two

Quinn's dorm had to have what amounted to the worst security on the planet, and her door was some gross color that may have been blue at some point. Santana stared at it, knuckles an inch away, before stepping back and kicking it a few times. God knows what kind of nasty lead paint that is.

It wasn't until a muffled "Just a minute" floated through the door that the nerves set in. Only two weeks had passed since the debacle-insanity-brilliant-sex that was Scheuster's failed wedding, and Santana sure had meant it when she said she wouldn't be showing up at Quinn's door with a U-Haul.

An overnight bag and a handle of vodka wasn't moving in, though, so, whatever.

"Santana." Her name came out of Quinn's mouth blandly, somewhere between puzzled and amused, and it wasn't until Quinn's eyebrow jutted up quizzically that Santana realized one foot was still poised to kick the door again.

"Your door looks like it has herpes."

"Hello to you, too," Quinn drawled, leaning against the doorjamb. "Nice of you to let me know you were coming."

"I knocked, didn't I?"

"Only because you were afraid to touch the door." Quinn tilted her head to the side, wisps of hair slipping over her forehead, and Santana's brow furrowed.

"You cut your hair again." She thrust the bottle of vodka into Quinn's arms and skimmed between her and the door, inviting herself in. "I thought the whole venture into lesbianism was a one-time thing."

"Two-time, if you want to be technical, and please, make yourself at home." Quinn set the bottle on her desk, exasperation tingeing her voice as Santana stacked up all the notes and textbooks arranged carefully on Quinn's bed so she could settle comfortably against the pillows. "And I wanted to do something different and it seemed less drastic than dying it pink again."

"Too bad, you could've really owned the whole rebellion-experimentation thing." Fingers flipped idly through Quinn's business statistics notes.

"So, are you here for a reason, or did you just feel like interrupting me two days before I have a stats exam?"

"It's Saturday night, Q, why are you even here and not out doing…something that isn't this?"

"Because I have an exam," Quinn retorted. A sigh slipped out and she pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Saint Gaypants and Barbra are having a bitchfight and stomping around the loft acting like they aren't talking to each other because he seduced her flavor of the week, and I'm sick of their bullshit."

"So you ambushed me?"

"I brought alcohol," Santana offered. She snapped Quinn's book shut—thoughtfully, though, managing to not crinkle any of the study guides—and set it on the bedside table. "Come on, Steinem, let's get wasted and talk about how much we hate people."

Quinn rolled her eyes, a huffy breath escaping before she cracked open the bottle of vodka and taking a sip.

"That's what I'm talking about," Santana said with a smirk. She crawled down to the foot of the bed so she was barely a foot away and yanked the bottle out of Quinn's hands.

Quinn just raised an eyebrow at her—that insufferable eyebrows and that ungodly attractive half-smile twitching at her lips—and accepted the bottle when Santana offered it back.

Sometime around 3:30, Santana woke up effectively on top of Quinn, legs twisted together uncomfortably. Her hip throbbed, a bite mark standing out darkly against her skin, and there was a line of hickeys parading up from Quinn's collarbone to her jaw.

Okay, so, a bottle of vodka and an overnight bag still didn't count as a U-Haul. Santana flopped back onto the bed, putting space between them, and measured the even beats of Quinn's breaths against her own heartbeats until she fell asleep.

three

It was an unseasonably warm—hot, really—day in April when Quinn walked into the loft without knocking. Santana looked up from where she was sprawled on the floor, arms akimbo and eyes locked on the ceiling, taking in Quinn's bemused expression.

"It's hot and the AC isn't working."

"And laying on the floor helps?"

"The floor is cold as balls and you know it, so yes."

Quinn settled down to the floor delicately, sitting on her heels and adjusting the hem of her skirt. It slanted down across her legs, the diagonal hem covering down to her knee on her left leg. There was a long scar on her left thigh, along the line of her femur, just like the one that skimmed alongside her spine. Blindly, Santana's fingers found the bottom of the scar on Quinn's thigh, feeling out the thick line of tissue through her skirt and walking up towards her hip.

"It's April," Quinn said quietly after Santana's fingers had traced up and down the scar twice.

"It's hot."

"It's prom season."

Santana propped herself up on her elbows, staring at Quinn. "Don't think Yale has prom, Q."

"No—I—prom. Last year." Quinn's hand drifted down to her leg, finding the scar again. Her palm rested against it, eyes locked against Santana's. "That was the last time I was in the chair."

"Oh." Santana inhaled slowly, slipping back down to lay flat again. One hand reached out, hovered, then wrapped around Quinn's arm and tugged, tugged, pulling until Quinn laid down next to her.

"You know, I was so pissed at you at prom, standing up like that. Scared the crap out of me."

Quinn took a slow breath, shifting imperceptibly closer, her side pressing lightly to Santana's. Santana sighed huffily. "Don't ever do that again, you moron."

"Love you, too," Quinn murmured.

"Shut up." Santana shifted, sliding an arm around Quinn's shoulders and pulling her closer. "I can't deal with having my best friend in a wheelchair again, so odn't do something crazy like try skydiving just because it's been a year."

"Right." A few seconds passed. "This floor is so uncomfortable."

"Oh my God, I know."

The fact that they ended up in Santana's bed, her legs hooked over Quinn's shoulder and her fingers tangled in blonde hair, was entirely by accident.

four

Really, it was completely Rachel's fault. She's the one who threw the end of semester party, she's the one who shoved an entire bottle of wine at them to get them to leave her alone with her boytoy, she's the one who left them unsupervised.

Kurt burned his sheets the next day, stole Santana's keys, and wouldn't let them back in until they bought him replacements.

nine

"So are you really sure that you aren't just a little bit gay?"

"Still like guys, Santana." Quinn's hair was a mess, her skin flushed, and she grimaced as her muscles protest when she stretched.

"You sure? Because if I can turn you gay, then I could probably turn anyone gay, and there's got to be some kind of high-paying market or reality TV offer in that."

"You can't turn someone gay," Quinn said snootily. "You should know that better than most, McKinley High Bicycle." She grunted when Santana kicked out tiredly, foot colliding with Quinn's knee.

"Whatever. Seriously, though." Santana rolled onto her side, propping her head up and staring down at Quinn. "You're way too into and way too good at all this—" She paused to gesture gratuitously at her own still-sweaty body—"to not be at least a little more than curious."

"What are you going to do when you get a real job and have to stop talking like a sixteen year old?"

"It's part of my Lima Heights charm. Answer the question, Fabgay."

Quinn sighed, rubbing a palm over her eyes. "Maybe. I don't know."

"You hooking up with any other girls?"

"Yeah, right. Everyone at school thinks I have a psychotic girlfriend named after Carlos Santana."

"So no guys, then, either?"

Quinn's head lolled to the side, eyes finding Santana's in the dim light of the loft. "What are you asking?"

Santana rolled her eyes, stretching cat-like and yawning. "Don't read into it, I'm just trying to figure this out."

"If I'm gay? You realize that there are other possibilities than just gay or straight, right?"

"No, I'm completely ignorant of the concept of bisexuality and my first girlfriend was definitely not bisexual."

"Hey, you're the one asking stupid questions here." Quinn yawned, sitting up long enough to straighten the blankets on the bed before curling onto her side and eyeballing Santana sleepily.

"I'm just trying to figure this out," Santana says again.

"Who says there's anything to figure out? It's just sex."

"Since when is anything just sex with you, chastity belt?"

"Since when do you even care about what anything means?" Quinn parrots back. "Sex isn't dating, after all."

"Of course we aren't dating," Santana said snippily. "I can't handle your crazy."

"And you're insufferable," Quinn said, droll and quiet. "Glad that's settled."

"Terrific," Santana deadpanned, turning her back to Quinn and yanking the covers over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later, she was half asleep, and Quinn's fingertips skimmed along the curve of her shoulder blade, and then Quinn shifted closer, one arm falling over Santana's stomach as she curled around Santana's form.

"Friends," she breathed out, the words pressing into Santana's shoulder. "Best friends."

"God, you're such a sap," Santana muttered. "Don't forget the benefits bit, it's the most awesome part."

"Go to sleep."

"I'm trying, leave me alone."