this hard to get Santana to move more than a foot away from the entrance to the ice rink, she might have skipped this part, too.

"Come on, please, just let go," she says, making one last try. "I promise, I'm a very good skater, and I won't let you fall."

Santana must still be a tiny bit drunk, because she actually lets go, throwing her arms from the railing to Rachel.

It would have been nice if she'd given Rachel some warning.

"Oh my god!" Santana screams, rolling to the side of Rachel. "What kind of promise keeper are you?"

She would defend herself, but she's currently having difficulty breathing. For such a thin girl, Santana is apparently very heavy.

"Rachel!" Santana's voice cuts through her focus on the flags waving in the breeze overhead.

"Ow," she says, wheezing only a tiny bit. Oh, that's going to hurt tomorrow. Even through her coat she can feel the ice underneath her back.

"Are you okay?" Santana's managed to get up on her knees, and she's leaning over Rachel. It feels like a scene in a movie, and Rachel gets distracted wondering who would play her in the movie about her life.

She hopes it's someone who can sing, and isn't cast just because they share similar facial features.

"Rachel!"

"Yes, sorry, I'm okay. Just," she shifts a bit, trying to sit up. "Okay, you're going to have to help me, I'm broken."

"Wait, wait," Santana holds her down, "did you hit your head?"

Rachel blinks at the sky, assessing. "No. Just my everything else."

"Okay," Santana says, relieved. Then she turns and scans the people around them. "Hey you, with the muscles! Come help my friend and she'll let you feel her up while you do!"

"Santana!"

The guy Santana waves over turns out to be a very polite young man from Texas, and he isn't even the slightest bit handsy, or offended when she declines joining him and his friends for some Christmas drinks at TGIFridays.

"Yeah, like we'd go to TGIFridays," Santana scoffs as they unlace their skates.

Rachel nods, even though she doesn't agree.

It isn't the place Rachel objects to, it's the way they ignored Santana. They didn't even invite her to come along, though she was clearly here with Rachel. Maybe they could tell she's gay and didn't want to waste their time, or maybe something worse. She wants to give them the benefit of the doubt, though, which leaves her with they just have bad taste.

"Yeah, that wasn't going to happen." She stands in her socks, waiting for Santana so they can collect their shoes, when she realizes something and grabs at her pockets. "My phone!"

There's a frantic moment when she can't find it, patting herself down, until Santana plucks it from the breast pocket of her coat.

"Oh thank god," she sighs, clutching it, then clicking it on to make sure it isn't damaged. "Oh hey," she says, turning the phone around to show Santana the time. 12:01. "Merry Christmas."

Santana's balanced on one foot, adjusting her sock—knee-high in red and green—but her foot drops and she looks around at the people moving through the Plaza and up at the tree. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and her scarf is messing up her hair, but she looks like she's actually comfortable in the moment— at least as much as Rachel's ever seen her be.

"Yeah," Santana says softly, and then without being weird about it at all, pulls Rachel into a hug. "Merry Christmas."