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Goodnight From Me, Good Morning To You

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The rest of the weekend was a write off, and you didn’t see Santana at all on Sunday, or Monday for that matter. You spent Sunday with Rachel, before she got the late train home, and then Monday was catch up on assignments and attending classes. Santana was doing the same, no doubt, so it wasn’t a big deal.

You still listened to her set at night, or the next day on catch up, and her songs kept you happy throughout studying time and when you were cooped up in the library trying to find another five hundred words for this awful paper you were ready to be done with.

Only, you needed a lift. You needed inspiration to get you through it, and given you had a few of her sets saved, you wondered if the old Rosario Cruz memories would help push you through. So after loading them up, you settled in, and enjoyed the feeling of welcoming back an old friend in her voice and her songs.

Only, as the set wore on, something wasn’t sitting right with you, and you just couldn’t put your finger on it. It had nothing to do with the paper you were writing, but what you were listening to; like alarm bells ringing for an unknown problem that you needed to fix quickly before the ship went down. Except, you had no idea what it was.

And then Santana spoke.

“Now time for a classic, which has over three hundred different recordings. The song is ‘Always On My Mind’ and I’m choosing the Pet Shop Boys version. Sorry Willie Nelson and Elvis, but this version I can dance to. And this song goes out specifically to the ghost of Grace Kelly, who I just don’t know what to do with, but safe to say, you’re always on my mind.” The intro of the song began playing in the background, but Santana wasn’t done. “And hey, the rest of you, I don’t want any comments on Facebook about being pathetic or abuse of power. If I can’t play a song for a hot girl, then I’m playing this gig wrong. Now, it’s goodnight from me, good morning to you, enjoy!”

‘Specifically to the ghost of Grace Kelly, who I just don’t know what to do with, but safe to say, you’re always on my mind.’

‘If I can’t play a song for a hot girl, then I’m playing this gig wrong.’


There was...she...You swallowed the lump in your throat and tried to be rational. That wasn’t easy at the best of times, but you tried, before you completely lost your cool and did something ridiculously tragic.

Taking a deep breath, you knew were going to have to bring it up, because it was going to eat at your otherwise.

You had to know if there was another girl. If Santana had resorted to you because the one she wanted hadn’t wanted her. Were you a rebound?

God, this was a mess. Your thoughts were a mess.

But you needed to bring it up. You just had to.

Turning off the music, you went back to writing, and apparently shock and a twinge of hurt was a great studying aid, as you finished the paper in no time and then was able to head back to your dorm, where you bed was calling you.


Finding an appropriate time to bring up the ghost of Grace Kelly was hard.

In all honesty, there was no appropriate time. There was no suitable moment to enquire, and instead, you were going to have to have it come out left field and hope for the best.

The only opportune moment you found was during a session at the radio station. Santana wanted to work on her set list for that night’s show, and you wanted to finish revising. To get out the way, the two of you hustled down in the racks of music, well out the way of anyone working, and set up camp.

This was becoming a thing the two of you did, and you have to say, you kinda liked it. It felt private, just the two of you in your own bubble of music, both content to do your own thing, but do it together.

You really did want to do anything to jeopardise that bubble, to jeopardise what you had with Santana at that moment, but the thoughts were back, whipping themselves up into a storm, and you just needed to ask.

“Who’s Grace Kelly?”

“An American actress and the Princess of Monaco, why?” Santana replied, not looking up from her notes, scribbling song choices and rearranging segments here and there.

“No, I know that. I mean, who’s the ghost of Grace Kelly? You kept mentioning her on your set before...before we began talking and doing whatever this is,” you waved your hand between each of you, and shrugged, because you really didn’t know what was going on exactly. Just that you liked it.

This time, your words made Santana stop, her pencil falling short on the page, and she cocked her head to the side before looking up at you. You chewed on your bottom lip, wondering if you should just take the plunge and ask more questions, but you weren’t sure how it would go down.

But Santana had yet to answer, and that was feeding your suspicions.

“Was there another girl? Before I became Lucy Q and you could mention me on air, was there another girl? I mean, we aren’t wouldn’t be an problem, I just...wanted to know.” Did you really want to know, though? Because the answer had the potential to hurt you, and that sucked. You weren’t quite sure what you would do if Santana said that yes, there was another girl that she had been trying to impress before you.

It wouldn’t make you special. It would make you like all the others, whoever the others were, because a second ago there was one girl and now you were jumping to there being more.

“There was another girl, yeah,” Santana began, and you felt your whole body internally curl up, as if about to be kicked. Externally, the only sign of your discomfort would be the look in your eyes. “But she was a stranger, a girl I didn’t know, I saw on campus, and realised ‘holy crap she’s gorgeous’.”

“Just a stranger?” Your words shouldn’t have been that shaky, but they were, and there shouldn’t have been that sliver of hope that the other girl was gone, but there was.

“Yeah,” Santana nodded, “and then she walked in to B02, chummy with Mike, getting to know my friends, and it kinda felt like my whole world was crashing in because there’s the ghost of Grace Kelly and she’s even more stunning in person, and God, she’s actually got a personality. I’m doomed.” Santana mashed her lips together and sunk back against the shelf behind her, looking straight at you. “I was a bit of a bitch to her, because surely my luck would run out and she’d be straight, but then again, I don’t think she is. Now, now she’s not a stranger, she’s Lucy Q, or Quinn Fabray, as I only just found out her surname. And I’ve got to say, it’s a hell of a lot better knowing the girl, than the ghost.” You paused, taking a moment.

“Me?” you asked, losing all track of thought, all preplanned words and sentences.

“You. You’re the ghost of Grace Kelly, who looked like she was ready to jump off the nearest tall building while sitting out in the quad when I first saw her.” It was scary how close to the truth Santana was, but maybe she knew that.

“You didn’t know me.” It wasn’t a question, merely a statement that had you rather baffled.

“I didn’t think I ever would get to,” Santana replied, shrugging.

You nodded, understanding that, because what were the chances?, before looking down at your lap. This was certainly new information, information you didn’t know how to process.

You remember feeling envious of Rosario’s smitten attitude towards the ghost of Grace Kelly, and to find out that was Santana about you, well, that put a whole new perspective on things.

“You don’t look like that anymore,” Santana said, pulling you from your thoughts, and you looked back up to her, frowning in question. “I mean, you don’t look like you want to jump off the nearest tall building.” Because you didn’t, because of Mike, and B02, and the radio station, and Rosario, and Santana. “I’m glad,” she continued, her gaze piercing. “I’m really glad you don’t look like that anymore.”

You were too.

Giving her a soft smile, you picked up your pen and tried to look like you were going to work again, and Santana got the message, and she picked up her pencil and went back to writing notes on songs for her set that night.

Only, you couldn’t concentrate, which shouldn’t have been surprising. Those songs, those comments, they were for you. You had no idea, but they were for you. She had been telling campus, and whoever else tuned in to listen, that she was crushing hard for this one girl, for you. She’d never been shy about it.

So why were you? Why were you only letting her have bits and pieces of your affection? You liked her, god, did you like her. So what was the issue? You needed to tell her. You needed to let her know that this wasn’t some silly game for you, with the teasing and the noncommittal attitude you had. You needed to let her know that she meant something to you.

Clearing your throat, you tried to draw Santana’s attention, but she was either convinced you really did need to clear your throat or ignoring you. You really doubted it would be the latter, but just in case it was, you thought it best to get her attention another way.

“I like you,” you said, plainly, bluntly, and waited.

“Hmm?” That did the trick, as Santana lifted her head, looking at you like she’d heard you wrong.

“I like you, I don’t know what this is, but whatever it is, I like it, and I like you. I just thought you should know,” you finished, shrugging to make it look nonchalant, but probably failing miserably.

“I like you too,” Santana replied, a smile playing at her lips. “I like you too,” she repeated, and then went back to her notes, but you could see the grin on her lips as she did so. It had you smiling, too, and you opted to actually go back to working this time.

That had done the job, it had cleared the air, and at least you knew where the two of you stood. And later, when you were back in your dorm room, you’d laugh giddily about how this amazing girl had been playing songs to you for so long, and that she was actually interested in you.

Yeah, bringing it up was definitely the right thing to do.


That night, you sat up studying, and eagerly awaiting Santana’s set. Yeah, you really wanted to hear her last song, but you also were just excited to listen to the songs, to listen to her in action.

Since knowing it was her, not some other student dubbed Rosario Cruz, you wanted to go back to that connection you had. Only, it was stronger now, because it was Santana, it was her who was able to lift your spirits with her song choices and her enthusiasm on air.

The set itself was going really well, and she’d played a few songs that had you grinning like an idiot, and gosh, you wished you could be in the booth with her again. You needed to ask her if that was something you could do again, because you loved it, you loved seeing her work, seeing her process and what was going on. And you really wanted to talk to her, too.

Play me a song - you texted out, before hitting send.

Fuck off - was the instant reply, but it was followed by a winking emoticon, so okay, she wasn’t being mean.

Play me a song!! It only took a second, and then she was replying again.

What song do you want?

Something good. That would rile her up, which was always worth it.

Given the last time you riled her up she performed in a burlesque show to Blondie, you really felt like you couldn’t lose out here.

Bitch. All I play is good music. - Now, what do you want? Her text made you laugh, and you were quick to respond.

Surprise me. You wanted to see what she’d come up with on her own.

Fine, song after next is for you.

You waited and listened to the current track bleed into the next one; and once that one was finished, Santana’s voice filled the airways.

“Got a special request from Lucy Q, who feels the need to highjack my carefully planned set lists. But here we go. This one’s for her,”

You waited with bated breath, and then couldn’t help but laugh as the familiar intro kicked in, and Santana was playing you The Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me’. You got the gist of her message, you got it loud and clear, and to reinforce it, the chorus finally played.

Don't you want me, baby?

Don't you want me, oh?

Don't you want me, baby?

Don't you want me, oh?

You could practically see Santana’s smirk and hear her damn chuckle as you listened to the song, and yeah, she was going to pay for that. As if the question needed to be asked.

But then again, you hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with yourself.

Eventually, you were going to have to explain the fragility of your body, the scars and the emotional trauma. The longer you could hold off, however, the better. Because that was a wound you were not ready to prod at and poke. You already knew it wasn’t healed, and it would hurt. So no, keeping that out of your thing with Santana would be the best.

Thankful for the short distraction, you continued to listen as Santana resumed her set, and managed to get quite a bit of work done before the dreaded six a.m. began to roll around. Dreaded because it meant she was coming off air, but at the same time, you also longed to hear what her last song would be.

And she never disappointed.

“Last song of the night time now, and it’s a classic,” Santana began, and you rolled your eyes. “I know, I know, you all complain because I say every song is a classic, but I don’t play bad music. I only play the classics.” She honestly sounded like she believed that, too. “Anyway, my last song, last song of the night, the all important last song is...’She Drives Me Crazy’ by Fine Young Cannibals.” Oh God, she wouldn’t… “And yep, this ones for you Lucy Q. So, with that, it’s goodnight from me, and good morning to you. Enjoy!”

Santana signed off and the intro began, and okay, you might have been smiling like an idiot and laughing at the same time. She was ridiculous.


I can't stop the way I feel

Things you do don't seem real.

Tell me what you've got in mind,

'cause we're running out of time.

Won't you ever set me free?

This waiting 'round's killing me.


She drives me crazy like no one else.

She drive me crazy, and I can't help myself.


I can't get any rest,

People say I'm obsessed.

Everything you say is lies,

But to me that's no surprise.

What I had for you was true.

Things go wrong, they always do.


She drives me crazy like no one else.

She drive me crazy, and I can't help myself.


Tell me what you've got in mind,

'cause we're running out of time.

Won't you ever set me free?

This waiting 'round's killing me.


She drives me crazy like no one else.

She drive me crazy, and I can't help myself.


I won't make it on my own.

No one likes to be a lone.


She drives me crazy like no one else.

She drive me crazy, and I can't help myself.

She drives me crazy like no one else.


As the song continued, you shook your head and thought about sending her a cheeky remark, but Santana beat you to it, with your phone lighting up with an alert.

Just so you know, it’s the best kind of crazy.

And that, that message was better than anything else you could have hoped for.

Just so you know, I’m going to kiss you tomorrow - you sent back, knowing that if you had been in that booth with her, you would have done it already. You would have had her pinned up against the wall, hands in her hair or on her waist, and be kissing her without abandon.

Just so you know, I can’t wait.

Either could you.