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Surviving Happily Ever After

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Quinn knew that it was too early for her wife to be wiggling on the bed, just from how tired she still was. She tightened her hold on Santana, so she couldn't move. "It's Saturday, honey, it's okay to sleep in," she said sleepily.

"I'm getting up to make you breakfast."

"What time is it?"

There was a pause. "6:00."

She shook her head. "Nope, too early," Quinn said, pulling Santana back down. "Lay down," she commanded.

Santana gave a kind of chuckle/giggle. "Am I your dog now, baby?"

Quinn rolled over onto her, using her body weight to pin Santana to the bed. "Stay."

Quinn knew she won when Santana's arms went around her waist. She shifted them, though, so they were both on their sides, and she pulled Quinn into her arms. "If baby wants me to stay, I'll stay."

Quinn snuggled against her. "Good, cause you owe me make-up cuddles."

Santana pressed her lips to Quinn's forehead. "I do owe you make-up cuddles," she agreed.

"Can we stay in bed all day?"

"But I have to make you breakfast."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. I made a promise."

Quinn smiled at that. She loved that Santana held herself to a silly promise that she made when she was attempting to coax Quinn into saying yes to marrying her. She loved that she stuck to her promises, even the small ones. (And she loved that her wife had proposed to her via orgasm, and then pretended to be oblivious as to why this was not a social norm the next day).

"And I have to go to the gym."

Quinn's hands tightened around Santana. "You don't have to go to the gym."

Santana shook her head. "Yes, I do."

"Why have you been spending so much time at the gym? Did you develop a crush on one of the personal trainers or something? Some 40-something milf been waving her newly trimmed ass your way?"

Santana snorted at the visual. "No, babe, you're the only milf I wanna fuck. I'm at the gym because I seem to have an excess amount of energy lately, and I've been trying to work it off." What in the world did that even…oh. Oh! "You kind of sleep sex me, babe."

Even though Quinn hadn't yet opened her eyes, she felt herself blushing. "Have I really!"

Santana laughed, and Quinn was so curious to know if her wife was watching her that she finally did open them, only to see that Santana's brown eyes were alight in amusement. "Hi."

Quinn smiled. "Hi," she said back. Quinn leaned forward, initiating a kiss. She loved early morning kisses with Santana. Nothing beat a first thing in the morning, both parties still half-asleep, fondling kiss. It was second only to wake-up sex. Quinn kissed the breath out of Santana's lungs and then pulled away, a wicked smile on her face. Hey, she had been the president of the Chastity Club after all. She knew how to tease better than most.

It took a moment for Santana's breath to return. "Damn," she mumbled. She licked her lips to gather up any lingering Quinn on them. "And yes, yes you do. What was it this morning?"

"Laboratory," Quinn admitted with a blush. "I was a medical examiner and you had me on the counter doing some in-depth under cover investigating."

Quinn could see the scenario playing out in Santana's mind because she went quiet for a few minutes, occasioning a smile every now and then. "Someone's been watching too much Los Hombres de Paco," Santana chided.

"Que es esto para ti?"

"Muy bien, Quinnie!"

Quinn laughed, but continued. "Un roya o…I didn't catch the rest of that. What is a roya?"

"Roya is lightning, which still kind of fits. But she said, rollo. Two ll's makes the yo sound. It means roll or affair. I like to think that you are an exotic adventure, baby." Santana initiated a long, slow-burning kiss.

When she tried to pull away, Quinn buried her fingers in her shirt, keeping her close. "You're not going to the gym today," she said firmly. "If you've got some excess energy you need to burn off, I've got something better that we can do."

Santana smiled at that. "Oh really?"

Quinn brought her lips up to her wife's. "Really," she responded.

From time to time, Santana forgot that she was married to Quinn Fabray (Lopez). Santana's idea of burning off excess energy: sex, or in the absence of that, a hot and heavy make-out session, or even going for a jog together and getting to watch her wife's ass and breasts bounce as they moved beside or behind each other. But no…Quinn was Quinn, and had far different ideas. After a couple more hours in bed with each other, and Santana making breakfast for them (mini quinoa breakfast quiches with passion fruit and slices of avocado), Quinn got set on showing Santana how she wanted to get rid of excess energy: rearranging the apartment. Starting with the bedroom and moving their way out.

Santana had been building up quite an endurance over the past few weeks, but after moving the bed, a book case, night stands, rearranging the closet, and the bookshelf again, not to mention all the little things that went on the stands, or all the not so little books on the shelf in a not so fun way, Santana found her energy draining.

The left side of the couch hit the carpet. Quinn used her hip to line the right side up properly while Santana stood off to the side watching her. "How about here?" Quinn questioned.

Santana thought about it, collapsing on to the seat, testing it. "No."

"Why no?"

"I can't see the TV."

"Santana, if you don't get your ass up right now-"

Santana grinned at her wife. "What're you going to do to me?"

Quinn let out a shriek, which let her know that she wasn't being received as cute and charming, but that she was seriously pushing Quinn's buttons. So she stood up, hands extended in a gesture of peace. "Okay, okay," she said, trying to ease the she-hulk look in her wife's eyes. "Calm down, blondie."

"Don't tell me to calm down," Quinn hissed. "I have spent all morning trying to rearrange my apartment-,"

"Ah hah!" Santana said triumphantly. "See, I told you: you still think of this place as your apartment!"

"So it doesn't just feel like it's my place anymore, and the least you can do is actually give me some constructive input on where the furniture should go!"

"How is telling you that I can't see the TV not constructive?"

"Because we can move the fucking TV!"

"Language, Quinnie!"

"San, I am seriously this close to-," she took long, even breaths. This used to help her in dealing with this woman who was her once enemy and she had now pledged to spend the rest of her life with; there was once a time in her life when Quinn used to think that she was smart.

Santana, realizing that she was seriously frustrating Quinn, pulled her into her arms, kissing her neck. "I'm sorry, babe," she quickly apologized. "You have been so good about this." And she had. She really had. She had even packed up some of her things to make more room for Santana.

Although they had been sharing apartments since they said 'I do', really since Santana proposed, and they had kind of carved their niches out in the spaces that the other had left open, Quinn didn't want Santana to feel like she had to carve out space. Now that Santana no longer had her apartment, Quinn was striving to make it so that Santana didn't feel like she was now living in Quinn's place. "Honestly, though, I didn't see anything wrong with the way things were arranged before."

"I chose the arrangement before," was the answer she got. "Look, I know you didn't want to move in here with me, but we're stuck here for a few months and I just wanted to make this place feel more like," she shrugged, clearly frustrated. "Home."

Santana gave her a more reassuring squeeze. "First off, get the idea out of your head that I didn't want to move in with you. And second it does feel like home," she assured her. "It felt like home the first time I stepped foot into this apartment, and you know why?" Quinn shook her head, waiting for whatever snarky or condescending thing Santana had to say. "You're my home, Quinn. So no matter if I'm moving into your apartment, or we're living in a box on the side of the road, it will feel like home to me, because that's where I am when I'm with you."

After a minute, Quinn pushed her away.

"God, you've gotten so corny."

Santana smirked. "You know you love it, babe." Santana sat back down on the couch, testing it out. "Fair warning: this couch has got to go once we get our place."

Quinn sat down beside her. Santana automatically adjusted to hold her. "What's wrong with this couch? I love this couch."

"I know you love this couch, Q, you would."

"What's that mean?"

"This looks like June Cleaver's couch."

"It does not look like June Cleaver's couch! This is a nice, sophisticated, adult couch, unlike that monstrosity that you had taking up your space."

"Garbo was not a monstrosity, Garbo is a relic, and we will be finding space for him in our new place."

"You named the couch Garbo? Not really making a case for how that couch wasn't garbage. And what do you mean we will be finding space for it? That thing was marched down to the curve."

"That thing?" Santana demanded. "I've had that couch since college!"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "When you saved it from the dump? You graduated, shouldn't your furniture?"

"Oh, god, you sound like one of those stupid hipster commercials. You're so corporate America, babe. Just keep feeding into their lies. And like I would really just throw out Garbo. He's seen me through a lot. He's in storage just waiting to be sprung."

"That couch was a death trap!"

"That couch is probably the most comfortable piece of furniture on this planet, not like this couch."

"It's not coming into our new place."

"If you get to keep your Leave it to Beaver couch, I get to keep Garbo."

Quinn and Santana stared each other down. "Looks like we'll be buying some new furniture," Quinn eventually said. Santana smirked. "Speaking of getting new furniture for this hypothetical house of ours, I know we're not looking for it yet, per se, but what are we looking for?"

Santana picked up the remote at the same time that she contemplated the question. "Like in general, or do I need to get your notepad out so you can start making your lists?"

"Who said anything about lists?" Santana gave her a knowing look. Quinn rolled her eyes. "It's in the drawer."

Santana laughed, giving her wife a kiss before she jumped up to go retrieve said notebook. She handed it to Quinn with a low bow before resettling on the couch. She watched Quinn write out the words 'wish list', and underlined it. "So we're definitely looking for a house?"

 "Yes, and I'm okay with living a little outside of the city."

"But no major commutes."

"No," Santana easily agreed. "30 minutes at most."

"I think that should be a firm limit," Quinn agreed. Although they could get more house further outside of the city, she really didn't want to have to spend more than an hour in her car a day. Also, the idea of living in the suburbs, and living a suburban lifestyle was just as unappealing. She wrote down 30 minutes. She started to write down 'hardwoods' but paused. "Okay, so I know you said that you wanted hardwoods," Quinn stopped to blush because of her wife's reason to have them, "but is that something you want all the way throughout the house?"

Santana fluttered her eyebrows. "I don't know. Do we plan on fucking in every room in the house?" she questioned in an open-ended way. Quinn bit down on her lip, shifting on the seat. "And when I say hardwoods, I don't mean like that crappy high gloss stuff you see on every single home improvement show on television. I want a nice dark wood that looks like something you'd find in an 18th century lighthouse. But not in any of the bedrooms. I hate hardwood in bedrooms."

Quinn tried to understand Santana's logic. "Wait. You want hardwood floors so we don't have to worry about spillage, but you don't want them in the bedrooms? Isn't that backwards logic?"

"Food spillage. I have never once seen you eat anything in bed…other than me; I think we can do without the hardwoods in the bedroom, besides it gets too cold here in the winter to not have carpet in some form. Do you have a problem with hardwoods?"

Quinn shrugged. "I like hardwood fine, just not when they get all scuffed up." She gave it some more thought. "But I also don't like how carpet starts to look dingy after a while either."

"That's only if you don't take care of them."

"I suppose as long as you clean it regularly, it should be okay."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you did such a fine job when you took care of both of our places and, let's be honest: your cooking kind of sucks. So I figure you can clean and take care of the outside chores, I'll cook and be on maintenance and repair detail."

"It sounds like you've been thinking about this," Santana accused. "Who's staying home with the kids then?"

Santana watched as Quinn paused, then actually thought about it. Santana knew that her mind was going to her upbringing, of the 'Fabray Woman' model of what a wife and mother should be. The kind of woman who dressed up for dinner, and always had a spatula in one hand and a cognac in the other. "You," Quinn answered, blinking herself back to the present.

Santana merely shrugged in return. "And my cooking doesn't suck."

"No, you're right, that would be an improvement."

Santana folded her arms over her chest, pouting. "Fine. No more Saturday breakfasts for you."

Quinn met her at her own game. "But you promised!"

"That was before you insulted my cooking."

"I told you, I like your breakfasts fine, but you only seem to know like three and a half non-vegetarian dinner dishes, and a girl needs a little variety. And meat." Santana folded her arms over her chest. "Ah, San, don't pout," Quinn pleaded, sticking out her own lip. "You don't even like to cook."

"I like cooking for you," she huffed.

Quinn kissed her pout. "I like you cooking for me, too. But we both know that you buy deli food and try to pass it off as your own cooking on your nights to cook." Inwardly, Santana agreed, but she wasn't about to give in so easily. "I don't think that cooking and repair work is an even trade for me doing all of the cleaning and the outside chores plus taking care of your babies."

"Fine, I'll do the laundry, too."

"And we split the dishes."

Quinn attempted a compromise. "How about we do them together?"

Santana had to think about it because it still seemed like she was getting the lion's share. "Only if you're naked while you're doing them."

"There's no way that could possibly be sanitary. That defeats the whole purpose of even washing them."

"Gah, you're no fun."

"You're the one who stopped putting out for me," Quinn quipped. "That should be grounds for divorce right there."

"I'm beginning to think that you only married me because of my goods."

"Goods? Even your mouth has gotten PG rated! Where has my woman gone?"

"Oh, very funny, Fablo. Consider it payback for all the times that you held out on me in high school."

"I thought I was Flopez."

"You were formerly a Fabray, so your now Fab with a little Lo. I was formerly a Lopez, and will be once you just take my name, so I'm a little F and a lot of Lopez."

"Why don't we ever talk about you taking my name?"

Santana shook her head. "We've had this discussion before and we both know how it ends. Lucy Quinn Lopez: hotness, Santana Quintanilla Fabray? Hot mess. Besides, I'm my parents only child. Russell had two little Fabrays. "

"That were both girls. Frannie's last name is now Hanover."

"Not my fault that your sister wasn't more modern."

"There are like a million Lopezes! How many Fabrays do you know? Besides, Fabray comes first in the alphabet so that automatically makes it better."

"I can't even with you sometimes, Fablo. You just don't make sense."

"Okay, babe," Quinn mocked. "And me not putting out in high school: your fault."

"How so?"

"If you had pulled your head out of your ass and looked over in my direction, you," she pointed from Santana to herself, "could have been all up and in this. There was that one time, my folks were out of town for the weekend, and I'd just gotten a new swimsuit, and what did you tell me when I said you should come over? That you didn't want to spend the night looking at my chicken legs peeking out of the world's most prude swimsuit."

"You were seriously propositioning me?"

"And that, sweetheart, is why I'm the brains of this operation."

Santana sat back in thought, and Quinn just sat enjoying the moment. Santana idly played with Quinn's fingers. "Could you imagine what we would have been like in high school if we'd actually dated each other?" she said thoughtfully. "Picking songs to sing to each other in Glee…making out in the hallway…you carrying my books."

"Um…no. San, you'd be carrying my books, and walking me to all of my classes."

"Writing me little love notes," Santana went on, ignoring Quinn. "'All my love, sweetie. Can't wait to ravish you after Cheerios practice'. Smacking down Finn in the middle of the hallway when he called me out senior year." Santana pantomimed Quinn breaking out the fighting moves on Finn's head.

"That would be me, huh?" Quinn said with a quirked eyebrow.

"Definitely," Santana replied confidently.

Quinn put a finger to her temple. "Yet, you were the one who carried me over the threshold. And claim the title of the baddest bitch at McKinley."

"I was definitely that, and the hottest piece of ass the world ever did see. Which is why you'd be carrying my books."

"You would have totally been sprung, San," Quinn insisted.

Santana licked Quinn's neck, which caused the woman to squeal. Quinn smacked her. "What is wrong with you?"

Laughing, Santana just shrugged. "God, I don't think that McKinley would still be standing if we'd gotten together back then. But just so's you know, I loved watching your chicken legs."

"Fuck you, San, I don't have chicken legs!"

Santana pulled up the bottom of Quinn's pants, showing off her legs. She traced her calves with her hand, giving an extra squeeze. "I think we should have a dungeon room. You know like a fun room in the basement or something. Ooh, we could be swingers. That could be our thing! You know, once we start again."

"Swingers? You want to have sex with other women and possibly men?"

"No, but I could like flirt and try to pick up pretty girls, and then right when we're like making out or something, you could come in all jealous and possessive she-hulk Quinn, and be like, 'That's my woman, bitch' and then you can spend all night reclaiming your territory, and I can be all like 'Quinn, you're so fucking hot when you're possessive, fuck me'."

Quinn's head tilted to the side and she just watched her wife's face go through the gamut of facial expressions. Santana paused in her actions. "Why're you looking at me like that, Q, it's creepy?"

"You're just so ridiculous. We're not going to have a dungeon room."

"Aw, babe, you don't want to go all Fifty Shades of Gay with me? You'd be really sexy as my bitch."

Quinn's fingers worked their way into Santana's hair, tugging a handful of hair firmly. "Under no circumstances would I be your bitch."

Santana rolled her eyes. "What evs. But you are mine."

Quinn nodded. "I am."

"Add four bedrooms to the list."

"Four?"

"At least. Like if we could find a seven bedroom for the price of a four, you won't find me complaining. Then we could like constantly have visitors coming, and if they stayed too long, we could put on Let's Get it On, on repeat, and we could go at it for hours straight until they got the hint. And we should have a dedicated room for TT and Squishy because we both know that Mercedes, at least, is going to come to us on their anniversaries and beg us to watch the kid for them."

"TT?"

"It's my new name for the Trouty Tot."

"We're going to need a room for our books."

"I like that. And I want a Victorian." She gave a look at Quinn. "I would really like to have a Victorian, but that is negotiable. With a garden of course."

"Oh, of course. I wouldn't mind a fixer-upper."

"Who's going to do the fixing up?" Santana question, curiously.

"I will."

"You, Q? No offense, babe, but you don't strike me as the fixer-up type. Although…you in a tool belt, with a wrench and hammer, hot!"

"So, while we're on this topic, how much house can we afford?"

Quinn started to pull her laptop to her, but Santana was already calculating in her head. After thinking about it for a few minutes she wrote down three numbers on Quinn's notepad. "You're going to explain that, right?"

"Taking in both of our incomes, the top number is what I think we could get by paying monthly for our mortgage, the second number is a 20% down payment, and the third is a price range for our house."

Quinn looked the number over, then squinted at it, as if that would change it. "We have that for a down payment?"

Santana gave a slow nod. "More, if you got money stashed away in a secret account," she teased. She was just teasing. Quinn had only been out in the working world for 3 years, after a slightly better than crummy internship, and an Ivy League graduate degree that was paid for mostly through a partial scholarship, good faith and credit cards. She was just getting to a place where she could start saving. Still, she was surprised at the number that Santana put down.

"We have that right now?"

"More or less. That's what I anticipate having by February."

Quinn did some quick math. "Why is the monthly payment so high if the amount of house we can afford is, comparatively, low?"

"Because the monthly is what we'll need to pay to pay off a house in six years."

"There's no such thing as a six-year mortgage."

"No," Santana agreed, "but there're fifteen year mortgages and I figure we can pay twice plus each month."

"Six years?"

"I don't want a house payment," Santana explained. "Everyone kind of pretends that a mortgage isn't debt, but it is, and you know if something happens to one of us, we shouldn't have to worry about losing something that we put our heart and souls into because of it, you know? I mean, sure it's not going to get us a mega mansion, but I'd rather the peace of mind."

Quinn got a particular look on her face. "When can we start looking?"

"After Christmas?"

"That'll only give us a month to find something that we like!" Quinn protested. "And really that's only eight days if you think about it."

Santana laughed. "We can't have more than a month if we start in January?"

"No!" Quinn said firmly. "You owe me this, by my birthday, or we're moving into a trailer and you'll just have to live with it."

Santana chuckled because horny Quinn was kind of fun.

"After Thanksgiving, then."

Quinn's expression changed at that word. "About Thanksgiving…" she hedged.

"What about Thanksgiving?" she questioned, uncomfortably.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Okay…just promise to keep an open mind, sweetie, okay?" Santana's face momentarily shifted at the endearment, but she was not to be so easily swayed. "I know it's like our first Thanksgiving now that we're married." And the first Thanksgiving that they've spent together since the first one after they graduated high school. "First Thanksgiving is kind of a Fabray tradition. When a Fabray gets married, for her first Thanksgiving the new bride is supposed to host the family dinner."

"Well, it's a good thing you married a woman. You're all kinds of exiled, right?" Santana's face was so hopeful that Quinn almost hated to break the news to her. "Right?"

"Not…exactly."

"What do you mean by not exactly?"

"I thought like you did, too, but Grandmother Fabray called me a little while ago,"

"You have a grandmother?"

"-reminding me of my 'duty', and I can't back out of this."

"No."

"It's a tradition, Santana."

"No,"

"It goes back for more than sixty years."

"No," she said more firmly this time.

"I'll cook you whatever you want," Quinn bartered. Santana considered that for all of a second, but her favorite dish was simply not worth being around…how many Fabrays was she talking about here? It was just mom, dad, and Frannie's family at the wedding. Did Quinn have other family? Santana wondered if they were all blonde, Stepford wives. "Naked."

"It's just going to be Russell, Judy, Frannie, and co. right?"

Quinn gave an eager, placating nod. "Yes. Just mom, dad, Frannie and her family."

"That's it?"

"Well, and Grandmother and Grandfather Fabray."

Santana breathed out. "That's it?"

"And Uncle Chester, and Great Uncle Scott, and my Great Aunt Lucy." Santana looked like she swallowed something unpleasant. "And their families," Quinn added underneath her breath. "But that's all."

"'Oh, but that's all?' That's half the goddamn planet, Luce! What the hell is wrong with your family? We're gay! You married the 'dyke of Lima Ohio!' Don't you remember the scandal back in high school? Aren't your family like the poster children for conservative America?"

"They are, but a tradition is a tradition, and daddy has been going around talking us up to all of the relatives, so really, this is your fault! If you had just let me go on hating him like wanted, it wouldn't even be an issue."

"Did he mention that I'm Mexican too?" she questioned hopefully. "Do they know that?"

"Santana!"

"No, Quinn! All signs pointed to your family exiling us. I can't be in a room full of Fabray's!"

Quinn started to pout. "Remember when you said that your family was my family now? They're you're family, too. And you don't want to disappoint your family, do you? Do you want them to think that you don't love me? That our marriage isn't real?"

"No…" Something slowly dawned on the very unhappy young woman. "Wait…who are they expecting to be 'the wife'?"

Quinn placed a tender hand on her wife's face, cupping her cheek, and softly stroking it with her thumb. She leaned in to kiss her. Santana pulled away. "Oh hells no. Unh unh…no, no way!"

"Sanny!"

"I can't serve a room full of Fabrays, Quinn!" Santana shrieked. "What do you expect me to do? Dress up in one of your garden dresses with a cardigan, my hair in a bun, and a plastered smile on my face as I sit a pumpkin soufflé on the table, and regale the expectant crowd with tales of how domesticity is the best thing ever?" From the look on Quinn's face, that appeared to be exactly what Quinn was expecting Santana to do. "Do you not understand that that's like my worst nightmare…compounded!"

"It's just once."

"Do you know how much therapy I'm going to need? You are asking your gay, part Mexican, part Puerto Rican, possibly Dominican, part black wife to actually serve the whitest family in America!"

"No, I'm asking you to be accommodating to my family, and be the charming, and loving woman I know you to be."

"Quinn…do you realize how much therapy I'm going to need after this? You vowed to love me…if you loved me, you wouldn't ask me to do this for you."

Ha, two could play that game. Quinn's eyes got really big, and round, and large drops formed in her eyes and started to fall. "Oh, please, Fablo. I know what real crying looks like! Cut that out!"

"I didn't think that my family would even except us, but they have, and you said how important you think family is, and I just thought," she sniffed.

Santana shook her head. "I'm not buying it, Quinn!"

Quinn's bottom lip trembled and her breath hitched. Tears fell in rivers. "I just love you so much, San, and I want them to get the chance to love you, too."

Santana gathered Quinn up in her arms, hugging her tightly as she realized that maybe Quinn wasn't faking after all. "Oh, baby, don't cry."

Quinn continued to sob. Santana pulled her closer to her, stroking her back. "Alright, fine, baby. We can spend Thanksgiving with your family."

"I don't want to if you don't want to, S. I don't want to make you."

"You're not. Come on, you know I was going to say yes eventually, anyway…I was just giving you a hard time. I'm sorry. I want to spend Thanksgiving with them."

Quinn sniffled, pulling back to look at Santana's face. "You do."

Santana nodded.

Just as suddenly as it started, the waterworks, the sobbing, the trembling all disappeared, and a smug, satisfied look rested on Quinn's face. "See, now why couldn't we have just done that from the beginning?"

"You evil, diabolical, manipulative bitch Quinn Fabray-Lopez! I can't believe you! You…you cheater!"

"All is fair in love and war."

"I'm not doing it."

"You have to! You said you would. No half-sies, no take backs," Quinn taunted.

"I can't believe I fell for that!"

"Did you forget I was a drama major freshman year?"

"You're gonna owe me big time for this, Q!"

Quinn could concede that. I mean, if she had nightmares of a roomful of Fabrays and she had grown up as one of them… "I promise, I'll help you with as many of the dishes as possible, and for doing this for me, you can have anything you want as your reward."

"Anything?" Santana clarified. "Like you'll dress-up like the naughty Orphan Annie, and let me DP you with you bent over the back rail of our porch?"

Quinn pressed her lips to Santana's ear. "I'll let you tie me up spread eagle to the table, and have me for desert."

Santana shook her head to get the image out of her mind, but for another reason, too. As delicious as that sounded…"No," she said to Quinn's surprise. "As much fun as that would be, Q, I'm not going to do this because of a reward." She got a serious look on her face. "I don't want you to do something for me out of guilt, and I don't want to do things for you because you weasel me into them. Lies, manipulation, and bribes is not how I want things to be between us. That's how we were in high school, and you remember how well that worked for us back then. I will do this for you because you're my wife, and I love you, and you asked me to, not because I expect anything in return.

"Q, I know that you don't expect good things to stay good for very long; I know it's hard for you to believe in them, which is why I'm being so serious about this. I love you, just you. As much as I love watching you walk out of the house in your power suits, I'd love you without the job. If something happens to your back, and you end up back in your wheel chair, or god forbid there is another accident down the road, and you get scarred up and dismembered, I will still love you; I will still want to be with you. I will complain, just like I plan on doing some serious griping to you about this Thanksgiving thing, but I will still be there for you.

"I like that you are beautiful, and that you have a smoking hot bod, and you're aggressive, and smart, but I love you, all parts of you, all of you, and even though we were both joking around, I need you to know and understand that this isn't puppy love. I don't want you to ever doubt that. I made you my wife because that title, and this relationship, it means more than I could possibly express with any other word. That being said, I think we should add back porch to the list because now that that thought's in my head, I can't unwant it. Also, I knew you were faking…I mean come on Fablo. You're not that good of an actress."

Quinn gasped. "I so am! I had the lead in the freshman showcase!"

Santana patted her hand in a way that couldn't be considered as anything other than patronizing. "Alright, baby. And I'm not wearing a dress."

Quinn got a no non-sense look on her face. "You will be wearing a dress, and not one that makes the nuns cry, either."

"What nuns do you know? Nuns don't cry; they slap the devil out of you with their rulers."

"I bet you know a lot about that."

"At least I was always honest, Quinnie. Do you know why I stopped inviting you to confessional with me? I was so convinced you would bring the church down because you would lie that it became self-preservation."

"Really? You were worried about me?"

"I may be a bad sinner, Q, but I'm honest as hell. You wanted to save face with the priest; I took my penance like a champ. I loved confessing."

Quinn laughed, digging her fingers into her wife's side until she started giggling. "I bet you did, you narcissistic piece of work."

"When God makes you as close to perfect as possible, it would be a sin to not want to spread your appreciation for his work all over! Oooh, that can be our thing!"

Quinn gave a confused tilt of her head. "What, church?"

"Yeah. We can start the cult of Santana Lopez, where we can put this divineness on display, and I can be worshipped as the divine deity that I am."

"Next time you see this bud man, I want to talk to him, because I want whatever it is that you're smoking."

"Ooh, that's it! That's our thing! We can open a dispensary!" Santana reached for Quinn's notepad. "You finish making this place ours, I'm going to get started on this." Quinn watched Santana very carefully draw a marijuana leaf on the notepad, and shook her head. She curled up against her wife, and Santana adjusted so that she could hold her, a smile forming on her lips as she continued to do what she'd been doing.