An Experiment
It was easy at first, purely physical, two hot girls with strong personalities, a little drunk, okay, a lot drunk, one experimenting, the other demonstrating mastery. A wedding. Both of their main squeezes unavailable.
What the hell is it with weddings, anyway? The alcohol, old friends, new and old pairings, a hotel? There was a lot of fucking that night. But Santana and Quinn knew it was just a comfort thing, just a convenience thing, just a one-time thing.
And it was nice. Nice enough for a one-time thing to become a two-time thing. Nice enough for them to get together every so often in New Haven. (Never in New York, never in the apartment Santana shared with Rachel. That would be too much.)
Then, when Brittany didn't show to Finn's funeral, and Rachel got sucked into her fairy tale, the comfort of meeting with Quinn just seemed to make sense. Sure, Santana dated around, and Quinn said she did, but the way they could touch each other and breathe easier, feel somehow safer, that was a kind of love, wasn't it?
Santana tried to trace what happened. When three weeks had gone by without contact with Brittany, then three months, the part of Santana that was always listening for Brittany's ringtone took a seat in the back of her mind, and Quinn's number went to the top of her favorites list.
After graduation, Quinn's New York move just made their thing more public, more inevitable. Santana thoroughly enjoyed Rachel's face going pale green when they finally admitted they were dating. But something about being open about it maybe made things more volatile between them, more friable. A little pressure, and they crumbled. They broke up within the month.
And the loss, even of this casual, accidental thing, whatever it was, hit the hurt part of her heart and called up all the other losses.
Called up the big loss. The biggest. The one that was her fault. She stopped herself from making the first call she wanted to make. She didn't even know if Brittany had the same number. Britt would know the exact feeling without her having to say anything. On the other hand, Brittany would know that feeling because of her, and who needs to go there, right? So she didn't call.
Rachel just rolled her eyes. Quinn had already called her. And Kurt— well, Santana knew what Kurt thought. He'd told her to go to Boston years before. She wasn't going to get any sympathy there.
Getting with another girl soothed the aches eventually (while creating new ones), and when that was over, Quinn was ready for another go.
They'd gone through this cycle several times before Santana decided to break it and asked Quinn to move in with her.
Quinn accepted.
And they really tried to make domesticity work, making breakfasts for each other, making dinners for each other, compromising on decorating decisions. All of which was fun and exciting for a while…
But then Santana would catch a whiff of vanilla outside a bakery, in a store, on the subway— and wonder what domesticity would be like—
—with Brittany.
Sex with Quinn got less and less frequent, got less and less interesting, but Santana didn't have the drive toward other girls, because it was clear, not just any girl would do.
She wondered if Quinn registered the guilt, if she could see it or feel it or smell it. Santana could. It tasted of rust. It smelled of mildew. It felt like slushy running down inside her sweater. And she was sure her face had changed color.
Whether or not Quinn had noticed the change, Santana noticed a change in her. She started leaving texts about going over to Rachel's.
And not coming home.
Or coming home drunk.
When you worry about a person making it home, that's a kind of love, isn't it?
Santana covered up the smell of guilt with a dab of vanilla behind each ear.
"Mmm… You smell like Brittany used to," murmured Quinn one morning as she returned from one of her nights out.
Quinn smelled of wine, Santana noticed, but she smiled and pecked her cheek.
Quinn continued toward their bedroom, then stopped suddenly. She turned around, gaping. She tilted her head, then shook it abruptly, turned and went on her way.
That slushy sensation rushed down her chest.
What the hell was she doing?
What the hell were they doing?
Santana followed Quinn and sat beside her on the bed.
"I have two weeks before rehearsals start up, and then I'll barely see you for like six weeks. Are we disintegrating? Can we try again?"
Quinn just looked at her.
Then looked at her feet.
"Yeah," she said, "okay."
And the trying tried Santana. It tried them both. Like first-year acting students so much just seemed forced, hollow. Quinn made them lunches every morning. Santana poured wine every evening. Quinn stayed home, stayed off the phone with Rachel. Santana left the vanilla in the subway. That's a kind of love, isn't it?
It got better. Some.
But Brittany's reappearance cut through it like so many cobwebs.
Quinn was shelter, but Brittany was home.