The Cover Shot

It's been quite a couple of years for Santana Lopez. She's finally where she wants to be in her career, she's got a beautiful, spacious apartment overlooking the city, and she's even made peace with her abuela, who had disowned her back in high school for the sin of speaking openly and honestly about her sexuality. It hasn't been without its difficulties, however; she and Brittany have finally drifted apart permanently, with Britt's dancing and choreography career also taking off, and taking her away from the city for months at a time. The distance and time spent apart, the need to focus on their careers and not each other - it was all more than their relationship could bear, and though it pained them both greatly to realize it, the time had come to admit that it was best for them to end things before they could no longer even be friends.

So now she's got the fancy sports car, the gorgeous living space with the amazing view, the comfortable bank account, the fulfilling career – everything she's ever wanted, or ever thought she wanted – and suddenly it's dawning on her that it all feels empty and meaningless, because there's no one around at the end of the day to share it with her. Brittany's gone, moved to Hollywood or Los Angeles, somewhere on the West Coast that's bright and sunny and chock full of producers and record executives and casting directors, all looking for someone like her to dance and choreograph for tours and videos, movies and TV shows, and Santana's here alone, feeling lonely. It's a terrible feeling, and she hates it.

Her mind, as it always does at times like this, drifts back to the friends she loves and misses, the ones with whom she hasn't been in touch while she's been concentrating on her career and making money and acquiring all the stuff that surrounds her now. She thinks about those special days they'd shared at McKinley High School back home in Lima, Ohio, when life was filled with drama, tears and laughter, an endless highlight reel of songs and spotlights. Their dreams had seemed larger than themselves back then, yet so many of them have achieved all they've set out to do.

And exactly no one is surprised that the most successful out of all of them is one Rachel Berry.

Rachel is now the toast of Broadway, with her name on the marquee at the city's best theater, receiving rave reviews and even a Tony Award. She had told everyone that she was going to be a star one day, and by God, that's exactly what she'd become: the hottest, most celebrated young actress on the Great White Way. Santana's been only dimly aware of her friend's litany of achievements, having been so focused on her own goals and aspirations, but she feels proud nonetheless. Honestly, there had been times in their past when Santana (and others) had been somewhat less than encouraging – to put it mildly – but Rachel had overcome every hurtful word, every hateful name, every attempt to keep her down. She's soared above it all to prove them all completely, totally wrong, just as she'd always said they were.

She shakes her head and chuckles at the wondrous irony of it all. Dreams Come True, apparently, is the story of a young, extraordinarily talented, but incredibly unpopular young high school girl who finds an unlikely group of friends in her high school glee club, then leads them to victory at the national show choir championships. Yeah, that sounded familiar. Santana can't keep the smirk from pulling the corners of her lips upward. It feels like cosmic justice being handed down on Rachel's behalf to make up for all the shit that people put her through in high school. Why else would a story about what happened then make her so popular now?

The way it had come about, Santana had heard (although she couldn't remember which of their old high school classmates had related the story), was straight out of teenage Rachel's fantasies, believe it or not: the musical's producers had heard about Rachel's experiences with the New Directions back in high school after seeing her in a production at NYADA, the prestigious performing arts college that Rachel had attended after graduating from McKinley, and were so impressed with Rachel and her story that they had the show created expressly for her by Broadway's most acclaimed current writer and composer. The musical had opened to absolutely glowing reviews, nearly all of which gushed over Rachel's girl next door looks, her winning charm, and her bring-the-house-down voice (okay, so Santana might have clipped out all the reviews, saved them, and re-read them so often that she'd actually gotten most of them memorized), and the fantasy had culminated in Rachel not only being nominated for a Tony Award, but actually winning the damned thing.

Sure, it could be said that Rachel had been remarkably fortunate - but by now everyone, even her former high school nemeses, had to admit that her good fortune was the direct result of her equally remarkable talent. Producers and agents were always scouting for fresh new talent at NYADA, and no one got into that school without being ridiculously good. And Rachel was. She always had been, right from the start. And that was the simple truth of the matter, though it was hard for Santana to stomach even now; the reason so many people had given Rachel such a hard time back in high school. The girl had a gift that was going to get her out of Lima, while so many of her peers were always going to be stuck there. That indisputable fact was so clear and obvious that it actually pissed people off. Okay, so maybe Rachel hadn't needed to tell everybody that - or at least maybe not so often - but that didn't make it any less true. It certainly didn't justify the countless number of times that frozen drinks had been thrown in her face, or the cruel, mean and vicious words that had been said to and written about her. To this day, Santana regretted the things she herself had said and done to the little diva.

But that was all in the past, as Rachel had often said to her, to all of the former Glee Club members; they had all moved forward into the future, into their adult lives, as close friends. As the family they had chosen for themselves, as closely bonded and often wildly dysfunctional as any blood family could be. Santana was proud to know them all. They had saved her from herself more times than she cared to admit, and no one (with the possible exception of Brittany) had done it as often, or as well, as Rachel.

Smiling widely now, as she always does whenever she thinks of the wide-eyed, brown-haired girl with the voice of an angel and the legs of a temptress (how did Rachel get away with wearing those insanely short skirts back then, anyway?), Santana realizes it's time for her to reconnect with her friends – the one currently on Broadway in particular. There's been no one in her life romantically since Brittany left; she's been too busy throwing herself into work to even notice the women who've been throwing themselves at her just about everywhere she goes. It would be nice, though, to at least get together with some people who aren't co-workers or industry types. People who know the real her, all the best and worst parts of her, not just the as-seen-on-TV persona, the mask she's learned to wear in public and on the small screen.

Sighing, she gets up from the couch and decides to go for a walk.

The sidewalks of Manhattan are busy on this Saturday morning, and Santana easily finds the rhythm of the surging crowd, her feet quickly matching the pace. She loves this city, loves its energy, the way the people dream as big as the towering buildings that surround them. And she loves her fans, who call her name and wave and smile as she walks along, recognizing her even with the large, dark glasses shielding her eyes from the summer sun.

Of course, it would be difficult even for people who don't watch her talk show, considering the billboards featuring her name and face on the sides of every other bus that rides through the traffic-choked streets. Tune in at 4 PM every day for 'Santana!' - only on New York's Channel 11, they say. And considering that it's the most popular afternoon talk show on television right now, there aren't very many people who don't watch it, anyway.

She's walking by her favorite newsstand, run by a friendly old gentleman named Carlos, who always winks at her when she buys the occasional newspaper or magazine, when she sees it. A magazine, with Rachel on the cover. It's not the first magazine cover to feature the diva – Santana knows, she has them all – but it's the first one she's seen with Rachel like this. Her lips are parted seductively, painted a come-hither shade of red, her eyes all shaded and smoky, her hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. The expression on her face, in the picture, leaps out at Santana, holds her by the throat, stopping her in her tracks.

It's not just the face, or the look on it, the fire in Rachel's eyes unlike anything she's ever seen before. It's the clothing – or rather, the lack of clothing – that really draws Santana's attention. She's aware that Rachel had been almost fanatical about her workout regimen back when they were in high school, and she's sure that even the demanding schedule the little diva had kept at NYADA wouldn't have changed that. But the body on display beneath the strips of clothing strategically placed over the most important places is so scorching hot, it's beyond even Santana's wildest imaginings – and she's spent more time imagining Rachel's body than she would ever admit. Santana actually blushes as she steps forward to take a closer look, thankful that her Latina complexion prevents others from seeing it, though she's certainly feeling it. Cover girl Rachel is this close to being completely exposed, and damn if she doesn't look like she likes it. The picture is more than alluring, more than seductive. It's the sexiest thing she's ever seen, and between Rachel's body and the look on her face, she feels like her breath has been taken away. The caption beside the picture reads: Confessions of a Broadway Star – What It's Like to Be This Hot on Stage!

Santana actually fans herself before she pays Carlos for two copies of the magazine, pretending not to see the amused look on the sweet old man's face. She decides to cut her walk short, and turns on her heel quickly to get back to her apartment so she can read all about Rachel's "confessions." Her blood warms and her heart rate soars as she tries to restrain herself from actually running.

When she gets back to her apartment, she sees that her answering machine is blinking madly. She's guessing that the other former Glee Club members have seen or heard about the cover, and they all want to get her take on it. Well, the call backs will have to wait until after she's read the article, because she has a feeling that the confessions promised on the cover have nothing to do with Rachel's high school affinity for animal sweaters and headbands.

She sinks into the plush, oversized couch that seems to take up half of the enormous living room, tosses one copy of the magazine onto the coffee table, and settles down with the other one. Rachel's rich chocolate brown eyes stare up at her, inviting her to get comfortable, maybe slip into something less...restrictive. Oh, god. Santana swallows, her mouth suddenly feeling dry as a desert. She should have poured herself some water, or something stronger, before trying to read this thing. She stares at the cover again. She wants to touch the six-pack abs that peek out from under the scraps of fabric masquerading as Rachel's dress, finds her fingers reaching toward the paper before she realizes what she's doing. She blinks furiously to break herself out of this...this Berry trance.

It's been a very well-kept secret that Santana's always had kind of a thing for the girl one of the boys in the Glee Club always called his fellow "hot Jew." Just one of the many things she's kept under wraps for years, yet another bit of proof that she's kind of the queen of denial. Yes, she'd been in love with Brittany for years, but that didn't mean she was incapable of seeing how beautiful Rachel could be with the right clothes and maybe a little bit of makeup – hey, she was in a relationship, but she wasn't blind. But even without more fashionable clothes and makeup, Santana had grudgingly admitted back in high school that Rachel did in fact possess an appealing sort of natural beauty. The prettiest girl in the club, Quinn, who looked like a freaking teen model, had changed nearly everything about herself from her pre-high school days to achieve her stunning good looks, including her nose; but Rachel had steadfastly refused to change anything just to adhere to others' standards of beauty, insisting that her slightly large 'ethnic' nose was a proud sign of her Jewish heritage, and that no role in the theater was worth changing such an important part of who she was.

A quick look at the contents page tells her that this month's cover story is on page 32, so she furiously flips forward until she gets to the article. There's another stunning shot of Rachel in the same insanely tiny outfit, and Santana has to force herself to look away from it, because she's certain that she'll spontaneously combust if she doesn't. It's a fairly standard celebrity profile story, or at least it starts that way, until Santana gets to the part in the interview where Rachel discusses her views on dating and sexuality. Jackpot, she thinks. She's always suspected there was more to Rachel than just dumb jocks like her first high school boyfriend, Finn Hudson, quarterback and Glee Club leading man, or arrogant pretty boy douchebags like her second high school boyfriend, Jesse St. James, leader of the New Directions' most hated competitors, Vocal Adrenaline, of Carmel High. Or any of the handful of guys she's dated since then, none of whom were anywhere near good enough for her as far as Santana was concerned.

So, tell us about your love life, Rachel. Or are you another one of those celebrities who doesn't have time for love and sex and all that?

* laughter * Oh, well, thank you for the compliment, but I'm not sure that I'm a celebrity yet. Maybe if the things my agent is working on, film and TV offers, pan out, I might be one someday. Right now I just think of myself as a musical theater actress who's lucky enough to be performing in a show she loves. As for love and sex and dating...while it can be tough, I believe you have to make time for you, to ensure that you have a personal life. A life that's separate from your career, an existence that's just for you and the people you love. Actually, what I'm about to say will probably not come as a shock to any readers of your magazine that follow the theater scene, but it will surprise all my friends from high school. Every single relationship I've had with a guy in my life, from my first boyfriend back home at McKinley High School in Lima, Ohio, to the last semi-famous fellow actor with whom you've seen me pictured in the newspaper or wherever, has been a complete and total sham. A lie. A fiction perpetrated to hide the fact that I, the adopted daughter of two gay men living as a married couple in a conservative Middle American town, am gay myself. It's something that I've kept to myself for a long time, but now that I'm achieving some kind of fame, I feel like I owe my friends, my fans – but most of all, myself – the truth of who I am. I've spent my whole life preparing for my career in acting by playing the role of boy-crazy straight girl, and it's not one I wish to continue. So there's your scoop: Rachel Berry, rising Broadway star and Tony Award winner, is also now an out and proud lesbian.

Oh, wow. That...that's definitely a scoop. If you don't mind a follow-up question, then -

I don't mind it at all. I was expecting it, in fact.

Okay. Um, well, then – when did you know you were gay? Was it in high school, or after that, in college? Or even later than that?

My best friend Kurt will tell you that he knew he was different when he was five years old, but it didn't happen for me until I was a sophomore in high school. I was about fifteen or so, I guess. Our high school had a national champion cheerleading team – they were called the Cheerios – and all the prettiest girls in school were on the team. Their coach was kind of a tyrant. She insisted that all the cheerleaders wear their uniforms to school, all day, every day, and let me tell you, those paneled skirts and sleeveless tops had quite an effect on young, impressionable me. * laughs* I used to watch them practice out on the field all the time, with the excuse that I was actually watching the football players, because, you know, that was what was expected, and I was different enough already that I didn't want anybody in school to know that I, the girl with the two gay dads, was gay too, so...anyway, I hope the coach never reads this, but I used to get really turned on, watching them. Especially this one cheerleader - she was just beautiful. Absolutely stunning. She had sort of tan skin, long dark hair, dark eyes. So gorgeous. And the way she moved – it was amazing. I was kind of in love with her. I didn't know all that much about sex at the time, of course, but I imagine that if there was anyone who embodied sex for me then, it was her.

Santana is shocked, stunned, completely blindsided by what she's just read. The words crash together in her mind. Rachel is gay. Rachel never loved Finn, never loved Jesse. Never loved any of the guys she dated. Used to get turned on by watching the Cheerios practice.

It's almost too much for her to take. She feels as though her world has been turned upside down and inside out. She wants to call Rachel right now, but she realizes that she has absolutely no idea what to say. After all, she doesn't know for sure if the dark-skinned, dark-eyed cheerleader Rachel described is her. It could be, but...what if it's not? There were other girls on the squad who fit that description. It might have been one of them.

Her phone rings, and Santana panics internally for a moment, thinking that it might be Rachel somehow. Then she calms immediately when she sees that it's just one of her producers.

"Santana, there's someone that we have just got to get on the show," he says breathlessly, and she rolls her eyes at the urgency in his voice.

"No, we are not booking Donald Trump, for the last fucking time. That man, and whatever it is he's got on his head, creeps me the hell out."

"No, no, not Donald Trump. Do you know who Rachel Berry is?"

Santana's heart drops into her stomach, and she feels slightly queasy. The producer takes her momentary silence as a "no," and continues.

"She's the hottest young star on Broadway, and she just came out as gay in a national magazine interview. If we can snag her, get her on the show, it will be a huge coup for us. The ratings will be huge!"

Santana closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers of her right hand while her left holds the phone to her ear.

This cannot be happening. Please tell me this is not actually happening right now.

"Santana?" the producer shouts into her ear, as though he thinks she might have fallen asleep. "Are you there?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here, I'm here! Jesus, can't a girl think for two seconds without somebody shouting in her fucking ear?"

"Sorry," he says, sounding appropriately contrite. Good. Santana wouldn't want to have to fire him; he's actually one of the best producers the show's got.

She sighs, looks at Rachel still seducing her from the magazine cover. "Put a call in to her agent or her manager or whoever and say whatever you need to say to get little Miss Song and Dance on the show. I'm sure I can think of a few questions to ask her."

"Awesome! You're the best, Santana."

"I know. That's why they pay me the big bucks, right? Send me an e-mail – don't call me - when you hear back from her people."

"Will do. Enjoy the rest of your day, boss," he says happily, and the call ends.

Rachel's eyes seem to smile up at her, like she knows that Santana had already been thinking about inviting her on the show anyway.

Fuck my life, Santana thinks as she groans aloud, putting the phone down on the table beside the magazine. Well, you wanted to talk to Rachel, didn't you? Not this way, granted, but still.

She picks up the still-open copy and begins to read the article again. The next page features Rachel's workout regimen and vegan diet, and there's another picture that practically stops Santana's heart. This time, Rachel's in a skimpy white bikini top and dark gray workout pants. Her abs are clearly defined. Her stance is proud and confident. Santana's never seen her this way before, and it's insanely arousing. Her lips are full and pink, her eyes laser-focused at the reader, and the way her fingers are pulling down at the waistband on one side of the pants seems a tantalizing invitation. There's a tiny tattoo visible on her lower abdomen, just above her thumb on that side, and Santana's brain short-circuits.

When the hell did Berry get a tattoo? And when did she start wearing bikinis?

That's it. Santana can't take it anymore. She slams her eyes shut tight, closes the magazine, sucking in a deep breath. Her phone chimes with a new text message. It's from her best friend Quinn, who also happens to be one of Rachel's best friends.

I know you've seen it. You can't avoid talking about it forever.

Yeah, I've seen it. And I'm not trying to avoid anything. I just don't know what to say.

Yes, you do. You want to say that it's the hottest thing you've ever seen and it's making you want to jump Rachel's bones now more than ever.

How did you – oh, fuck. Of course you know. This is what I get for having a best friend who's known me since we were 14.

You're not exactly subtle, S. You've never been subtle when it comes to women. Everyone knew you wanted Brittany before you did. Even Rachel knew. For God's sake, even Finn knew.

Rachel knew? She never said boo about it. It was the rest of you who were chattering amongst yourselves about how cute the teen lesbians were.

Let's face it, Santana. Rachel's always had your number. She could see through you no matter how hard you tried to hide your feelings. That's why she got under your skin so much. That's why she could always bring out the soft side of you - the side that actually cared about people.

Yeah, right. I just felt sorry for her because she'll never get to go on the big people rides at the amusement park.

Oh, come on. You just admitted that you want her. And I know that you've always wanted her. The question is, do you have the guts to go out and get her?

Look who you're talking to. I can get anyone I want.

But can you give your heart to someone again? That takes even more guts. I think you can. And I think Rachel is worth it. But if you don't act fast, someone else will. You're not the only girl we know who's always wanted her.

Wait, what? Who? Q, if you don't tell me right fucking now, I will kill you!

I can't tell you, San. I've been sworn to secrecy. All I can say is that it's someone we know very well, someone who's been carrying a torch for Rachel just as long as you have. Someone who would have a very good chance with her if she ever told Rachel how she felt.

…

Santana?

I've gotta go, Q. I'll talk to you later.

She turns her phone off before Quinn can reply again. Her mind is a whirlwind, her body ablaze with a combination of fear and arousal. Damn Quinn and her ability to get right to the truth of things! Yes, it's true, damn it: she does want Rachel. She's always wanted Rachel. Even when she and Brittany were together, she couldn't help staring at the little diva, at the way her tongue would peek out of the corner of her mouth whenever she was concentrating on something, or the sexy way her hips moved as she walked through the halls in those insanely short skirts. The way her face would be filled with so much passion whenever she sang, whether in the choir room or on the stage. Nearly everything Rachel did was fascinating, and in their younger days, Santana had hated that fact. She was with Brittany, she loved Brittany, and yet Rachel was always there, always a distraction, always a thought in the back of her mind. How could she love Brittany completely when she was in love with Rachel too -

Oh my God. I'm in love with Rachel Berry! I have always been in love with her. And so is someone else - someone we both know. Someone who could have her if I don't get to her first. Fuck! What do I do? I have to do something.

Shaking and sweating, feeling as though she's on the edge of a mini-nervous breakdown, Santana decides to do the one thing that always calms her down when her nerves are frayed and she's at her wits' end: take a long, hot shower. She hopes that the heat and steam will help to soothe her tensely coiled muscles and clear her confused mind, as they usually do.

Leaving her phone turned off and the answering machine still blinking balefully at her inattention, she goes into the bathroom and turns on the water, sticking her fingers into it in order to find the right temperature, which at this point needs to be just shy of scalding.

After a few moments of adjusting the ratio of cold to hot water, she decides that she's achieved the proper temperature and strips out of her clothes, a simple T-shirt and skinny jeans combo, then slides out of her underwear. She takes a moment to look at her face in the mirror and finds herself staring at the strange mixture of terror and wonder in the eyes gazing back at her from the glass. The realization that she's in love with Rachel has hit her hard, and she knows that if she doesn't get herself under control, she might do something stupid – like, say, send a dozen roses over to Rachel's apartment, or leave a message on the diva's voice mail consisting of herself singing one of those sappy love songs she hates, but Rachel loves.

The water is a stinging, pelting rain of fire-tipped arrows against her skin. The heat is calming, yet invigorating. She feels some of the tension in her neck and back begin to ease after a few minutes of just standing still, letting it hit her. Closing her eyes, she lets the rain soak her hair, run down her face. She tries to center herself, let her mind go blank and calm, as she takes a few deep breaths. But there's that face – that face with its wide, deep chocolate eyes and its slightly too-large, yet somehow perfectly proportioned nose, its full, soft lips parted, whispering an invitation...

An internal fire builds within Santana again, and her hands and fingers begin to roam over her body, seeking the places she knows will stoke the fire still further, as she imagines another, smaller pair of hands on her skin, not her own. Another set of fingers, more slender and delicate, wandering into places that haven't felt another's touch in so long. Too long. Far, far too long.

The face acquires a body, lithe and compact, strong and self-assured. She gasps when that body pushes against her, grabs and holds her close, invades her with an easy, practiced confidence. And soon, she cries out when she hears a beautiful voice singing to her, singing of love, of redemption, of chances lost and regained. Her body trembles against the one she imagines pressed up against hers, her legs trembling, her shoulders shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashes into her, those strong but slender little fingers playing her like a perfectly tuned instrument. Somehow, her screams sing in perfect harmony with the song she hears.

Her knees almost buckle, and she finds herself weeping as she comes down from her high, her tears mingling with the hot water raining down upon her. Then she begins to laugh. Realization was hard. Acceptance, she's discovered, is much easier, once you surrender to it.

Peace has never been an easy thing for Santana to find, but she feels she's gotten as close to it now as she's ever come. She knows now that nothing, and no one, can stop her now. Her mind is made up. Watch out, Rachel Berry. Auntie Tana wants you, and what Auntie Tana wants, she gets.

Wrapped in a pair of large, fluffy white towels – one around her body, one on her head – she strides back into the living room to retrieve her phone from the couch, where she'd abandoned it, and turns it back on. As expected, there are numerous text messages and missed calls demanding her attention, all from the former New Directions. Quinn. Kurt. Tina. Mercedes. Even Puck, that shameless horndog. No doubt he's already come up with a dozen fantasy scenarios involving her, Rachel and all sorts of other things, some of which might even be legal - maybe. She knows they all want to know what she thinks about Rachel's cover, about her interview, about her coming out in the pages of a magazine.

She scrolls through the texts, deciding that she'll reply to them in a little while, after she's had some lunch. Her cupboards are pretty much bare, though – she's been putting off the tedious task of grocery shopping for a while now. She decides to get dressed again and go out to grab a sandwich and coffee at her favorite little spot, a place where she's always been able to blend in with the scenery despite her fame.

A half-hour later, Santana's out the door and on the street again, humming a happy tune to herself in time with the beat of the traffic around her. She hasn't felt this good in a long time. It's amazing, the way accepting the truth liberates you. Her heart is light, her smile is wider than it's been in seemingly forever, and the secret within her flutters wildly, like a moth chasing the light. Her stomach rumbles in counterpoint. She laughs, not caring who sees or hears.

The coffee shop is busy, as it usually is at this time of day on a Saturday, but there's always a table available for her here. (She'd quickly learned that it's very helpful to mention the name of local places she likes on her show.) As she settles into her seat with her extra-large coffee and sandwich combo, she pulls out her phone and begins to go through the many text messages still waiting to be read. A frown begins to form on her face as she reads them, one after the other, and by the time she's done, the frown has transformed into an absolute scowl of rage.

It seems everyone knows that she's had a thing for Rachel for years – and worse, they all know the identity of Santana's mysterious competitor for her affections, but they inform her in advance that they absolutely will not, under any circumstances, reveal anything about that person beyond what Quinn has already told her. Doubtless her so-called best friend has warned them that there's some kind of horrible punishment in store for anyone who gives up this information. Yes, it's another woman; yes, it's someone they all know very well; yes, it's someone they can see being with Rachel if the Broadway starlet is receptive to her advances. Santana is furious. How can her friends all conspire against her like this? What did she ever do to deserve this? Okay, probably a lot - but that was all a long time ago, right?

Distraught, she wolfs down her sandwich and chugs her coffee, barely tasting either. So, once again, Santana Lopez is left to her own devices, without anyone's help, to make her dream come true. Well, fine. Screw them, she thinks. Whatever. She's still the hottest bitch in this entire city, and she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that she can make Rachel see that.

She fairly flies out the door of the coffee shop, seething with frustration. She's so caught up in her own head as she stalks down the sidewalk with her hands jammed into the pockets of her light jacket that she doesn't see the halo of black hair and wiry frame of a person she never imagined she'd ever see in this city – until she bumps right into her.

"Hey, watch where you're going, you dumb – Santana?"

Momentarily disoriented by the collision, Santana struggles to focus for a second – and then she places the face staring into her own. She's so surprised, she can't find a word to speak beyond a mumbled sorry.

"It's Jane – Jane Hayward, from McKinley," the pretty young African-American girl says. "Remember me from a few years ago, when Rachel and Kurt and the rest of you all came to McKinley to bring back the Glee Club after Sue Sylvester took over the school and Mr. Schuester left to coach Vocal Adrenaline, and then we went to Nationals and won?"

"Um, yeah," Santana responds, still a little thrown. "You guys were pretty good. Not as good as us originals, of course, but – yeah, I remember you. What are you doing here?"

Jane smiles, happy that Santana remembers who she is. "Well, Rachel was pretty inspiring to me – not that the rest of you weren't, but Rachel was, well, she was incredible – so inspiring that after graduation, I decided to follow in her footsteps, go to NYADA, and pursue a career on Broadway. And now I'm working with her! Isn't that amazing?"

"Wait, what? You're working with her? You mean you're in her show?" Santana asks, confused. A slight frown forms. She couldn't be the one who's after Rachel...could she?

"I sure am! I'm playing the role of Ms. Pillsbury, if you can believe that. Diversity in casting – isn't it a great thing? Anyway, get this – Rachel was there when I was auditioning, for some reason, and she recommended me for the part on the spot. She actually said I have one of the best voices she's ever heard! I still had to finish my audition, but after hearing her compliment me, I was so over the moon that nothing could have stopped me. I mean, Rachel is so amazing. Who wouldn't give the audition of her life after that? And now I get to work with her every day, Santana. How awesome is that?"

"That...that's pretty awesome, yeah. Definitely." Santana doesn't miss the way Jane's face lights up as she talks about Rachel. It certainly seems possible that the girl could have a crush on her co-star, and she does have all the qualities that Rachel would want in a potential partner: she's gorgeous, smart, focused, ambitious and very, very talented.

Jane looks at her watch and frowns. "I'm sorry, but I have to cut things short here. We have an afternoon show coming up, and I just left the theater to get some coffee. It was really nice to see you, though. I'll say hello to Rachel for you, okay? Bye!"

Santana stands and stares blankly after Jane slides past her, gliding effortlessly through the crush of pedestrians to enter the coffee shop. What just happened?

Her mood darkened still further now, she slowly trudges home, thinking, replaying all of Jane's gushing words about Rachel in her head. It's not hard to believe that the girl could have a thing for her former Glee Club mentor - and why wouldn't Rachel be open to a relationship with her, even one that takes place primarily backstage, behind dressing room doors? Santana pictures the two of them sneaking a clandestine rendezvous in Rachel's dressing room(the door of which has a giant gold star with the name Ms. Berry on it, naturally), smiling, laughing, touching, kissing...

No! Damn it, that can't happen. I can't let it happen.

She flips on the TV, hoping to find something mindlessly entertaining to distract herself. Her phone chimes with yet another new text message, and she huffs when she sees it's from Quinn.

You might want to put the Entertainment Channel on right now.

Santana blinks at her phone, then puts it aside to change the channel with the remote control. It's kind of spooky how Quinn always seems to know what she's thinking or doing a good chunk of the time. Either they really do know each other far too well, or Quinn had hidden cameras installed here the last time she came for a visit.

The Entertainment News Now logo fills Santana's giant plasma TV screen, and the host's voice breathlessly informs her that Now it's time for our Celebrity Dating Buzz segment, where we tell you who was seen with whom, where, and how late. First up, it's newly out Tony Award-winning Broadway star – and if what we're hearing is true, soon to be film and TV star – Rachel Berry, seen here looking quite cozy at dinner with celebrity personal trainer Kitty Wilde. Berry has credited Wilde with helping her to sculpt the fantastic body seen on the cover of this month's issue of "Cosmopolitan" magazine, but this picture makes us wonder if these two are indulging in a different kind of physical activity after hours!

Santana's heart races, and her eyes practically pop out of her head as she stares at the larger than life picture of Rachel with the beautiful blonde trainer. They're both smiling, but Rachel seems to be stealing a glance at the other woman's strong, sinewy arm while Kitty gazes adoringly at Rachel's face.

Furious, she types out a reply to Quinn:

It's her, isn't it? That's the woman who's trying to steal Rachel away from me? I don't care how much she can bench press, I'll kick her ass all the way to Lima Heights!

Oh, so now you're acknowledging me? I told you before, Santana, I can't tell you anything more about who it is. You have to know, though, that Rachel's announcement about her sexuality is going to get a lot of interest from other women, some of whom are bound to be just as famous and successful as you.

Yeah, but none of them are as hot as me. Especially not that blonde midget with the muscles.

That may or may not be true, but you know what the thing that Rachel finds most attractive is?

What is this, a quiz now?

Honesty, San. Honesty and loyalty are the things that Rachel values above all else when it comes to romantic partners and relationships. And I know that not because I read it in a magazine, but because I actually talk to Rachel on a regular basis, unlike some other people. So what I'm telling you here is that if you put yourself out there and let Rachel know, honestly and truthfully, how you feel about her, that will score a lot of points for you.

That...that actually makes sense. But wait - why are you telling me this? I would think I'm the last person you'd want to see with Rachel.

Okay, first of all - there are actually other people who would be far worse for her. A lot of other people. People who might take advantage of Rachel's goodness and kindness and leave her heartbroken. I know you wouldn't do that, because you're in love with her. And second – you're not happy, San. You haven't been happy in a long time. I miss happy Santana. We all do. We'd like to see her again. You getting together with Rachel would definitely bring her back. But you have to act fast, or you're going to lose your chance.

Q – I'm scared. I don't know how to do this. What happened with Brittany – it almost killed me. I can't go through that again. But...every time I think about Rachel, it makes me smile, and I forget about the pain. It makes me feel human again.

Maybe you should tell her that. Just think about it.

If there's one thing that's true about Santana Lopez, it's that she does not like to lose. Ever. At anything. Just ask anyone who's ever played a board game, video game, or even miniature golf with her. She sees herself as a winner, a national champion at life, with cheerleading and show choir championships on her resume to go along with her highly rated syndicated TV program, flashy car and gorgeously furnished living space.

The one area where she has lost, however, is love. To put it bluntly, she's sucked at that. She couldn't keep together the one relationship that meant the most in the world to her, and that failure has haunted her ever since. Intellectually, she knows it wasn't solely her fault that things didn't work out with Brittany; after all, the sunny blonde dancer hadn't always made the best choices or said all the right things either. Emotionally, however, Santana has always blamed herself for the dissolution of her marriage, and it's left her deeply hurt, maybe even scarred for life.

But she wants to try again. Honestly, she does. Yet, as fearless as she is in every other aspect of her life, she's almost paralyzed with fear and indecision when it comes to the idea of confessing her love to Rachel Berry.

Tossing and turning in her bed - which has felt far too big for one person ever since Brittany's departure - she feels tortured by the thoughts that keep running through her head, the images of Rachel smiling and happy with Kitty Wilde, with Jane Hayward, with who knows who else.

She hates feeling pressured, but every time she closes her eyes, she sees Quinn's words on her phone screen: If you don't act fast, you could lose your chance.

God, who could have imagined me losing sleep over Rachel Berry?

There's no denying it anymore. She has to do this. She needs to do this. But how? How can she tell the woman she had once tormented when they were girls in high school, only to later become friends, that she's actually been in love with her for years? That she's still in love with her now, that she wants to be with her in a more than friendly way?

She doesn't know. Not yet. She turns over yet again, puts her head beneath one of the pillows. She closes her eyes for the umpteenth time, knowing that she needs to get some sleep before she can figure out anything else. Knowing that when she does finally fall asleep, dreams of a pint-sized, brown-eyed, golden-voiced diva will surely follow. Whether they'll be good dreams or bad, Santana can't predict – but of this, she can be certain: Rachel will play the starring role in all of them, no matter what.

The next morning, with bleary eyes and messy hair, Santana yawns as she pulls up the New York Daily News web site on her laptop. Her breakfast, a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, sits next to the computer, and she consumes it absently as she clicks through the pages – and then almost spits it all over the screen when she sees the headline on the gossip page and the large photo that accompanies it.

Fresh Berry! Broadway Darling Dances The Night Away With Not One, But Two Gal Pals!

Santana's eyes grow wide and her breath becomes a series of short gasps as she takes in the scene captured in the photo: Rachel in a scandalously short, tight dress, looking insanely sexy, dancing with sultry pop singer Marley Rose and uber-socialite Sugar Motta at ultra-hot night spot "Callbacks," letting off steam after her performance last night in the Tony-winning mega-hit musical "Dreams Come True."

She grabs her phone, practically hyperventilating, as she frantically finds and taps Quinn's name in her contacts. Her hands are shaking so much that she doesn't trust her ability to keep the phone steady against her ear, so she puts it down on the table and activates the speaker. She listens to the ringing of Quinn's phone, drumming her fingers against the table impatiently as she waits for her best friend to answer.

Finally, Quinn answers with a groggy "Hello?"

"QUINN!" Santana shouts, not aware of the rising pitch of her voice as she speaks. "She – she – she's in the paper with – with – with two girls! Dancing! At – at a club! What the hell is going on, Quinn?"

"Santana? What – what are you talking about? And why are you shouting? It's way too early for shouting."

"She's driving me crazy, Quinn. I – I don't know what to do, how to handle this, I can't -"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Santana, calm down. Who's driving you crazy? What's going on? Are you having trouble with that old man across the hall again? I told you, don't worry about him. He's so old, he can't possibly get it -"

"No, no, no, Q! Not him! Rachel! She's driving me insane! Look in today's Daily News. You get that paper, right? Or just bring it up on your phone or your computer or whatever crap you use for the Internet."

Quinn groans as she rises from her bed, her back and legs aching in protest. The pain reminds her, as it does every morning, of the car accident she'd survived back in high school, and how Rachel and Santana had helped her to put herself and her life back together afterwards. She would never have forgotten it anyway, but the reminder of a broken spirit and unfeeling limbs never fails to give her the strength to persevere and make something special of her life.

"All right, all right – give me a second. You're as impatient as a little kid, and definitely as annoying sometimes," she says, knowing Santana admitted these things about herself a long time ago and so will take no offense at her words.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, gimp. Just hobble along and get the page up already."

"Yes, mistress." Quinn rolls her eyes. Only Santana could make gimp a term of affection. Grabbing her iPad off the desk, she powers it on and then activates the WiFi connection. Once it's connected a second later, she brings up the Web browser and navigates to the Daily News site. "Okay, now. What am I looking for here, exactly?"

"God, Q, do I have to spell everything out for you? Just go to the gossip page! You do know where it is, right?"

"I'm a lawyer, San, not a talk show host. I don't have any reason to know where the gossip page is unless I have a celebrity client."

"Uh huh. Need I remind you that you're Tina, Rachel, Mercedes, Kurt and Blaine's lawyer?"

"Details, details," Quinn replies, frowning at the smirk in her best friend's voice. "I mean the kind of celebrity that actually shows up in gossip pages, Kardashians and so on. Rachel never – holy crap!"

"You see? You see? Look at that! Look at her! And those – those girls! Who the hell are they, Quinn? 'Sultry pop singer?' 'Uber-socialite?' They're all over her, Q! All over my Rachel!"

"She looks amazing," Quinn breathes. She closes her eyes and bites her lip, remembering the way Rachel had danced with her at their senior prom not so many years ago. She'd looked amazing then, too...

"Wait, what? Yes, she does look amazing, but that's not the fucking point, Q. The point -"

"The point, Santana, is that you're freaking out because you think that every single woman in the city is after Rachel now. And how is she your Rachel, when you haven't even worked up the courage to ask her out, much less tell her how you really feel about her?"

Santana is brought up short. She could probably count on one hand the number of times she's ever been rendered speechless, completely lost for words, without a snappy comeback or witty retort at the ready.

"Look, San. You've rarely, if ever, competed on a level playing field. All your life, you've been smarter, prettier, more talented, more ambitious than almost everybody else. And yeah, now you're famous and successful, too – but all of a sudden, you find yourself competing against women who are everything you are. A sexy celebrity personal trainer. A beautiful young Broadway starlet. A pretty pop star who writes and produces all her own songs. A socialite with more money and name recognition than Paris Hilton. Every single one of them is worthy of Rachel's time and attention, Santana. They're all smart and sexy, pretty and talented, and so on and so forth, just like you. But you want to know what makes them different from you? The fact that they're putting themselves out there and showing Rachel what they have to offer her. Meanwhile, where are you? Holed up in your gorgeous but very empty apartment, completely losing your mind because you have no idea how to be honest and vulnerable with a woman with whom you've been in love for years."

The force of Quinn's words, the simple truth of them, hits Santana hard. She hates admitting it when her best friend is right, but there's no way to argue with anything Quinn has said. So she just scoffs, the old defense mechanism asserting itself because really, she has nothing else.

"Yeah, right, Yoda. This from someone who flipped her shit every time Rachel came to visit her in New Haven. You know what? If I recall correctly, you majored in law at Yale, not psychology, Q, so please leave the bullshit analysis to Dr. Phil and go back to getting your rocks off by reading legal briefs or whatever."

Quinn sighs. Santana can practically hear her shaking her head. She kind of feels bad for lashing out at her when she's only trying to help - but damn it, why does she have to be so fucking right all the time?

"I fully admit that I've had my own problems with honesty in the past," Quinn replies after a few silent moments. Her soft voice is tinged with regret, and Santana knows she's struck a nerve. "I know what it's cost me, San. I just don't want to see the same thing happen to you. In the end, you'll do what you want, no matter what I say, and I'll be here to listen to you cry if things don't go your way. Just...just don't say I didn't warn you, okay?"

"Wait – aw, Q, wait, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't - I didn't mean to...fuck. You know this emotional stuff is hard for me."

"Well, suck it up, Santana," Quinn hisses, stung. "Because opportunities like this don't come along very often. Believe me, I know. I'll...I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Santana knows she's gone too far, making Quinn retreat into herself the way she always does whenever she gets sad and angry. There's nothing more she can say right now. All she can do is let Quinn have the time and space she needs to deal with herself, and she'll call when she's ready to talk again.

"Okay, Q – thanks. Thanks for...you know. Everything."

"Yeah. I know." Santana can hear the weak smile in Quinn's voice, the poor cover for her obviously hurt feelings. "Bye."

The call ends before Santana can respond. It's just another thing she'll have to set right. Her life is filled with so many of these small moments of regret, so many times when harsh words and bruised feelings have combined to ruin a morning. Every time it happens with Quinn, she's sure that Quinn will never never speak to her again. And every time, her best friend calls her back a few days later and it's all forgotten. Or at least they pretend it is.

The bottom line, Santana realizes, as she leans her head back and runs her fingers through her long black hair, is that her best friend really is Yoda, wise and all-knowing and all that. It's a scary and sobering thing, but Quinn is right. It's time for Santana to get real with herself.

Time for her to get real with Rachel - before it's too late.

Dreams Come True is the hottest theater ticket in town, but when you're a celebrity, there's always a front row seat available. Santana settles herself into the plush, thickly padded chair and reads through the Playbill, feeling an absurd sort of pride as she reads the paragraph beneath the tiny picture of Rachel that lists her achievements, as though she'd had anything to do with it besides sending the occasional text message, like the one that said break a leg, kid on the show's opening night.

(Okay, so maybe sending a picture of someone's leg in a cast right after that wasn't the most tasteful or encouraging thing she could have done, but come on – everyone knows her sense of humor, right?)

She smiles as she runs her finger over the picture of Rachel's smiling face, feeling almost overwhelmed with affection for the tiny diva. Her tiny diva. It's that special mega-watt smile, the one that reaches Rachel's eyes, the glow of happiness on her face almost radiating in waves off the page. It's the smile that had stopped Santana's heart the very first time she'd seen it, not so many years ago, when she and Quinn and Brittany had walked into the choir room back at McKinley to join the glee club, and saw Rachel sing for the first time.

Her heart has never beat the same since that day.

Suddenly, the lights dim and the music swells, breaking Santana from her thoughts. She hurries to put her Playbill in her purse, hopes the flowers she ordered will arrive exactly at the time she'd requested. Then the curtain opens, and nothing exists but the stage, the lights, and the woman who commands them both.

It's a strange thing to see your memories played out in front of you, with different faces answering to the names you've known almost all your life. Yet it all rings true, feels real to Santana, in spite of that. She's transported back to the days when everything came down to a song, a dance, a few fleeting moments standing in a spotlight and singing like nothing else in the world mattered. It's the best time of her life, years condensed into a couple of hours, and experiencing it all again this way is at once bewildering and exhilarating. She cries, she laughs, and mostly she marvels at how Rachel grows up on stage, transforming from a ruthlessly ambitious, self-centered, heartbreakingly insecure teenage girl aching for acceptance and friendship, to a young woman who realizes that "being part of something special doesn't make you special – it's special because of the people who are part of it with you."

And when Rachel sings the show's most powerful, emotional numbers, Changed Forever and Dreams Come True, Santana cries so hard that her make-up is completely ruined, and she doesn't care one bit. In a show full of great performances, those two songs, she knows, are what won Rachel the Tony Award. It's impossible to imagine anyone ever singing anything with more passion. The words that theater critics had used to describe her – words like stunning, awesome and magnificent, still manage to fall far short of describing the magic that Rachel creates when she gives herself over completely to those songs.

After the show, the backstage area is crowded with people. Friends and family members mingle with cast and crew members. It's a tired, but happy gathering, a celebration of yet another perfect show. Santana pushes her way through the small throng, flashing her MEDIA – ALL ACCESS pass as she anxiously asks one person after another if they know where Rachel Berry's dressing room is. She knows she doesn't have much time, and she wants everything to be as perfect as Rachel deserves it to be.

Finally, she stands in front of the door. She stifles a laugh as she stares at the large gold star with MS. BERRY in bold, black letters across the center of it. Dreams come true indeed.

Her hand trembles as she raises it to knock, but before her knuckles can come into contact with the hard wood, the door opens to reveal the surprised face of Rachel Berry. She's wearing only a robe, and she's taken her make-up off, but Santana thinks she looks beautiful even when she's tired. Her breath catches in her throat as she struggles to find a single word to say. It's as though time has stopped around them, freezing everything in the world in place, stilling motion, silencing sound.

"Santana," Rachel says into the silence. "What – what are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"I – I wanted to...to surprise you. I know you don't like surprises, but – I need to say something to you. I need to tell you – I just...I've never known how to -"

Rachel's soft, gentle smile stops Santana's heart in mid-beat. She could die, standing here, right now, happily so, basking in the glow of that smile.

"Slow down, Santana. Why don't you come in? You don't look well, if you'll forgive me saying so."

Oh God. I'm about to be alone with Rachel in her dressing room and she's wearing nothing but a robe. I think I'm going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

Wordlessly, Santana slides past Rachel to enter the small, but well-appointed dressing room. She's only vaguely aware of Rachel following behind her, the soft click of the door closing. There's no turning back now.

Santana sits down on a plush, comfortable little couch, her head down and her hands folded in her lap. She feels Rachel's presence next to her, feels her body shiver at the heat of her nearness.

"I got your flowers. They're beautiful. Thank you so much."

Santana's head snaps up at the sound of Rachel's voice. The singer's eyes are curious, but filled with warmth, focused directly into Santana's own.

"You're welcome. You...you were fantastic out there. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

Rachel's cheeks tinge an adorable shade of pink. She beams, as she always has, at the words of praise.

"Thank you, Santana. I must say, I'm surprised to see you here tonight. In a happy way, of course. It's a rather unexpected pleasure."

Santana shivers again at the word pleasure. She's trembling despite the rising temperature in the room. She clenches her thighs together, closes her eyes once more. Rachel is as radiant and terrifying as a star; she can hardly bear to be this near to her. Santana wants to touch her more than anything. It's taking all her strength to keep herself under control.

"Rachel – I...I think you're amazing. I've always thought you were amazing. From the first time I saw you, heard you sing...I knew you'd end up here. You were born for this. It was obvious even then that Lima could never hold you back. No matter what anybody ever said or did to you – and Rachel, I am so, so sorry for all the things I – everything you went through...I mean, what I'm saying is, I guess, that I admire you. I really, really admire you."

Rachel rests one of her small, delicate hands on top of Santana's, which are still clenched tightly in her lap. "Santana," she says softly. "You came here just to tell me...you admire me?"

"No. No, it's...it's more than that. I came here to tell you something else. Something Quinn knew even before I did, but once I realized it, I just – it kind of freaked me out, and I didn't – I couldn't – oh, God, this isn't making any fucking sense, is it? I'm just making a fool out of myself now, right? Like, this is the universe finally getting its revenge on me for all the horrible shit I've ever done." Santana barks a bitter laugh, not seeing the look of concern on Rachel's face as she goes on. "You've probably got a hot date waiting for you outside - that Kitty chick, wearing, like, a bikini under a trench coat or something, or Sugar Motta in a giant fucking limousine. Or maybe it's Marley Rose at some all-night coffee house, where it's open mic night every night and she's going to sing the new song she wrote about you, and – fuck, I'm too late, aren't I?"

She turns to Rachel, new tears trailing down the tracks of the old. Her voice is little more than a tattered, anguished whisper, raw with fear, desperate with want.

"Please, Rachel. Please tell me I'm not too late. Please tell me it's not too late for me to - to tell you that I...I love you."

Santana sobs into the silence that follows, not caring at all about how weak she must look right now, how frail and lost. Her bones have turned to ash. She's hollow now, empty of all the emotion that's been bottled up within her for all these years.

Then she feels Rachel's hand leave hers, feels its warmth land on her face, the pad of her thumb gently stroking away her tears.

"You read the interview, didn't you?" It comes out as more of a statement than a question. "Oh, Santana. I was hoping that you would, but I never actually expected - "

"The cheerleader. Who was it?" Santana croaks out miserably. She knows now that it wasn't her, it was never her, it was always someone else. "Just...just tell me that, and then we'll never talk about this again. Ever."

"This isn't the way I pictured this happening. When your producer called to invite me to appear on your show, I thought, you know, we would talk about this later, maybe over dinner, or -"

"You think I would want to do this on my show? Humiliate myself in front of a national audience? God, there's a ratings grabber for you."

"Santana," Rachel says sharply. Santana actually winces at the tone. "Stop."

Rachel draws in a deep breath, releases it slowly. "You've always been a puzzle to me, Santana. I've spent countless hours trying to figure out where all the pieces fit together, and whether there might be any space for me in the picture it would form when it was done. When you got together with Brittany, I wasn't surprised at all, because she was so good for you, and you were so good together. All I wanted, for years after that, was a relationship as loving and caring as what you had with Brittany, but it never happened. I told myself it was because I was too focused on achieving my dreams of stardom, on becoming the best performer I could possibly be. But the truth is, it didn't happen because I never felt the kind of electricity with anyone else that I felt every single time I got near you. Do you understand what I'm saying, Santana?"

Rachel smiles at the look of confusion that Santana knows she must be wearing. She feels her eyes widen and her pulse begin to race as the Broadway star's smile broadens into an amused, but sympathetic grin.

"I don't – you mean...it was me? Seriously? So..so Quinn was just messing with me this whole time? Just to get me to do...this? No me gusta! I'm gonna kill her!"

Rachel laughs. She has no idea what Santana's talking about, but right now she really doesn't care. Santana's brow furrows as her confusion deepens. "Goodness, Santana. And you called me a drama queen. Yes, it was you, silly. It was always you."

"But how – why? I was so terrible to you! And – and what about those...those other girls? I mean, they're all hot and rich and successful and talented and -"

"They're my friends, Santana. Friends. There's nothing going on between me and any of them, I assure you. Well, not anymore, anyway. I did sleep with Kitty that one time -"

Santana jumps up from the couch, livid. Thoughts of murder scream in her head. "What?! You slept with her? I'll kill that bitch -"

Rachel laughs again. "No, no, Santana, I'm kidding! Please, sit down. I was just joking." She tugs at Santana's arm, pulling her back down beside her.

"Not funny, Berry," Santana grumbles, feeling a little embarrassed, but not really. "I was just about to run out of here, find that midget and go all Lima Heights on her little ass."

"As entertaining as that might have been, Santana, it would not end well for you. She can bench press 450 pounds and has black belts in five different martial arts disciplines."

Santana's jaw drops. She blinks a few times, processing this information. Then a thought occurs to her, and a sly smirk brings up the corners of her mouth. "Damn good thing you didn't sleep with her, then – she might have killed you."

This earns her a laugh and a light slap on the arm from Rachel. "Santana!" she squeals in mock indignation. "Kitty is a wonderful person. She would never hurt anyone intentionally, and certainly not during sex. Actually, Sugar says that she's a very gentle, giving lover."

"Wait – hold on a second," Santana says, holding up a hand in the universally recognized stop signal. "Back up. Are you seriously telling me that those two are -"

"Together? Yes. Sugar introduced me to Kitty when I mentioned to her one day that I was looking to get into peak physical condition so that I would be better able to withstand the physical rigors of performing on stage eight shows a week - and as you now know, having seen my Cosmo cover, her methods are quite effective."

"They sure are," Santana agrees, her voice low and husky, eyes raking over Rachel's robe-clad form. Rachel blushes, but holds the other woman's gaze with a proud, confident stare.

Santana licks her lips, desperately trying to keep her libido in check. She really wouldn't want to have to explain to the network, or the media, how she was found ravishing a Broadway star in said Broadway star's dressing room.

"Um," she stammers, forcing her eyes down, trying to get her mind to retreat from the very naughty places to which it's gone. "Now that we've established how I feel about you – that I'm in love with you and all that...how do you...I mean, do you have feelings for me? Like, beyond friendship? Because yeah, it'll suck and be really hard to deal with if you don't feel the same way, but at least I finally sucked it up and let you know -"

A pair of soft, delicious lips lands upon her own, cutting her off in the sweetest way imaginable, and her words are instantly transformed into a low moan that disappears into Rachel's mouth.

When the diminutive starlet finally pulls away long moments later, only because the need for air has become too urgent to ignore, she smiles at the dazed and dizzy look on Santana's face, the glassy appearance of her dark eyes.

"You're cute when you ramble," Rachel breathes, a definite note of mirth in her voice. "Did anyone ever tell you that?"

Santana can only laugh, long and loud, in response, and Rachel joins her before Santana grabs her behind the head, tangling her fingers in Rachel's lush, silky dark hair, and reconnects their lips in a searing, passionate kiss. Being in love with Rachel Berry feels better than anything she's ever felt in her life, and she doesn't want this feeling to ever stop.

And to think it all happened just because she saw her on the cover of a magazine.

The mood on the set of the Santana! show, several months later, is joyous and upbeat. The crew is decked out in their best suits and formal dresses, and the stage is strewn with flowers and a pristine white trellis decorated with still more flowers. On the far left side of the stage, there is a table upon which an enormous cake stands, along with enough plates to serve the guests, the crew and the entire studio audience.

The glee club members stand nervously on the stage, arranged in a male / female order, on either side of the trellis. To the left are Sam Evans, now a model; Mercedes Jones, R&B sensation; Artie Abrams, now a research scientist and leading advocate for the rights of the disabled; and Finn Hudson, backup quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. And to the right are Noah "Puck" Puckerman, now a screenwriter and action movie star; Tina Cohen-Chang, a popular children's book author / illustrator; Mike Chang (no relation), owner of a small but successful dance studio in Chicago; and – yes - Brittany Pierce, superstar dancer and Hollywood choreographer extraordinaire.

The only former Glee Clubbers not in attendance are Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson, who are currently starring in a well-reviewed production of The Rocky Horror Show on the West End in London (Kurt makes an outstanding Riff Raff, with Blaine surprisingly adept as Brad) – but of course, they've sent their best wishes in a video message that has coaxed happy tears from all who've seen it.

In the audience, smiling the beatific smiles more commonly seen on the faces of proud parents, are McKinley High School's new principal (and former glee club advisor) Will Schuester and his wife, guidance counselor Emma Pillsbury, already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief held in a white gloved hand. Seated next to them are Rachel's two fathers, Hiram and LeRoy Berry – now divorced, they have come together again for this happy, if most unusual event – and Rachel's mother (and new glee club advisor), Shelby Corcoran.

On the other side of them sit Santana's mother Maribel and father Carlos, both glowing with pride. They are flanked by McKinley's irascible cheerleading coach, Sue Sylvester, and several other members of the school's staff: football coach Shannon Bieste, Spanish teacher David Martinez and history teacher Holly Holliday. Holly's partner, wealthy roller skating rink owner April Rhodes, sits next to her, idly pondering what kind of drinks they'll be serving later.

(The school's former principal, Mr. Figgins, was invited, but unfortunately could not attend, claiming he had planned a trip to see family in his former home country of Pakistan, but everyone thinks he just didn't want to see Sue, with whom he had endured a famously horrible professional relationship.)

Sugar Motta, Kitty Wilde and Marley Rose are all huddled together excitedly backstage in beautiful matching dresses and upswept hair, with exquisite corsages on each of their wrists. Security chiefs David Karofsky and Azimio Adams scan the room with intense eyes and fierce expressions. There's a lot of fame and money crowded into this place, and they're not about to let anything happen to their charges on this of all days.

And in the room behind the door with the bold Santana! logo written in flowing letters across a large sign – and a Please Do Not Disturb tag hanging from the doorknob, Quinn watches the host of the show pacing back and forth, each step more frenetic than the one before.

"I don't know if I can do this, Q. I feel all sick and nauseous, like I'm gonna throw up, and I just can't throw up on national television, I just can't! That would live in TV infamy forever!" she says, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I mean, you can just imagine what those douches over at the Entertainment Channel would do with that footage -"

Quinn jumps up from the folding chair on which she's been sitting for the last half-hour, patiently watching Santana's progress from slight jitters to near full meltdown, and she's had quite enough of this, thank you.

"Listen to me, Santana," she practically shouts in her best friend's face, gripping her by the shoulders with strong hands. "You are not going to throw up out there. No one is going to run any kind of embarrassing footage of you, or anybody else, after this, all right? The only thing anyone will be talking about is the most amazing daytime television talk show event since the first fist fight broke out on the Jerry Springer Show – okay? You can do this, and you are going to do this. Almost all of our friends are here. My mother even flew in from Lima, and she's terrified of flying. And trust me, you do not want to explain to her that she went through that experience for nothing."

Santana takes several deep breaths, trying desperately to calm her nerves and steel her resolve.

"You're right, Q. Of course you're right. I'm just gonna go out there in this insanely expensive designer gown and this ridiculous tiara – how I let Sugar convince me to wear this freakin' thing I will never know, it weighs like ten pounds – and I'm going to rock the TV world."

Quinn rolls her eyes, knowing that in her agitated state, Santana won't notice at all.

"That's right," she tells Santana firmly. "You and Rachel are going to rock the TV world together. You've got this. You've so got this."

Before Santana can reply, Quinn's phone buzzes, the sound loud in the silent room, even muffled by her purse. She pulls it out and reads the text message that Jane has just sent her.

"Production's on the way to your door. It's showtime, San. Now go out there and make the magic happen."

Scant seconds later, the expected knock on the door comes, and a production assistant opens the door a crack, sticking his face in through the opening with an excited smile.

"Ready?" he asks. Santana can only gulp and nod in reply.

All her anxiety flies away the second she sees the audience. She's in her element now. Her mother flashes her a small, discreet "thumbs up" sign, and suddenly she knows that everything's going to be all right.

The episode, when it airs a week later, becomes the highest-rated and most talked-about show in daytime TV history, and for a long time afterwards, the media and pop culture world is still abuzz over the televised wedding of talk show host Santana Lopez and Tony Award-winning Broadway star Rachel Berry.

In fact, couple's epic kiss after the words you may now kiss your bride becomes the stuff of TV legend and Internet meme immortality. They will laugh about it for years to come, long after Rachel's initial annoyance ("They didn't get my good side!") wears off.

Epilogue: Moments and Snapshots

Rachel and Santana stand together on the spacious grassy courtyard of their elegant, yet not at all ostentatious estate, inspecting the seating arrangements and elaborate decorations that Rachel had designed for the day's event. Santana squeezes Rachel's hand, and the shorter woman smiles up at her.

"Remind you of anything?" she asks playfully, gesturing with her other hand at the festive sight before them.

Santana returns her smile. Her heart clenches with love for the woman at her side. How had she ever thought herself to be happy before the fateful night she'd bared her soul and revealed her true feelings? Clearly, she'd had no idea what happiness actually was, what it meant, until that moment.

"Yeah, I think so. Although I'm glad the cameras are missing for this one," she replies.

"So is the happy couple. They wanted this to be completely private, and right now, there's no place on Earth more private than right here – except maybe the Pentagon or something."

"I still can't believe those two got together," Santana muses. "It just seems so random, still."

"Well, when it's meant to be, it's meant to be. You should know that better than anyone."

"Very true. So when is everyone supposed to be here?"

"Soon," Rachel says, looking at her watch. "Azimio and David are guarding them in their separate rooms, right?"

Santana laughs, having been asked this question numerous times since the couple in question arrived early this morning. She knows Rachel worries only because she cares so much for her friends, and because these particular friends deserve everything that's about to happen to be absolutely perfect. This event's been in the planning for a good deal of time now, and nothing can be allowed to screw it up in even the tiniest way, or Rachel will be tremendously upset.

(After all, she's the one who introduced these two to each other in the first place.)

And no one wants to see Rachel upset, not to mention the happy couple.

The guests begin to arrive, and Rachel shifts into gracious hostess mode, greeting everyone with a big hug and a dazzling smile. Sunshine and Harmony, their assistants, take the coats and purses to the coat room and put them in their places with perfect efficiency. As they pass the kitchens, they smile at each other, knowing that Sebastian, the head chef, will keep plates warm for them as long as necessary; divine aromas are already wafting through the air.

Artie is tasked with taking candid photos and video, an assignment he attacks with relish. He still remembers his youthful dreams of becoming a film director, before hearing the call of science.

Snapshot: Mercedes, having scheduled a break in her national tour just for this happy occasion, smiles from the stage that's been built to accommodate her and her band. She waves at Sam, who waves back, then looks at the white gold ring on his finger, feeling like the luckiest man on the face of the planet. Then he adjusts his black bow tie and shuffles off to exchange high fives with Finn, Mike and Puck, all of whom look entirely too adult and grown-up in their fine tuxedos.

The guests continue to stream in.

Moment: Will and Emma push the stroller containing their son ahead of them, Will adjusting the giant floppy hat that's gone slightly askew on his wife's head as they walk. Santana hugs the two of them, then crouches down, glad that Rachel didn't mind her wearing pants today, to greet the little boy with a smile and a boop on the nose. He laughs adorably and waves his little arms around in delight.

Snapshot: Kurt and Blaine receive enthusiastic hugs from everyone. Life has felt more complete since they returned from London and settled back down in New York, and the two young men tell their friends that it will take a monumental offer to get them to ever go back abroad for as long as the last time they'd stayed overseas. England was great and all, they say, but there's nothing like home. Everybody agrees.

Moment: Brittany smiles shyly, and Santana opens her arms to invite her in for a hug. It's taken a lot of talking and even more soul-searching, but with Rachel's help, they've come to understand each other's point of view a lot better, and at long last finally renew the close friendship they'd had before they were a couple. They embrace, and Santana breathes in the scent of the first person she'd ever loved, grateful that they've finally come full circle, able to be here and enjoy being in each other's presence today.

Snapshot: Somewhere in the gathered throng, Rachel spots Quinn's mother Judy and father Russell and rushes off in the midst of handing Sugar a drink to ensure that the two don't see each other. They'd agreed to be civil today, but Rachel's not taking any chances.

(At least Mr. Fabray had the good sense to leave his latest twenty-something girlfriend at home in Ohio.)

Moment: Santana greets Marley's mother warmly, complimenting the formerly obese woman on her amazing, dramatic weight loss. Damn, Kitty's workout methods really do work wonders, Santana thinks.

(She knows better than to say things like that out loud now. Rachel's had a civilizing influence on her, although she still gets way too angry when Rachel beats her at Guitar Hero.)

Snapshot: Coach Sue arrives with her former student and eternal sidekick Becky Jackson in tow, resplendent in matching snow-white track suits. Becky had insisted upon being the flower girl today, and although Santana didn't think it was the greatest of ideas, Rachel couldn't bring herself to say "no" and break the girl's heart. Seeing her happy grin stretch from ear to ear, Santana is glad she didn't. The excited hug she gets from the girl further confirms the correctness of Rachel's decision.

Moment: The music begins, and the sun finally breaks out from behind the scudding clouds that had gathered earlier. Quinn emerges from the enormous house, and the guests release a collective gasp at her flawless, stunning beauty. Her hair shines like spun gold in the light, and the elegant gown she wears clings to her body as though she was born to wear it. Her father smiles tightly as he looks down at her, offering the crook of her arm to her. It's taken a lot for him to be here. He'll never approve of this marriage, but damn it, she's still his little girl, and no one but him is going to walk her down the aisle while he's still alive.

(When Quinn looks up into his face and whispers "Thank you," he has to reach up with his other hand to brush a tear from his eye. He hopes no one notices. Everyone does.)

Becky walks in front of them, tossing flowers this way and that. She looks like she's never had a better time in her life. Rachel lets out a little aww at the sight. Santana rolls her eyes, but inside, she's doing the same thing.

Snapshot: Quinn waits for her soul mate at the end of the aisle, feeling perfectly at peace now that the moment for which she feels like she's been waiting all her life has arrived. All the stress and anxiety that went into this has vanished, and all she wants to do is say the words and feel the lips that finally breathed life into her connect with hers once more, to seal the vow and render the spell everlasting.

Moment: The door opens again, and a second gasp of awed approval is drawn from the crowd as the other half of the couple they've come to watch become bonded to each other meets up with Will at the start of the carpeted path. He knows it couldn't have been easy for this one, growing up without a dad, so he's become something of a father figure, providing a great deal of emotional support throughout the months and days leading up to this event, and now he couldn't be more proud of the part he's played in helping to get them here.

Snapshot: The walk seems endless, yet it's over before Quinn has time to blink. Her heart pounds at the sight of her beloved, finally standing her before her, looking like something out of a fairy tale, regal and elegant. Her skin feels electric, and she finds herself getting lost in the kind, warm eyes looking back at her with absolute love and devotion. She never imagined herself getting this lucky. Thank goodness for you, Rachel Berry. I'll owe you one forever.

Moment: The music stops, and all anyone can hear is the chirping of birds and the rush of water from the beautiful fountains situated at each corner of the yard. Two hearts pound in unison, and the officiant begins to speak. The words are lost to the air for the ones standing before him, and time seems to slow until he asks them to produce the rings.

Snapshot: The officiant smiles kindly at the two young people standing there, so obviously and helplessly in love. It never fails to warm his old heart to see it; he hopes these two will never forget the way they're feeling at this exact moment. It will sustain them through moments both dark and light in the years to come. Then he begins to speak in a voice rich with genuine emotion:

"Lucy Quinn Fabray, will you take this person before you in the bond of marriage, to love and honor, to have and hold, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for the rest of your days?"

Quinn beams, and in her unbridled happiness, she's more radiant than the sun.

"I will."

"And Marley Danielle Rose, will you take this person before you in the bond of marriage, to love and honor, to have and hold, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for the rest of your days?"

Marley vibrates with happiness. She wants nothing more than to claim Quinn, finally, as hers and hers alone. Her smile equals Quinn's, and she nods enthusiastically, provoking chuckles from the crowd.

"Yes! Yes, I will."

"The by the power vested in me by the State of New York, I am happy to now pronounce you Mrs. and Mrs. Quinn and Marley Fabray-Rose! You may now kiss, to seal your vows."

Moment: They're already kissing before the words are complete, of course. He shakes his head in amusement. Something tells him these two are going to be just fine.

Snapshot: They all cheer at the top of their lungs, knowing that no one will hear them – but even if someone did – even if the world did - so what? It's not a crime to be happy, right?

fin