Title: Get up on this! (or Sue Sylvester hates fat people and Jillian Michaels.)

Fandom: Glee - Quinn Fabray / Santana Lopez

Author: letscall_l

Disclaimer: I do not own or mean to offend.

Warnings: femslash, smut, nc-17

Word Count: 8318

Summary: Quinn is forced to leave her post-baby funk when Sue Sylvester ropes Santana in to be her personal trainer. And then some. Post-s1

Author's Notes: Based on this prompt on the glee_kink_meme

Author's Notes 2: Thankyou so much to _dangerzone911 for beta-ing this :)

The red Cheerio's lettermen jacket seems way too hot for the summer, yet its appearance - it's meaning - still strikes Quinn in her heart. Partly out of fear of what that red uniform meant, and partly because of who was currently wearing it.

"Who paid you to do this?" Quinn looks between an apologetic looking Mercedes and the sudden and unplanned appearance of Santana Lopez in the Jones' house. Her mind screams set-up. There's no way Santana would willingly seek her out here.

"I'm going to pay you to do this." Sue Sylvester drawls monotonously. She flashes the scrawled cheque in front of Santana's eyes, and for a brief second all she can see; (apart from the blinding red of Coach Sylvester's tracksuit;) is her and Brittany's College tuition fees in whatever-soon-to-be-decided-state paid for.

"Now I don't care how you do it, who you step over, push past, bury." There's a favorable intonation to that last suggestion. "I just need to know that when that former parasitic container waddles her way back into these halls next fall, that I'm going to be able to see around her well enough to aim the cannon I'm buying,"

Santana quickly stops herself from shuddering at the thought of what terror awaited them all if Coach Sylvester actually owned a cannon.

"Yes, ma'am." Santana addresses her like the underling she is compared to her Coach and stands.

She absently looks to the empty chair next to her and thinks of Brittany sunning it up in Europe with her parents. If she gets that money...

"Oh and S?"

Coach Sylvester looks seriously at her retreating form with a bare hint of sincerity that scares the living crap out of Santana.

"Your captaincy is riding on this."

And as much as she doesn't like the idea of getting Quinn back on the Cheerios, there is no way in hell Santana is going to lose that.

"No one is paying me to be here." Santana snaps at the sitting blonde. Quinn raises her eyebrow suspiciously at the new pair of tennis shoes the girl is wearing, but chooses not to comment.

Quinn has to bite back the time-long instinct to snap and glare at Mercedes. It's especially hard because she's so used to having an excuse to do it. But no one, Glee Club or not, is going to accept 'Pregnancy hormones are making me moody.' a month after having the baby.

The baby, her mind distances.

Mercedes takes her restrained silence as acceptance, it seems, and her shoulders visibly relax.

Quinn momentarily feels bad. The moment lasts slightly more than it would have done in the past because she doesn't live with Mercedes anymore, and technically the girl has a right not to have to put up with her crap. Quinn sucks in a breath and hopes that Mercedes isn't rethinking letting her hang out with her for most of the summer.

"I know you said you're over it and everything, but anyone with eyes can tell that you're not." Mercedes offers as a prelude to the intended solution that apparently starts with Santana.

Quinn just hopes this solution doesn't end in her being stuck at home with her mom hiding.

But as Santana Lopez strolls around the former bedroom she resided in at Mercedes' house, like she owns the place because she's wearing her Cheerio's letterman jacket, Quinn rethinks that hope. The hope actually thinks hiding is a good idea right about now.

And then she wonders again why the heck Santana is wearing that jacket in the summer.

"Why is she here?" Quinn wants her voice to sound as forceful as it once was. It doesn't, it hasn't for months. Sometimes she wonders if the baby took more from her than her body.

And was still taking.

Santana, to her defense, doesn't look to thrilled to see her either.

"I know you guys have had your differences..."

There's a shared eye-roll that contradicts the mutual thought of 'understatement much?' .

"...but you were friends before all this baby-drama," Mercedes keeps glancing between them, like she's afraid one of them is about to bolt. Or shove someone.

Quinn, despite her disadvantage of not knowing what's going on, snorts a little at the statement. Her friendship with Santana was interesting in hindsight. More of a push and pull motion that propelled them through classes, cliques, boys and whoever else thought it would be wise to stand in their path.

Friends. Okay, if thats what Mercedes wants to call it.

Santana's lips are pursed and white, like she wants to agree with Quinn's mental thoughts, and Quinn doesn't know why she's holding in the sharp remark she's obviously dying to spit at her.

"You just need to get out of this funk."

Quinn can try to deny it. She'd probably convince anyone who didn't know her. But the littered comfort chocolate in her room and all seasons of LOST that she swears she doesn't own, piled on her bedside, say otherwise.

It feels like there's more than just 2 sets of eyes on her. She caves with a subtle sigh. When she looks up Mercedes is smiling.

"Alright." She drags in resignation.

Mercedes brightens at this, probably because it partly means that whatever Santana has in store is going to free up her social schedule. Quinn hates that Mercedes has more of a social life than she does. Even if it's only Kurt Hummel.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Santana murmurs. Before Quinn can shoot her the glare she's warmed up all day the Cheerios captain is speaking again;

"I'll be here tomorrow when you guys are reminding me less of the cast of The Secret Life..."

They watch her back out of the bedroom. Each step Santana takes away lessens the tightness in Quinn's chest.

Which rushes back all at once when Santana leaves her departing message.

"And no, we WON'T be fucking SINGING ABOUT IT."

-x-

The flashing digits of her borrowed bedside clock illuminates Santana in a devilish red light. Its 6 am. And Quinn thinks the colour is very, very ironic.

"I . Hate. You." Her throat growls out the sleep.

She had hoped by staying over at Mercedes' house again it would somehow delay Santana from finding her.

Santana's smirk worms further across her cheeks in a way Quinn remembers appreciating, once upon a time.

Apparently it hadn't delayed her.

"Sunny Q." Quinn can't tell if Santana is tilting her head to patronize her or if she just fell asleep in a funny position.

None of that matters when the covers are violently ripped from her lukewarm body. All the air leaves her like a punch in the gut. Her arms wrap around her hollow stomach for no real reason other than to hide.

Then she realizes Santana can only see her outline in the dark room. The only light emits from the alarm clock and a crack in the dark curtains. She can't see her body.

"Get up. We're going jogging."

-x-

She's used to changing quietly in Mercedes' house. A practiced art developed over a few weeks of silently showering in the middle of the night and watching television downstairs when she couldn't sleep for the baby's kicking.

So its only a short while later that she finally makes her way into the kitchen, dressed, but definitely not impressed.

"What are you wearing?" Santana snipes. She's holding two water bottles that sweat in her hand, like they've just been filled with ice.

Quinn looks down at herself. She doesn't understand the girl's objection.

"You said jogging." She fires back.

"I said 'jogging', not pilates." Santana stalks round the Jones' kitchen island to corner her. "You can't jog like that."

Sweatpants hug her legs and the red sweatshirt emblazoned with 'McKinley Athletics' are the most comfortable things she owns. Let alone train in.

"What's wrong with this?" Quinn tries to keep her growing annoyance under control. Santana, however, doesn't.

"You look pregnant."

"I was pregnant."

"And now you're not, so get the sweatshirt off. I'm not having you pass out in this heat."

Santana's fingers dart for the end of the jumper as she sounds like she almost cares.

"There's no freaking way I can lug your dead-weight back here like I used to."

Quinn slaps her hands away.

"Santana." She doesn't gift the girl with her former nickname. The tone of her voice lowers and Quinn crosses her arms over her belly protectively. She's not sure if its just to stop Santana raising her jumper.

"Look, eggo-no-preggo or not, Mercedes 'asked' me to drag your emo-sunshine-ass out into the real world again." Santana digs her heels into the floor in determination. Quinn's seen this before.

"You gave her up. You wanted to do it and now you actually have a life to live again."

"You don't understand." Quinn doesn't want to make her either.

"What I understand is that no matter what our slightly deranged Spanish teacher says, not everything can be solved by singing about it."

Quinn stares at the sheet music in her hands and hums out the tune before feeling a wave of something more than her just being out of tune.

"This is ridiculous."

The music falls to the floor.

'Blink 182 - 'I miss you'

Quinn knows this. It doesn't mean she hasn't tried.

"Look,"

Quinn's eyes hesitantly do. Santana is the rock and the hard place. Its a balance she can bare to stand in front of but never in between.

", I'll never understand, I actually don't care either. What I care about is come September when me and Britt are hoisting you up that pyramid again, we'll be complaining about back pains by Christmas..."

Quinn frowns.

"...and having to worry about you setting up that awful Christ Crusaders again because you're too sexually frustrated,"

A heated blush flares up as Santana hits two nails on the head.

"And that is why we're relying on the time proven method to solve all of our, but mostly your, problems."

Quinn's hands are suddenly scrambling to catch the book Santana drops in the air in front of her.

Internationally Ranked Cheerleadering Coach, Sue Sylvester sneers back at her.

" I'm a winner and you're fat?"

-x-

The sun stains the dry green grass of McKinley High School's football field. Quinn hasn't stood on it in almost 7 months.

And she's not now either.

"Regretting your outfit choice? Other than the fact its horrendous?" Santana's distant voice echoes from the field below.

Every other thought in her mind is; revenge, revenge, revenge.

This conveniently falls into every step taken up the bleachers that Santana is making her run. She hasn't done this since she was on the Cheerios, but every muscle in her body screams at the familiarity. And at the pain.

Here Quinn had foolishly hoped Santana would ease her into it again.

Knees rise dangerously near her stomach in a way they couldn't before. Her breathing is wild and ragged. Quinn never wants to feel like this again.

Out of shape. Dead weight. Fat.

She appreciates the irony in how feeling fat dictates most of the life choices. It's almost too cliche.

"You're ass looks fat, Fabray!"

Quinn trips on the next step.

-x-

The monotonous insults come from Santana at random intervals. Just far apart enough to stop Quinn from relaxing into her exercise.

By the time she's running up the bleachers a second time her whole body is burning in embarrassment and flushed in sweat. The sweatshirt wasn't a good decision.

"Man-hands called! She wants her boy-hips back!"

Quinn dodges the same trick step that caught her shin before. It still stings but surprisingly not as much as Santana's words do.

"How many times do I..." She pants turning at the top to come back down. "...have to do this?"

Santana pauses like she's seriously considering Quinn's words, or trying to hear them from her place on the football field. That or she's just standing with her hands on her hips to emphasize how much better a condition her toned body is in.

"How long do you want to keep looking like Jessica Simpson?"

Quinn involuntary skims how Santana's looks in her shorts and tank top. Its only when she almost falls down the bleachers that she realizes that jealousy isn't all she's feeling.

"Point taken." She mutters bitterly.

-x-

Mercedes is supportive enough to look a little sorry when Quinn stumbles in late afternoon. She's on hand to help her limp the short distance between the front door, where Quinn has been allowed to escape Santana for now, and the couch which has been her friend for a good amount of time.

The couch continues to be her most loyal friend when Mercedes hands her a folder tells her that Santana has told Mercedes' Mom that Quinn has to follow the diet plan, currently beaming in her palm, or she should kick Quinn out. Again.

"You know I'd never do that." Mercedes winces.

The diet plan weighs heavily. Quinn knows its just the beginning.

-x-

Quinn comes to learn that apart from jogging and sex, making her do push ups is one of Santana's favorite things. There are a few reasonable explanations as to why but the fact that Quinn was paired with her during the push-up part of 'Express Yourself' lends a heavy hand.

"Your arms look like wings."

"My arms are going to wing something in a second."

"Try it Tubbers."

Quinn would but she can't actually see Santana, let alone hit her.

"I don't hear counting." Santana calls as she paces back and forth behind her. All Quinn can see her white tennis shoes in her eye-line every once and a while.

This would unnerve her as much if Santana was walking in-front of her and not commenting on what her sweatpants (Quinn refuses to wear anything more revealing considering she's still feels like her legs are expanding) make her ass look like.

Santana has always been creative with her metaphors.

Quinn's arms ache. She feels as if she's still carrying another person inside her as she pushes up and shakes down. Santana watches how deep Quinn's push-ups dip, pointing out when she's not dipping low enough.

"Stop for a second."

Her body tenses and her nonexistent abs harden. Quinn's elbows are bent in a way that isn't meant to support her weight for long. Santana exploits this.

"Do you need a drink?" She asks innocently.

Quinn tilts her neck sideways. Santana looks down on her. Its nothing new.

The fact Santana is just wearing a black sports bra is.

Her mouth suddenly feels very dry.

"Yes..."

Santana dumps half the bottle over her head. It soaks through her pony tail and the cool water fills her eyes. Panting she struggles to hold her position while shaking the water from her face as well as the image of Santana in her sports bra from her mind.

Quinn waits next time.

-x-

Its a rush of relief when Quinn finishes out the first week. She's made it through the self-titled 'breaking' period were Santana had expected, or predicted, for her to furiously leave and give up, storming off the football field they frequent to home.

She's made it through the insults, the drenching, the trips, falls, push ups, sit ups, laps and laps and laps.

And her bruised body hates her for it.

"Whatever. Get over it." Santana throws her a skipping rope Quinn knows belongs to Brittany. Its pink.

Quinn pulls herself to her feet and avoids staring at Santana's stomach. The girl has taken to flaunting her season-ready body in her face at every opportunity.

Santana calls it motivation.

Quinn has several other words for it.

"I've always wanted someone to skip for me on command." Santana leers as Quinn readies the rope in her hands.

"Doesn't Brittany fill that position nicely?" Quinn snaps. There's a small follow up of glee at the satisfaction Santana's scowl gives her.

It's quickly splashed off her face. Quinn pants harshly through her mouth as the ice water reminds her of a slushie to the face.

Santana discards of the empty water bottle.

"Among others." She smirks victoriously.

Quinn begins skipping.

-x-

The white, square piece of technology is the smallest thing in the entire changing room.

Yet to Quinn, it's the most daunting thing she's seen in the two weeks Santana has owned every waking moment of her body.

"What are you waiting for?" Santana bumps her shoulder from behind. Quinn still doesn't budge any closer to the scales. She hated them enough when Coach Sylvester made them weigh in every two hours during her freshmen year.

Santana sighs impatiently.

"Do I have to place you on the thing myself?" She bites. Despite this Quinn almost fails and says 'yes'.

Her bare foot hovers over the device. It's nerve-wracking to think about the little numbers that will soon threaten and taunt her about her slow start towards her post-pregnancy body. She takes a deep breath-

"Oh for fu-" Santana roughly grabs at her hips and shoves her forward. Startled Quinn clamps her own hands over Santana's and doesn't let go until the numbers on the screen have slowed, stopped and confirmed themselves.

"You gonna let go of my hands anytime Q?" Santana digs her nails in a tad. Quinn bites her lip.

The digital number blares up and Quinn is almost scared for Santana to see.

"Hm."

Quinn feels Santana beside her. The girl's body is cooler that hers, Quinn is still burning from the session she's just endured, and the difference in temperature makes her lean into Santana slightly.

"Well?" Quinn ventures. Her loss isn't monumental, but it's not something Coach Sylvester would usually lynch her over.

"At least you didn't gain weight."

-x-

"Push Quinn! Push it!"

Week three comes around with no warning, partially because there's not really a difference or end to week two.

Except Santana is determined to ride her harder than she did before the weigh in.

"This is fucking easy Q. I don't even weigh that much. Move your legs!" Santana's voice pounds in her head and blasts in her ears. Probably because she's giving the girl a piggyback up and down the bleachers.

"Go, go, go, go."

Quinn grasps Santana's thighs closer to her sides in the hope that'll make it easier. Her palms are sweaty and Santana insists on pulling at the back of her shirt instead of wrapping her arms around her.

'Always has to be difficult,' Quinn thinks.

"Move it!"

"I am!"

"We're still on the same step!"

Quinn can't tell the difference. She can't tell how far she's climbed or how many times she's done it. All she can focus on is how much it hurts, how loud Santana is, how she can feel the girl's breathing down her neck and how warm their bodies are pressed together like this.

She stops. She ignores how Santana practically screams at her for doing so, and stops. Her dizzying head must be frazzling more than she thought in the sun because she's totally not appreciating this. She's not glad, she can't be glad, that she's lunging up steps with Santana on her back. It's insane to even think like that.

"What are you doing?" It's her whisper. It's her.

She is thankful.

The steps follow.

-x-

Santana appears from the school's sports supplies with one of the bags the boys use to practice ramming into each other in football. Quinn gets stupidly excited about hitting Santana before she realizes it's too good to be true.

"Kick the bag." Santana attaches it to her left arm and takes a wider leg stance. For a moment she seems almost serious, intense about the training, and then she takes her phone out and continues a phone call.

"Back." She announces. Quinn's face drops in disbelief.

"Really?" She shoots. To her dismay Santana merely glares and jabs her eyes to the bag.

'Get on with it.' She mutters furiously trying to keep up her conversation.

Quinn is suddenly grateful for the fact she's got an opportunity for physical violence because she is so sick of Santana's bullcrap.

Her leg swings out and meets the bag. It's heavier to hit than she originally predicted, but soon her kicks adjust and hit the padding in an irregular rhythm. Santana doesn't budge.

"How's Europe?"

Kick, Quinn narrows her eyes at the phone and Santana's level tone of voice. 'Brittany.'

"Really? So they're taking you there?" Santana has to move a little with Quinn's next effort. The thump echoes in the air. "Just stay away from red lights..."

A snort follows Quinn's next kick.

"I don't care, they're not pretty."

Kick, Kick, Kick.

Quinn manages to somehow be heard over the phone in Europe as Santana's conversation changes.

"What? It's just Quinn." Santana glares and widens her stance, digging her heels to meet the increasing intensity of Quinn's angered kicks. She's as determined to hold her conversation as much as Quinn is determined to interrupt it.

"No,...we're working out."

'I'm working out.' Quinn corrects to herself. She's sure she's the only one pouring with sweat on this football field.

"Not that kind of work out B."

A cringe is mirrored on their faces at the possibility of what Brittany had suggested.

"Because she's fat."

Quinn snarls in an offended manner at the offhanded way Santana puts this to Brittany. Santana then finds herself several steps away from her previous position when Quinn thrusts her knee into the bag instead of her leg.

"...because she wants to get rid of the weight she put on." Santana's pointed look suggest that her explanation isn't going to get anymore flattering so she should just keep kicking.

There's a pause in which Brittany babbles nonsensically on one end and Santana is unusually quiet. Nothing breaks the air bar Quinn's thudding kicks.

"No B..." An exhausted sigh fills the unvoiced pause. "The baby isn't still in there."

A sharp shooting streak of hurt flashes from Quinn's chest at the 'b' word. It feels like Santana's aimed her own well placed kick to the center of her chest, smashing her rib cage and puncturing her lungs. The air flees her body and the leg that's in mid swing towards the bag hits at a delicate angle.

And then the pain isn't just in her mind.

"Fuuuuaa-" Quinn feels the elastic band muscle in her upper thigh snap and seize and do a whole bunch of other things that equal her eating dirt on the floor in pain.

Santana still finishes her phone call with a hasty goodbye.

"Roll over." Her hands push on Quinn's shoulder. "Roll over, what happened?"

"Hamstring." Quinn winces as her body is moved and Santana's hands find the injured leg. Her sweatpants are rolled up but they won't reach the area in pain unless Quinn takes them off altogether.

Santana's carefully straightens out her limb, accompanied by Quinn's suppressed curses.

"Just swear Q, get it out." Santana tells her distracted in her task.

Mutters of 'freak', 'frick', 'frak' are the closest Quinn gets.

"It hurts." Quinn bites.

"Obviously." Santana replies looking at her without sympathy. "But if you think you're getting out of the rest of this session you better think again, now, shift."

Quinn's leg is held steadily up by Santana as she moves between her legs. The dull throb of pain blinds Quinn temporarily to exactly what is about to happen.

"I'm going to stretch you out, and if you bitch about it I'll make it hurt more." Santana dictates lifting Quinn's leg on her shoulder. It's a familiar sight to Quinn, as Santana usually had Brittany stretch her like this before Cheerios practice.

From the ground Quinn nods.

Santana pushes as lightly as she can, Quinn assumes, but the pain still worms it's way through her body.

Hisses stream from her chapped lips as Santana leans and leans.

"Count it." Santana murmurs. Quinn begins a mental countdown for Santana to hold the stretch and notices how close-

And notices where her hips-

And where her leg-

She almost can't reach 15. Santana's eyes bore down on her, knowingly - tauntingly, during the stretch and Quinn doesn't want Santana to lean any further forward or move her hips any closer to somewhere on her body that could possibly misinterpret the contact. Besides the parts already misinterpreting the way Santana is touching her.

The girl's initial words of warning about Quinn's sexual frustration come rushing back to her in the form of her blushing cheeks.

"30." She gasps.

But Santana doesn't move.

If Quinn could piece together in pictures or in words what the brown eyes staring her down conveyed, or fathom the possibility that Santana Lopez was born with the gene that allowed her to apologize - she thinks the expression on Santana's face would say it all.

"Walk the rest off."

-x-

Laps are Santana's fourth favorite thing. At least that's what Quinn guesses.

It's more believable than thinking Santana doesn't want her to pull anymore muscles until she can run properly on her leg again; because it's Santana.

Santana doesn't do pity. Or regret. Or a host of other emotions bar anger, lust, self-gratification etc.

Rounding off her 3rd lap of the football field Quinn spies her wannabe-trainer watching her from the upcoming length.

The slim form she possess, the one Quinn is chasing herself, doesn't seem that far off for either of them. The training has started to show in the last week and Quinn feels better. Physically and emotionally.

'And to think...' Quinn passes Santana. '...she's responsible for the growth of someone's happiness. What is going on with the world?'

"You're a fucking snail Fabray."

Quinn almost trips, and nearly does if not for the gripping hand on her arm. Santana sneers with what seems to be a good nature.

"Coach is going to eat you alive when you come back." She remarks as she runs beside Quinn. She's actually running with her. It's a first.

"Who says..." Quinn looks ahead for the next turn. "I'm coming back."

They match each other step for step, arm for arm around the next corner.

"If you don't come back..."

Quinn awaits a selfless reason.

"I'm going to kick your ass again." Her seriousness is noted to Quinn before Santana suddenly sprints ahead of her.

Quinn can't think of when, apart from in training, Santana has succeeded in kicking her ass.

Santana's shirt clings to her body as she jogs. There's are no splatters of beaded sweat on her body. She moves effortlessly away from her in a way Quinn envies and admires. And then...

"This isn't a race! Get BACK here now!"

-x-

"Unless you puke, faint or die, you're going to keep going!" Santana belts at her, close range, through a bull horn.

Where did she even get-?

"5 more." Santana barks.

"What?" Quinn's arms feel like jelly that's about to slide off a plate, or in her case the chin-up bar. "I just did 30, you said-"

"Q-" Santana paces until she's a bull horns' length away from her face and then brings the horn between them. Quinn immediately flinches at the severe amplification of Santana's voice.

"...shut up and LISTEN to me."

Listen Quinn does. And realizes that she's heard that somewhere before. Not from Cheerios practice, not from Coach Sylvester and not even previously from Santana.

"Oh my-"

Quinn's heard that from Mercedes' TV.

"Did you just...did you just quote Jillian Michaels from the Biggest Loser?" Quinn has to pause, still holding her chin over the bar, to ogle at Santana. Who apparently watches 'The Biggest Loser'.

The Cheerio places a hand on her hip and idly looks at her fingernails. Quinn doesn't buy her lack of interest though, on the inside Santana is gleaming.

"Unlike some people, I do actually keep up with my training, and unlike you," Santana takes a step forward, forcing Quinn back underneath the bar. "I didn't get pregnant and miss out on the national cheerleading competition she judged."

"She what?" Quinn drops from the bar, kicking up dust with her landing and stalks to Santana. "Coach Sylvester hates her."

"Coach Sylvester hates fat people." Santana pointedly looks Quinn up and down. "Michaels was overweight as a kid, Coach doesn't forget."

The burn of Santana's stare outweighs her words.

"You can't beat me Fabray." Santana's laugh fills the sound in her world.

It's a rare sound. Quinn's only heard it a handful of times, and that's still less than the amount of times Quinn's seen Santana cry.

Santana is sprinting ahead of her again, smiling back as she runs faster.

"Stop running! You can't outrun me!" Quinn feels a smile on her face. It feels strange. She can't remember the last time she smiled.

Santana weaves in and out of football cones and bleachers and hallways. Quinn follows disregarding how the football field has changed into the inside of the girl's locker room. Rows and rows of red lockers paste her reflection in distorted ways.

Steam wafts from the showers and Santana isn't in front of her anymore. But her voice;

"You haven't given up yet have you?" It's still taunting, but it's playful and so-unlike Santana.

Quinn shakes her head to the nothingness in a dreamy haze. The steam is obstructing her view. Where is she?

"Catch me."

"Where?" Quinn can't see. The fog makes her feel heavy. Like she's still 'with child' or whatever that 'Seeker' show called it.

"Use your hands." Comes the advice ahead of her. Her hands wave in front of her body. Her stomach drops everytime she doesn't connect with something, just more and more steam.

Humid air soaks her shirt. She can't take it off. Her stomach isn't riddled with stretch marks but it isn't completely unmarked either.

"Santana, where are you?" She cries desperately.

"Your close Q." Breathless sounds. "So close."

The steam clears and she sees Santana. She's waiting against the shower walls smirking and beckoning and then...

Quinn sees herself.

Hands that are touching, sweating, steam, bodies squeezing. Santana.

She wakes up in more than just a cool sweat.

-x-

Quinn wishes she could wake up as easily the morning after when Santana drenches herself in water to cool off after their joint sprints.

True to every god-awful baywatch-esque slow-mo shot Quinn somehow catches the way each drop ripples off Santana's skin and drips teasingly and tantalizingly underneath her shirt.

She swallows the thoughts back, hard.

Quinn doesn't know what week it is when she wakes up for training and forgets her sweatshirt. All she remembers is the smug look on Santana's face. Admiring her work is one way to put it.

"Did you accidentally burn your sweatshirt or are you actually ready to look like you mean business?" Santana crosses her arms while she circles Quinn in a patronizing way. Quinn feels a rush of confidence that comes with Santana's acknowledgement of her weight loss.

Acknowledgement of her change and progress.

"Look like it?" Quinn meets Santana's eyes for what feels like the first time. The burst of fire there takes her right back to the Cheerios tryouts; when she first pushed her body to the limit and sought out Santana to power their way through the non-blasting minefield Sue Sylvester required all her Cheerios to maneuver.

"I am the business."

Santana splits into a grin that means so much more than approval.

"You're fucking back Q." Santana doesn't hover around her shoulder like she did back when Quinn was captain, so she knows there's still work to be done.

"Not yet." Quinn remarks.

Santana's devilish eyes gleam like she expected those words to fall from her mouth.

-x-

"This is distracting."

"This is necessary."

Quinn's arms shake as they support her body. Santana has always found interesting places for her to do push-ups; On top of her car, the cake isle in the shop by Mercedes' house, the bottom of the local pool (that had been difficult) etc. But even by those standards Quinn feels this is outlandish.

"No this is you enjoying my last struggling moments with you as my personal trainer."

Santana lies between the bleacher seats above the football field while Quinn pushes her body up and down over her. Supporting herself on the closest bleachers to her arms. If Quinn falls, she falls on Santana; who probably arranged it on purpose so she'd have an excuse to make Quinn run more laps.

After all it's their last training session of the summer. Leaving Quinn just two weeks before Junior year.

"Oh, so I'm just yours now?"

"..." Her silence only makes Santana's self-satisfied grin grow wider. Quinn, as disgusting as the thought is, wishes she was sweating or covered in water to deter Santana from lying under her.

"Well there's no doubt I've done my job, you just have to do yours when school starts again." Santana places her arms behind her head and Quinn is momentarily blinded by her biceps to realize what Santana means.

"And that is?" She huffs.

Santana's brow furrows pointedly.

"Don't play dumb Q. You know as soon as you walk through those school doors in the fall, it'll be in a red pleated skirt."

Quinn has pictured it. She's dreamed ever since the end of her pregnancy to get her life back to normal. To get her grades, her friends, her status. Cheerleading naturally was apart of that. But...

"Maybe." Quinn whispers.

"Just maybe?" Santana rises on her elbows. Between them the silent echoes of Glee club and their new friends signal the cause for Quinn's 'maybe'.

"Is there a problem with that?" Quinn challenges. She's a better person or so she hopes, and as little as it may have helped - Glee did it too.

"For me? No. For you? Yes." Santana leans back again, confident in her words.

"Why do you even want me back on the squad?" It's the burning question. Without Quinn, Santana is made - top dog, captain, ruler of the halls and so on. With Quinn;

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't."

And then the red of Santana's shirt makes the puzzle pieces fit.

"...Sylvester." Quinn groans out with another push up. "Of course."

"And Bingo was his name." Santana confirms mockingly.

"All this? It's a bit further that your usual methods of seduction." Quinn nervously returns to a regular rhythm of pushing up and down so she doesn't have to focus on Santana's facial expressions.

"Seduction?" Santana's voice drips sweetly. "Oh I don't think we've gotten that far."

Too sweetly.

Quinn drops her body down once more, reveling in just how much her strength has improved. Her arms are only just starting to burn.

Santana props herself on her elbows again, there's an arch to her back that wasn't there when Quinn started her press-ups. They're almost touching now when Quinn drops her body down. Her mind is abuzz.

"So what was in it for you then?" She changes the subject to another curiosity. How Sue Sylvester always managed to bend people to her will.

Santana arches more and keeps a heated eye contact. She practically groans out her reasons.

"Hm, lets see. Money. The satisfaction of bossing you around. The chance to flaunt how physically fitter I am than you. The fact you have to do everything I say..."

"Not necessarily." Quinn feebly defends. It's true though; Santana said 'jump' and Quinn didn't even ask how high, she just jumped.

"...Plus the reasons I gave you at the start of this thing." Santana offhandedly remarks. Quinn strains to remember the original speech.

"What? Not wanting to sustain a back injury if I rejoin the Cheerios?"

"When you rejoin." Santana corrects.

"If. And?" Quinn doesn't commit, she's wary of what handing herself over to Coach Sylvester without first getting the support of her enemies. Glee Club.

"And to help you with your second problem."

The words leave Santana's lips with an intoxicating hiss that charms Quinn's curiosity. She shivers and dips down to meet Santana's stare to reply;

"Second problem."

Quinn gasps at the sudden hand pressed against her collarbone. She glimpses wide eyed at Santana's unreadable face.

"Stop."

"I wasn't aware I had a second problem." She states trying not to flush at the interrupting motion.

Santana's words are lowered to a level murmur that blocks out the sounds of passing cars and voices. All of Quinn's attention is forced onto the girl beneath her.

"From the way you've been practically sexually harassing me with your eyes for the past 5 weeks I can vouch otherwise."

The burns reach Quinn's face. The semblance of subtly Quinn has been hoping not to be noticed is shattered. In her defense; Quinn's eyes still lower to Santana's outstretched body; it was mostly innocent to begin with.

Santana eats up her silence like a delicious victory.

"What? No witty retort?" She laughs out at Quinn's stoic yet panicked face.

"Just shut up." Quinn snaps. She's never going to live this down.

"C'mon Q, don't get all shy on me now." Santana teases her by trailing a finger along Quinn's collar, smoothing out the shirt there and brushing skin.

"San, just shut up." Quinn wants to slap the hand away, but she also doesn't really want to fall on top of Santana (much) either.

"Up." Santana commands, her hand leaves Quinn's collar.

Quinn obeys, they're still in training.

"Y'know, I don't blame you for looking. Now that you're in slightly better condition I don't feel so weird about letting you." Santana's eyes skim and slide over every inch of her tense body. Mental snapshots map her thin ankles to her neck and dilated eyes.

"Letting me?" Quinn pants out in disbelief.

Santana quickly adopts a brief annoyed glare. The type usually reserved for when Mr Schuester suggests bake sales or when Quinn babysits.

"Q, I'm not about to get all fucking emotional right? I know the reason you agreed to this, if you didn't have that reason you would have told me to piss off from the off in Mercedes' house."

The reason, Quinn doesn't want it to be spoken aloud. Even if it's fading.

"S," She half pleads.

"Let go." Santana orders. Quinn's legs fail and she falls ungracefully between the bleachers and on top of Santana; who is unsurprised of of orders effect. Quinn's breathing comes out in short, sharp gasps.

"Let her go Q" Santana emphasizes. Quinn can feel her slipping from her again. Beth. Gone. Weight gone. She's alone. Or almost.

Santana draws her in with her eyes, and then with her warmth. Quinn moves forward, bolder than she feels, and threads a hand gently in Santana's loose ponytail.

She feels hazy, dizzy, like she did in the dream; and finds herself unable to do anything other than wait for Santana's next move.

A sigh. A hand pressed on her collar again. A cool touch and another to the back of her neck.

Santana pulls her out of the haze and into reality with the kiss neither will admit to expecting.

The chasteness surprises them both until is disappears in the rising pump of adrenaline and pulling hair and realization of their surroundings. Quinn wants to feel the world shut them out until;

"Not here, not the bleachers." Santana sits up swiftly, keeping her lips temptingly close. Quinn's spark fights back.

"Bad memories or something S?" Quinn insinuates to who else Santana has been making out in the bleachers with lately.

"Fuck you Q." Comes before another bruising kiss. Bruising highlights their actions.

Quinn squeezes and nips while Santana grabs and tightly clutches until they've stumbled down the stands and fumbled with locks.

Quinn feels her body prepare for the onslaught of aches and tender skin Santana delivers in her training - except now she awaits a release to the frustration that's been knotted in her abdomen since the first day without the baby. The need.

The locker room is deserted, as expected in the summer, to all but the Captain with the key and Sue's ex-cheerio.

Santana slams the door and reclaims the hold she had on Quinn's body enough to push her roughly into the first set of lockers. One of them belongs to Brittany.

The forceful contact elicits a moan from Quinn. Santana brings out something in her neither Finn nor Puck could hope to gain from her; submissiveness.

"I knew you were into pain Q but I never would've guessed these locker room fantasies." Santana presses her body against her, gaining another groan of approval.

"Somethings are best left to the imagination." Quinn gasps. She has a very active imagination, the locker room just happens to be best equip for most of them.

Suddenly Santana slows and pulls her head back. Quinn stretches her neck after her, wanting to meet their lips together again, but Santana stays just out of reach. There's a triumphant twinkle in her eyes, like she's finally gotten something she's always wanted.

"I think we're well past imagination now."

She's got Quinn.

She's taken everything before that; Quinn's reputation, Quinn's captaincy, Quinn's confidence, her esteem, her power, and more recently her feelings weighing her down. And now Santana can finally have her.

Quinn trembles in desire as the thoughts flood her mind. Santana slams her back against the lockers again before gripping under her knees and pulling Quinn into her. Quinn supports herself on Santana's hip, groaning at the initial rocking motions the girl makes into her. Gasping at a contact that was long forgotten.

Then it hits Quinn in a hot flush. She needs skin, she needs to touch Santana, to feel her warm skin against her own.

"Stop for a freaking second," Quinn glares and tugs without success at Santana's tank top. It doesn't budge and Santana grinds her hips to stop her fruitless efforts.

"Uh-uh, it's all about the teasing Q." She mocks and engages another biting kiss. Grunting Quinn pulls away-

"What the heck have you been doing for the past 5 weeks then?"

Santana bucks her hips to stabilize Quinn on her lower body. Quinn's legs wrap tighter around her waist and her arms lift to allow her own shirt to be stripped from her. Santana exposes her chest too, making quick work of her sports bra, before eagerly dipping her head into the valley of Quinn's breasts.

Lips suck and kiss her chest and Quinn's face blushes hotter and hotter. Santana meets her eyes quickly before poking out her tongue to lick at one of Quinn's nipples; the power play is not missed by Quinn, who's breathing is too erratic to do anything more than caress Santana's neck and beg her closer.

It's nothing like the little experience she's had and Quinn knows that's the reason Santana is dragging it out. Taking time to taste her skin and bring her to the height of her frustration.

No words, other than a startled 'oh!' after Santana bites her bottom lip, are spoken when Santana holds her back firmly and buries her head into her shoulder to move them away from the lockers.

Quinn barely notices they've ventured to the showers until Santana sprays the water over them and Quinn is no longer solely responsible for how wet she is.

The shower is tactical. Santana presses her against the side wall and drags off her own dripping wet top. It lands with a slap to the floor, her bra following several seconds after, before Quinn can see all.

The skin contact is amplified by the beating shower water that it neither hot nor cold. It's more than she's imagined. The only temperature Quinn recognizes is the one flaring between her legs and into Santana's hips. Water has soaked her shorts to Santana's delight.

"Up, up." Santana asks; like second nature Quinn follows. A thrill shoots straight to her core as she props her arms on the small separating shower wall, while Santana loosens her shorts and pulls them down over her ass.

The material cuts into her thighs as she still has her legs wrapped around Santana, but she's open. Santana's eyes take her in and Quinn can't help but quake at the look on Santana's face. Looking like she wants to devour her.

Quinn watches how painfully slow Santana positions her hand and presses-

"Uh," She prematurely moans. The single touch is slow and Quinn doesn't want her body to end things too soon. She's not Finn.

Santana adapts. Her fingers slide through wetness to trace and plunge through Quinn's wet arousal. The tiny thrusting of fingers makes Quinn writhe and fake-cuss at how after weeks of Santana wanting things done faster and harder she chooses now to tease and torture her with a slow pace. A slow heat bubbles and Quinn feels feverish even before Santana slides her fingers inside her. She feels like she's almost convulsing in frustration and mixed pleasure.

She wants Santana's firm hand to take her, to bring her to release. She needs.

Santana pulls their bodies together and circles her hips to work her fingers in time. Their sticky hot breaths brushes against each other's mouths. Unvoiced whispers of emotion. Quinn hears Santana's own grunts before seeing her lidded eyes.

"God, this will be so much easier when you're back in a skirt."

"It won't be unless you go faster." Quinn threatens moving her hips down. She needs the friction and the pleasure Santana's fingers are slowly denying her. And she wants it.

"Ooo, say it again Q I almost believed you." Santana's teeth scape against her neck , then suck and nip and Quinn gets her wish with a cherry on top.

Santana drives her fingers upwards and curls. Quinn moans into her mouth as her own hand pushes Santana's further before groping at Santana's chest. Incentively edging closer.

Her wet back and lower body slaps embarrassingly loudly against the wall tiles. Quinn feels dirty despite being in a shower at the animal way Santana now takes her. Looking back, to all the times in the past; Quinn recognizes the sounds they're making, the whispers and moans. She's not the first nor is she the only one. The thought of it, the promise of it makes her pleasure peak - to her fingers and toes.

It's when Santana chokes a string of breathless moans in her ear, as she restlessly pumps inside if her does the knot of pressure uncurl.

Quinn's climax rebounds against the wall as well as Santana's hand.

Her chest has no chance to regain regular breaths as Santana kisses her. Shower water lingers on their lips and stings their skin unlike before.

Reality sets in as she opens her eyes.

"That was, that was..." Quinn holds onto Santana's shoulders for support.

"I know I'm fantastic an' all, but I think this is the first time I've rendered someone speechless." Santana combs Quinn's hair back before trailing her hands over her bare ass. Quinn lets out a strangled whimper only to have it silenced with another kiss. Quinn finds her shorts pulled back up.

"...without a gag." Santana smirks and preps for Quinn to find her feet again.

"Give me a sec -" Breathlessly Quinn pulls at the drawstrings of Santana's shorts. In her fever a hand stops her.

"You don't have to."

Quinn's eyes question and silently say convey that surely Santana is as worked up as she was? To which another smug grin appears.

"Trust me, you doing push-ups..."

"Oh - Santana!" Quinn furiously whispers. The other girl shrugs wickedly as she paces back and leans against the nearest shower wall.

"But if you insist..." She drawls pretending to be bored. Quinn's hands are beneath her shorts before she's even finished the sentence.

"You're wet-"

"We are fucking in a shower Q, your observation skills astound me."

"I'll give you something to astound you in a minute." Quinn captures Santana's mouth and helps her berid of the rest of her work-out clothes while thinking a very odd thought.

'Thank God for Sue Sylvester.'

fin.