Chapter 4
Lessons
Thursday began with rain. The last storm of a quickly forgotten summer rolled in by the dawn. With it strong winds whipped flags upon their masts as soldiers scurried to reinforce their tents. It hasn't let up. Thick heavy sheets of cold rainwater fall from the thundering clouds above, soaking through the uniforms of the men in the 106th running up on the nearby field. The storm hasn't stopped morning drills from taking place, nor the loud shouts of Captain Hartman forcing his company to run through the slick mud. If anything he seems even angrier with his men today.
Brittany doesn't much like when Captain Hartman screams at them. But she understands he must. The thunder is so loud at times she can barely hear her heavy pants let alone his commands. She feels his anger sprouts not from his distaste with the ill-timed storm, but from frustration with a few of the less sure-footed of his men. Especially ones like Scott Cooper who keep slipping and slowing the rest of them down. Again she hears the splat of his body colliding with the ground ahead. Puckerman doesn't stop his strides as he plants a foot solidly into Cooper's back, forcing the downed soldier further into the mud.
Brittany can see Puckerman chuckling to himself, even between his heavy breaths, ahead of her. She stops her pace when she comes up beside Cooper and without second thought extends a hand down in aid. She knows he's the last soldier here that deserves help, let alone from the very person he saw fit to torment. But Brittany hopes he may remember this moment and hopefully, at the very least, cease with the petty name-calling. He looks up at the offer, his usually stony blue eyes exposing hints of appreciation. Yet when his gaze focuses upon the owner, the hardness is back, a sneer quick to manifest on his face.
He spits out a mouth full of murky water, swatting Brittany's hand aside. "You're not better than me, eunuch."
"I never said I was," Brittany tells him, bristling at his harsh tone. "And my name is Bret." She tries to help him to stand but he shoves her aside, grunting curses beneath his breath. Brittany is left standing beneath the heavy rain as he takes off in a sprint to rejoin the line. She doesn't think anything she can ever do will change his opinion of her. But she knows she won't put up with his taunts anymore.
She quickly jogs up to the back of her company, mindful of the pudgy soldier's steps in front of her. His feet have kicked up more mud in three steps than seemed to cover Cooper's body with one fall.
"Mornin' Pierce," Puckerman greets her, breathless as he falls into line beside her.
Brittany keeps her eyes forward, watching the rolls of fat bounce along the back of the pudgy man's neck. It's a bit disturbing, but Brittany thinks safer than engaging in a conversation with Noah Puckerman. Of what she recalls of the man, he wasn't very nice to Santana.
…or was it Santana that wasn't very nice to him?
"I said hello," Puckerman tells her, smirking as he gives her shoulder a nudge. She catches a glimpse of him from the corner of her vision. His eyes are squinted against the rain pelting against his face and Brittany wonders why he's forgotten his hat. It is a bit irresponsible of him to go without one today. But Puckerman seems not to care, his grin growing wider as he chuckles, "is that how you boys greet each other," he wheezes. "…in Lima?"
Her head whips toward him, an expression of astonishment on her face. "How'd you—"
"Had a lovely chat… with Burt… before session today," Puckerman says, winded a bit more than usual. "Says you're a… good fellow."
Brittany gives him a small smile, nodding as their Captain leads them back down the hill toward camp, much to the relieved sighs of many men in line.
"You should… head over… to our tent... tonight," Puckerman's last word is strained as he lets out a groan, wincing at a pull in his back. He gives Brittany a smile, even despite the discomfort. She wonders why he's so out of shape, they've been running for miles every morning for about a month now, yet looking at Puckerman you'd think this was his first day. The next words he rushes out quickly, "Music, juice, bring Miss Santana."
He takes off back to his place in the line with a wink, leaving Brittany to consider his offer.
As the company pushes onward, the rain pelting ever harder, boots sodden and expressions grave, Brittany feels light. She checks on Captain Hartman's position, pleased when she spots him atop his horse just a few dozen men ahead. She dashes out of line quickly and back into her original place. Puckerman's invitation, even born of his conquest for Santana's affections, is long awaited. For despite being adamant of Bret's refusal to join, Brittany has only ever wanted to be accepted as one of the boys, as just another soldier.
Not a whelp or dunce.
Not a pansy or a eunuch.
Just Bret. Just him and nothing more.
Brittany already has their fire ready by the time Santana has finished her evening meal. It's a welcome heat the flames provide, warding off the unusually chill winds the earlier rainstorm saw fit to bring. An old grayed gum blanket is spread upon the ground, a bit damp in places, the waterproof material having seen better days. But Brittany was careful to keep a spot as dry as possible for Santana. Brittany had noticed yesterday the fine material of the doctor's dress. And of the glimpse of her she saw today she knew it'd be a pity if her new one were to be ruined by a bit of mud.
"Here," Brittany holds her hand out as Santana, arms full of books, finally comes to a stop in front of the blanket. "Let me take those for you. I made sure there was a good dry part so you don't muck up your pretty dress."
"I've got them," Santana tells her, hugging them closer, wary of Brittany's proximity to the fire. These were some of her most prized possessions and given what little she's come to know of the blonde, she doesn't quite trust them in her neglectful hands.
"Let me help you to sit than," Brittany concedes, hand still extended kindly.
The smile Brittany wears is gentle and warm; it makes part of Santana want to turn on her heels and head back to her tent. To bury her head in books and forget all about this strange girl with her overshadowing brightness. For to Santana, Brittany Pierce is one giant oxymoron. A headache-inducing, stomach-fluttering, addictive contradiction. For every minute spent in her company Santana both craves and spurns more. She cannot make sense of it. The world is not a good place. It doesn't contain good people. It is full of corruption, deceit, and horrors Santana is sure Brittany has been kept entirely ignorant of. There is no place in it for people like her. And yet here she stands, poised at the brink of a war, smiling, eyes shining in the light of the small fire.
The very picture of simple-mindedness, innocence... and goodness.
It makes Santana want to run. Far, far away.
But like the contradiction she tries to discern, she remains.
"I'm fine," she mutters; stomach still a mess of churning conflicting emotions as she carefully sits herself down.
Brittany happily settles beside her much as she did the night before. Her eyes wander down to the books in Santana's arms. The spines are thick and the leather worn. Brittany is a bit apprehensive of them, especially when without so much as a word Santana plops one down into her lap. It's far heavier than even she imagined upon first glance. She can't conceive how difficult the words inside must be. At this point running another seven some miles in the downpour of the century sounds a far better alternative than embarrassing herself trying to decipher the otherwise harmless book in her lap. Her throat feels dry and scratchy as Santana meets her eyes.
Brittany's nervous, of that much Santana can plainly see. She gives her a small, encouraging smile, or what she hopes is anyway. She hasn't had much use of the gesture, though Brittany seems receptive, her posture relaxing some as she brushes some imagined dirt from the book cover.
"Do you know the alphabet?" Santana asks.
"Some," Brittany answers, reserved.
Santana thinks nothing of her quieted and demure tone. She claps her hands together, Brittany startled by the noise as Santana announces, "All right, let's just dive in, shall we?" She leans over and opens to a page somewhere deep within the book. "Try pronouncing the first word on this page. Slowly, if you must."
Brittany bites her bottom lip as Santana's index finger taps down on a rather lengthy section of small print. "Santana, this first word is too difficult. It has fifteen letters in it."
"Oh," Santana hadn't expected her to not even try. The optimist, giving up? Unheard of! She looks down at the page, realizing perhaps giving her 'A Manual of Medical Diagnosis' as a starter text wasn't exactly the most brilliant of ideas. But her medical journals were all the books she had on hand and this had the largest print… even if it was a minuscule difference between the others. It would have to suffice. And as she skims the page she spots a few shorter phrases sprinkled throughout paragraphs. With renewed confidence she instructs, "Try the next word."
Brittany raises the book, squinting, before letting it fall and declaring hopelessly, "That one has twenty-one."
"Okay, look Brittany, you're going to have to try sounding them out otherwise you'll never learn."
"But these are too hard. Can't you read it to me first?"
"No!" Santana exclaims, voice hushed. "If I read it then you'll just mimic what I say and thus you shan't learn at all!"
Brittany sighs. "I'll probably forget anyway."
"Ugh, just…" Santana trails off, combing her mind for an answer to this suddenly exasperating and trying dilemma. When she looks back up at Brittany her irritation dissolves, eyes softening as she reminds herself she agreed to this. Agreed to help the hopeless. Teach the unteachable… she wonders how long Brittany's father lasted before he gave up. Would five minutes be a new record? Santana takes a calming breath, tucking some hair behind her ear. She scoots closer to Brittany, peering down her arm to the open book. "Try things less than five letters long, all right?"
"I don't see many," Brittany replies quietly, defeated. "This book is so confusing."
"It's a medical journal, it's not exactly meant for everyone. Besides, they're the only books I brought with me," Santana explains. She glances down to the next few words, grinning. "Look the next one only has two letters. That's perfect, try that one."
Brittany gathers her courage, licking her lips before pronouncing aloud, "Oove."
Santana blinks. "That's 'of', Brittany."
Brittany's cheeks flush. "…some people say oove."
"Those people are pretentious bastards. Next word."
"Tee-hay-ee?"
A beat.
"The."
"This is too hard!" Brittany groans, slamming shut the book as she lets her body fall back along the ground with a thud. Her head isn't on the blanket; the back of her neck is unfortunately now wet from the puddle below. She thinks she may need another bath after this, but the thought is fleeting. Her eyes are focused above. The last vestiges of daylight paint the heavens a deep purple, the moon just starting the shine against the silver clouds. She watches a few of the earlier storm clouds roll overhead, blotting out the stars trying to stream their light down from above. She wants to wish upon the brightest, hope for a miracle, anything that will suddenly grant her the ability to read. She doesn't want to disappoint Santana. Not the smart doctor with the pretty eyes who volunteered her precious time to help her.
"Brittany," Santana ventures quietly, not quite wanting to interrupt the thoughts that seem to be storming behind the suddenly dark blue eyes. Brittany blinks, mind clearing as she focuses up at Santana hovering just beside her. She has a sudden urge to tuck the fallen section of brunette hair behind Santana's ear, much the same as she's seen the woman do a number of times already. Her fingers twitch in want but she holds her arm still, sighing as she sits up on the blanket.
"I'm sorry," Brittany tells her, smiling apologetically as she reopens the book and rests it gently in her lap.
"How about we start over?" Santana asks, withdrawing from the books beside her a thinner, more promising looking journal. When she opens it, Brittany realizes why. It's blank save for a few pages near the beginning filled with a swooping cursive script. "Relearning the alphabet. This is an 'A'," Santana says, scrawling the letter in the same fluid hand with which the beginning of the journal is filled.
"Is that your diary?" Brittany asks.
Santana lets out an indignant snort. "Journal. It's my journal."
Brittany is genuinely curious when she asks next, "Why do you keep one?"
"Research mainly," Santana tells her. "We see a lot of patients and I like to know what we're doing for them: injuries sustained, medications given, that type of thing."
"I tried keeping a diary once," Brittany says, ignoring when Santana intones for the second time that hers is a journal. "But I couldn't remember at the end of the day what to say."
"It might have helped if you could write," Santana says with a chuckle.
Brittany smirks. "Pictures say as much as words you know."
Santana eyes flicker up to Brittany's face. Brittany is staring at her, amused. And yet despite the laughter shining in her eyes Santana swears she sees more shades of blue she thinks are possible with the orange fire burning so close beside them. Each of the splashes of color in Brittany's eyes is warm, an impossible feat she thinks, given their cool shade. A beautiful oxymoron, Santana amends to herself. Full of trust and—
She tears her gaze away with a groan and back to the journal in her lap, "Let's just get back to the alphabet. As I said this is an 'A', it's pronounced ah."
"That's confusing," Brittany frowns. "Why is it two things? Why not just make two different letters?"
"I don't—" Santana begins but stops herself just as suddenly, equally perplexed by Brittany's confusion. She scribbles a lowercase 'a' beside the other, deciding it best to just carry on and ignore further input from the obviously oblivious woman. "It makes an 'ay' sound on it's own but when placed next to other letters it makes an 'ah' sound. For example, the word apple. Do you hear the 'ah'? Ahhhpple. Do you…You're not getting any of this, are you?"
Brittany's glazed eyes sharpen. "I'm sorry," she says, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. "I told you I wasn't a very good student."
"Why don't we just stop for the night then," Santana offers, plucking the book from Brittany's lap. "It's apparent I need to rethink my strategy."
"I'm hopeless."
Santana feels a pang of guilt flutter in her gut at the dejection in Brittany's tone. "You're not," she says. And smiles when she tells Brittany, "I promised to teach you, didn't I?"
Brittany meekly allows a nod.
Santana grins. "I don't break my promises."
Before Santana can move to stand Brittany lays a hand over her arm. Brittany can't quite meet her gaze, eyes focused somewhere just over Santana's shoulder. "I know you don't much like Noah," she says.
Puckerman? Santana wonders where Brittany is heading with this. Nodding for Brittany to continue she sits back down again. She hopes the stupid boy hasn't done something horrid to Brittany.
Or stupid.
He is in for quite the evening if either are the case.
"He invited me to bring you to their fire tonight. They're to play music." Brittany brightens.
"I'll pass on that invitation," Santana says with a roll of her eyes. The last thing she wants to be doing is engaging in pleasantries with Noah Puckerman. She'd never hear the end of it.
"I do miss dancing," the admission is soft, nothing but a whisper. Again Santana finds herself drawn into Brittany's gaze, thankful for once the eyes are not focused upon her own, but over a few rows to where Santana can see Puckerman and his two friends just beginning to settle around their own fire. An old fiddle is being tuned by the blonde haired boy, Evans, she recalls.
"You should go," Santana says, collecting the books into her arms. "I needed to do a bit of reading, anyway."
"Why?" Brittany wonders aloud. "You're already a wonderful doctor."
Santana is sure if Puckerman wasn't currently drowning a mug of beer down his throat that he would surely be able to see the shade of red now painted upon her cheeks. She clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably, her dress feeling itchy for the first time in years as she tells Brittany, "I'm not one yet. I'm still studying, remember? It's why I'm here with my father, to learn."
"Or you could dance with me tonight?" Brittany grins, sly.
"Another time," Santana tells her, purposely avoiding her gaze again. And because she needs a distraction she adds, "Do you by chance have those letters from your father with you?"
"Always," Brittany replies, pulling them from inside her jacket. She hands them to Santana. "Are we to read them again?"
"I just want to check something," Santana explains. She waves toward Puckerman's fire. "Go dance, I promise to return these to you tomorrow."
"I wish there was more I could do to help," Brittany admits, eyes focused down upon the letters. Santana looks up at her, surprised to find Brittany so suddenly upset. "She's no better and I've sent all my earnings. What more can I do but send my love and prayers?"
It's a simple enough question. What more could she do? The answer is simple. The weight though, burdensome. Santana swallows thickly. "Live."
Brittany nods, knowing full well what Santana means. The union jacket upon her soldiers feels heavier at the thought. She shrugs the feeling aside, not wanting to dwell in such negativity. She gives Santana a small, thankful smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"If Puckerman acts an ass just wallop him and say it's from me."
"Bret'll be fine," Brittany grins. "Good night, Santana!" she calls behind her as she takes off to join the boys.
"I'm serious!" Santana shouts after her. Brittany's laughter carries back to her and Santana sighs, smiling. She hopes Puckerman behaves himself, and then quickly reminds herself he has no reason not to. Bret Pierce is who is jogging toward him, not Brittany. She watches the boys greet each other, Puckerman overtly gracious in his sentiments. She rolls her eyes, knowing full well he's only doing so because she is still within eyesight. Sam Evans is quick to strike up some notes on his fiddle and the oafish one – Hudson, Santana believes he's called – sings along to the music.
Brittany taps her foot along with the tune, her smile bright even from afar. Puckerman is soon to join in song with Hudson, pulling Brittany up on her feet. The dance they start is informal, unrehearsed and inane. Idiots, all of them, Santana mutters beneath her breath. She doesn't look away though. Even dancing ridiculously beside Puckerman, head thrown back with laughter, Brittany is all charm. Her movement is fluid, effortless next to Puckermans offbeat kicks and stomps. It's clear Brittany is holding back, effecting as much of Bret as she can into her mannerisms.
And yet still mesmerizing.
Santana wishes she'd have joined, if only to save Brittany from such a painful dance partner.
The thought makes her blush and she shakes her head, turning her back to their fun.
There is something more pressing her attention is needed for.
She unfolds Hendrick's letters, rereading the last few. She wonders if their town doctor had been able to diagnose Emily yet. She herself had spent some time combing her books and journals for an answer. Only one ailment seemed to fit the symptoms, almost exactly and unfortunately.
Consumption. A wasting disease so costly it is sure to take Emily's life if given the time. There were no cures, no treatments to ever successfully stop let alone quell the illness. And of the medication to help ease the suffering, all were expensive. Far much more money than Santana knows Brittany is able to send home.
She wishes to push the thought aside, hoping the sinking feeling in her gut will disappear with it, but stops herself short. There may not be much she can do for Emily from afar, but there is certainly one thing she can guarantee the family receives. Quickly, she gathers her books and heads back to her tent. Her father is out, again. She's pleased by his absence. It is so much easier to take money from his pouch with him gone. Once done she replaces the wallet back on his shelf, careful to arrange it just as she'd found it.
And then she pens a letter to Brittany's father, instructing him on what needs to be done next.
October 4th, 1862
Burt is busy trying to mend a cannon. Unsuccessfully, he laments. Of what little the boys who'd wheeled it in could manage to say past their sour faces he concludes that they'd loaded it wrong. And in return it had explosively backfired on them. Soot coated their uniforms; some sported rather garish slices through their skin. It was obvious they were hurting, and not just physically. Dr. Lopez surely won't be kind to them once he tends to their wounds and their Captain must be furious. Cannons were hard to come by, and even worse to attempt repairs upon. Burt took pity on them, assuring the sullen boys he'd do all he could.
About now, Burt is starting to think he's done just about all he can. At best he thinks he can melt the metal down, forge some more bayonets for the soldiers. As he thinks of remedies Bret wanders back in from the small errand he's been running, fresh faced and ready for more work.
"You look tired," Brittany says as she takes in Burt's slumped position on the ground beside the cannon. Burt wipes some sweat from his forehead, agreeing with a nod. "Would you like some water?"
"Please," Burt answers, giving Brittany a gracious smile. She rushes back out the tent with his empty canteen, leaving him once more with the giant hulk of useless metal. He's just started to wheel it out his back entrance when footsteps meet his ears. They're brisk and determined as they approach his tent, the dirt crunching loudly in their wake. Burt stills, waiting for his guest.
He raises a brow as the visitor enters his tent. He knows quite well why Miss Santana Lopez would be standing in his work quarters. It is no secret about camp that she has been spending a great deal of time with Bret. And at night, no less. Thus rumors are widespread. Burt is disinclined to believe any of them. Especially the more colorful of stories he's heard. Bret had told him forthright what was happening between the two of them on those nights beside the fire. It's why he smiles now at Santana as she stands in his quarters. He was quite wrong about this one, he thinks. So very wrong.
She seems almost hesitant as she approaches his table, eyes drinking in the small space. In her hand he catches glimpse of an envelope before she lays it upon the surface. He watches her for a moment, curious as she traces over a few of Bret's carvings on the tabletop.
With light chuckle he steps forward, hoping not to surprise the girl as he greets her warmly. "Afternoon, Miss Santana."
She jumps anyway, blushing as she composes herself and shakes her hair back over her shoulder. She gives him a curt nod, "I was told I could find Bre-Private Pierce here."
Burt grins. "You could."
Santana squints at him, eyes darting down to his leg. "You're Burt Hummel, aren't you?"
"He's told you of me, has he now?"
Santana softens, realizing whom she is speaking with. "He's fond of you."
"I could say the same for you as well."
The reddening of her cheeks is almost lost to the shadows of the sun playing across her face, but Burt notices. It makes him glad. If anyone at this camp deserves to find happiness, he thinks, Bret Pierce certainly is at the top of his list. Burt keeps his thoughts to himself as he settles on his stool, arms folded across the table. He points over to the tent entrance. "He just went to fetch me some fresh water, should be back shortly." He smiles, motioning for her to take a seat.
Santana does so, thanking him with a mumble as she tucks some wayward hairs behind her ear. He studies her, thinking of all the wonderful things Bret has spoken of her character. It is obvious the girl is beautiful, but what more Bret sees in her he cannot fathom. Santana can hardly meet Burt's eye let alone sit still, it seems. And for someone so renowned for her cutting voice she is being rather quiet. Shy even.
Santana grows uncomfortable in the silence. She's never found herself in a situation such as this, with a man, dare she say, she respects. Burt Hummel is everything Brittany has ever told her he was. Cordial, likable and good humored. Though in truth all Brittany had ever told her was that he was "just like my Pa." Hendrick's letters, if they could be spoken in his own voice, Santana imagines would sound much like Burt Hummel. His kind gaze makes her fidget though. She's so unused to decent men and involuntarily taps a few fingers on the table as she asks, "Why are you smiling so?"
Burt tilts his head, smile pulling wider. "Why shouldn't I be?"
Santana holds in her urge to scoff. "We're at war," she answers, motioning around her. "Not exactly the happiest of places."
"Even more reason to enjoy the time we've been given," Burt tells her. "Why should we mourn a fate that could be when we've been given this day to live? Enjoy it while you can, Miss Santana. The peace won't last for much longer."
His words make her skin prickle with dread. Given his tone she knows he speaks from experience. It unsettles her, hearing him speak so candidly when others are so apt to drown their realities in drink. She doesn't care to think much more on it.
Again her fingers rap against the table. "Did you draw these?" she asks.
The one beneath her thumb looks like a cow, though it could also be an oddly shaped house when she tilts her head just right. Whoever drew them certainly wasn't artistically inclined. Perhaps even the worst artist Santana has ever encountered. Burt seems skilled with tools though, if the horseshoes pinned along the tent wall were any indication. Some were even quite beautiful.
"Bret did," Burt answers, laughing at the sight of Santana's once judgmental expression turning to shock.
She doesn't understand. She'd never seen Brittany drawing, not once. Briefly she recalls the blonde telling her of trying to keep a diary once. It'd consisted of pictures or some nonsense, she remembers. Though, she thinks, it is probably for the best Brittany hasn't drawn outside this tent given her lack of talent. Brittany doesn't need something else for the likes of the Scott Coopers in this camp to tease her about. Maybe if she practiced more she could get better… some of them aren't too god-awful. A few are even a bit charming. It intrigues her though, why she's drawn so much upon Burt's table. She can see a few crude people standing beside what looks to be a tree. Two of them are holding hands… or holding bread, she's not quite sure. Squeezed between two other drawings is a sickly rendition of a human foot. A horseshoe-type rainbow is etched just above it. "They're certainly… interesting." Santana notes.
"They don't make much sense to me," Burt explains as he brushes some nails aside into a hanging pouch, revealing more of Brittany's work. He smiles over at Santana. "But they do to him. I think it helps him to remember, drawing what he sees of the stories I tell him. If only I could draw his chores on his arm, eh?" he chuckles.
Santana doesn't join him though. It suddenly dawns on her why her lessons with Brittany were such a failure. It's not the letters she can't recall, she thinks, grinning. She needs pictures to find them!
"I have to go!" she announces, springing up from her chair. "Could you see to it this is delivered to Bret's father?" She hurries to seal the envelope, the briefest flash of money peeking out from within. Burt nods, accepting the envelope as she tosses it across the table toward him.
He wonders what Santana could be doing, sending that amount of money home to the Pierce family. "What about Bret?" he asks.
"Tell him to meet me by my tent tonight!" And with that she runs out from the room, skirt billowing behind her, leaving Burt to the hundreds of unanswered questions that have decided to make permanent nest in his head.
It's quiet in the camp as Brittany makes her way to Santana's tent. There's a certain tension in the air, born of the stillness after the storm. Even Burt seemed to feel it this afternoon, his usual light air replaced with the burdens of deep thought. She wanted to ask him what thoughts could be plaguing him so, but he was involved in his work and she didn't want to distract him. He merely told her of Santana's visit before the oven fire required his attention once more. As she walks now, she imagines the rain must have washed away the men's voices as easily as it washed the dust collecting over their weapons.
It is hard to forget where they are, sitting on the precipice of imminent battle. The Major General's quarters were never without a light these past few nights, Captains rushing in and out at any given hour. It made for restless sleep for many a soldier, Brittany included. She could hear the fears of her fellow company-men, whispered to their tent mates at night. And while she herself was alone in her own tent (the product of one too many pranks and weary tentmates) she too huddled down in her bedroll, praying that all would be well. She wasn't to fight like the other men, an order Burt had seen to arrange himself. But she worries nonetheless.
One need only glance at the rifles and muskets resting against the soldiers' tents, gleaming in the light of the fires, to know the truth. They have all been lucky thus far.
It is only a matter of time before the regiment is sent to face the coming Southern army.
And the question on every man's mind tonight; when?
Brittany's mind churns further though.
Who would be sent to the front of the lines? Could another cannon misfire? How many horses would survive? Soldiers? Brothers, fathers, sons? Who would try and save them? Would Santana follow her father onto the battlefield?
Would she return?
The very thought stills Brittany's heart, her body suddenly overcome with a suffocating chill. Santana is strong. Surely, one of the strongest people Brittany feels she's ever had the pleasure to know. But even Santana cannot stop a bullet, a cannon or the bayonet of a Southerner from ending her life in the mere blink of an eye. It is a frightening possibility, one that drains the color from Brittany's face as she quickens her pace. I just need to see her, she tells herself. She needs to know that Santana is all right.
Brittany nearly smacks into her as she rounds the artillery tent, lost in her tumultuous thoughts. Her breath catches as realizes who she's nearly knocked aside. Santana is quick to regain her balance, a small journal hugged to her chest, cheeks flushed a deep red. A smile comes to her lips when her dark eyes finally meet Brittany's.
"Found you," Santana says, grinning cheekily. Though her smile falters, concern creasing her brow. She's never seen Brittany so… distraught. It's a troubling change. "Are you all right?"
Brittany just wants to hug her but nods instead, stuffing her hands deep into her coat pockets.
Santana raises a brow at the move but carries on anyway. "This is for you," Santana hands Brittany the journal as she plucks a pen from where it was tucked behind her ear.
Brittany's entire demeanor shifts, gone the paleness as air rushes deep into her lungs, life returning to her features. She smiles, accepting the gift graciously. "Thank you, Santana!"
Santana shrugs, blushing. "It's for practice. Look, I started for you."
Brittany opens to the first page, beaming as she looks down at Santana's drawing. "That's a nice circle."
Santana's lips purse with a bit of embarrassment. "It's supposed to be an apple…"
"Oh," Brittany's cheeks flush and she smiles shyly. "Well it's still a nice circle anyway."
Santana shifts on her feet, willing down the fluttering sensation in her stomach. She clears her throat and points to another of her drawings in the book. "What does that thing below it look like?"
Brittany titles her head, squinting.
Santana finds it slightly adorable and berates herself in kind.
"A roof?" Brittany guesses.
"I was trying for ladders but a roof works," Santana says chuckling as she traces over the shape, forming an 'A'. "It makes the letter 'A', and the apple makes one too, though lowercase."
Brittany still squints down in question at the drawings. She's seen the alphabet on countless occasions. Been humiliated trying to recite it, and more so shamed trying to remember it for her father. The start of it was simple enough though, and of the bits she's retained 'A' is definitely one of them. Santana's circl-apple is wrong, missing a vital part of itself. When she sees it in her mind, she grins. "Oh! You forgot the stem, silly." Brittany giggles, taking Santana's pen and doodling in a small branch and leaf atop Santana's drawing.
"I'm not the artist here, remember?" Santana says between a giggle. "Turn the page."
Brittany beams. "A bumble bee!"
Santana smiles, proudly, despite herself. "I spent a long time on him."
"What's his name?"
"Burt, actually. See his wings, they make the letter 'B', buh."
"He's precious. Buh-buh-Burt."
Santana can't stop smiling. It's working! she exclaims to herself. She looks up at the taller woman as Brittany absorbs the page below. "What does 'A' sound like?"
Without hesitation Brittany responds, "Ah."
"B?" Santana asks.
"Buh," Brittany tells her. Her head snaps up suddenly, a laugh bubbling from deep inside her. She turns to Santana, excitement dancing in her eyes. "Santana, I remembered."
"I know," Santana grins. She nods down to the journal. "Next page."
Brittany is quick to flip to the next section, practically bouncing on her feet as she laughs again. "That's a funny looking cat, San."
The nickname makes her feel warm. Good. She hides her smile, shrugging instead as she waves her hand. "If you want to draw him better, be my guest."
"No, I like yours," Brittany admits. "He's fat like Tubbington. What sound does a 'C' make?"
"You know, you already said it."
"...Cuh?"
Santana catches herself before her hand can make it all the way to Brittany's shoulder. "Excellent, Britt," she offers instead.
"I like it when you call me Britt," Brittany confesses, meeting Santana's gaze. She smiles. "Makes me feel like I'm home."
"Yes, well…" Santana trails off, the warmth from before increasing tenfold, her dress suddenly feeling too tight. Her body to close to Brittany's. She slides back some, away from the other woman, tongue still tied as her eyes turn down to Brittany's journal. "Um, you—"
Before Santana can manage to collect her thoughts Brittany's arms wrap tightly around her. She stiffens in the hold, breath caught in her throat. She can feel more than hear Brittany let out a soft giggle as she hugs her close.
"Thank you, Santana," Brittany whispers. "For everything, thank you."
Brittany's arms have barely started to pull back when Santana feels herself finally relaxing in the embrace. Her eyes reopen, mind quick to wonder when she'd ever closed them. She exhales long and slow as Brittany finally takes a step back. Over the tall shoulder she spots her father exiting their tent. She's quick to put distance between Brittany and herself, a stab of remorse striking her heart at the hurt look crossing Brittany's face. But she hasn't the nerve to apologize, not with her father's eyes boring so heatedly into her own. She casts her gaze down as he makes his way over.
"Santana," he hisses between clenched teeth. "A word."
Santana glances to Brittany, relieved to find the blue eyes so understanding. With a nod Brittany reluctantly takes her leave. Santana watches her for a moment, waiting. She can feel her father growing impatient behind her but she refuses for Brittany to have to bear witness to what she knows is to come next. The blonde has barely made it to the next row when Santana feels her father's hand roughly take hold of her arm, pulling her back toward the tent. She grimaces under his grasp, allowing him to drag her back toward the tent. Once she's sure Brittany is a safe distance away she turns, walking in step beside her father. She holds her posture tight, expression conveying nothing but the respect she feels he deserves so little of.
With a shove she's pushed inside through the tent flap.
"Where is it?" he demands, voice layered with unspoken blame. Santana stands her ground, evenly meeting his fury-filled eyes. He pulls a small wallet from his coat, tossing it to Santana's feet. She swallows the fear rising in her throat, willing herself not to show even a flinch of recognition. Dr. Lopez advances, grabbing her roughly by the arms. "I know you took it!"
"I haven't touched your money," Santana replies calmly, her eyes crinkling in disgust as she tells him, "Though I wouldn't be surprised if one of the whores you so readily invite here has pilfered it."
His eyes flash, hand rising to strike. Santana holds her breath, jaw held tight as she awaits the inevitable hit. He breathes hard in front of her, eyes narrowed with doubt as he stares into his daughter's defiant gaze. "Liar," he snarls, shoving her away. "And if you so much as breathe a word of this to your mother—"
"I'm aware," Santana snaps, brushing the feeling of his hands from her arms. "You needn't worry anyway. She hasn't written a word to me since we've been here."
Dr. Lopez snorts. "Were you expecting a letter?" he teases, collecting the money pouch from the floor and placing it back inside his coat. He laughs at her; the sound rings loud and biting in her ears. "How superfluous, Santana. Why would she write you? You are in my care."
"Your care?" she balks, astonished. She has the fortitude not to let out the laugh she feels wishing to harshly escape her throat. Nor the tears starting to build in the corner of her eyes. "I am not in your care," she spits the word out, the disdain for her father overwhelming. She cannot stop herself, not after so many years of standing in silence. "That would constitute a fondness on your part. Something we are both aware you've never held for me. So no, this is not your care. I am merely in your service."
Dr. Lopez says nothing for a moment, simply staring at Santana with an expression upon his face she cannot read. She's lost count of the number of times she's been face to face with her father like this. By now the back of his hand should have left mark upon her face. But something about this moment resonates of finality. The last remnants of the tie they share is vanishing, blood forgotten. Nothing remains but a shared name. It holds so little meaning to Santana anymore.
The lamp hung on the center support flickers, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes. Santana feels herself burning under his gaze; under all the years of his poorly repressed animosity, and her poorly repressed tongue in resistance to it. His lip starts to curl slightly upward in a look that can only be attributed to one sentiment. Hatred. She fears him disowning her, right here and now in this very tent. It would be so easy, and so clearly what he desires. She hates the ragged breath her lungs draw, her once unfailing demeanor shattering at the display of weakness.
Her lips purse quickly, eyes cast down to hide the tears collecting along her lashes. Not yet, she wills herself. You will not cry in front of him.
His next words surprise her, even if his tone does not.
"Where is the money?" he asks, voice strained with impatience. Her head snaps up, a sharp intake of breath pulled deep into her chest. This was not the course the night was to take. He should have thrown her out the tent by now, out of his life as he's always wanted. Instead he stands, staring at her as if she's nothing more than a petulant child, his foot tapping a quick succession of beats against the dirt floor. "Answer me!"
She startles, taking a step back in shock at his sudden command. Her voice feels lost within her dry throat, her reply unable to be heard. She steels her nerves, fists clenched tightly by her sides as she finds her voice, and utters breathlessly, "I don't know."
He advances on her in an instant and lands a hard smack against her cheek. Santana grips hard to her dress to keep from raising a hand to the painful sting along her face. With renewed bitterness she asks, "Haven't you enough greenbacks?"
"I worked hard for that pay," he tells her. "It is mine with which to do as I see fit for this family."
Santana can take no more of this, finally dissolving into laughter as her father merely rolls his eyes in indifference. "For this family?" she motions between them. "This is hardly a what I'd call a family. No, papa, this is an autocracy. And what you mean to say is that you need the money in order to send home to mother more jewels with which to soften the blow of your infidelities lest you have a revolt on your—"
The second slap is harder than the first. Crueler. Santana can feel her father's wedding band, mockingly drag across her skin, as she is thrown off her feet and into the desk behind her. She reaches out blindly, desperate to catch herself before she can tumble to the floor. Her hand catches upon the extinguished lamp on the desk, the oil quick to spill and her grip failing with it. The glass shatters, her palm sliced open. She lets out a gasp at the pain, her body finally coming to a halt as she collides with the floor and the back of her head smacks against the table leg. Her breaths are nothing but short pants as she clutches her injured hand to her chest, her eyes focused in a rage up at where her father remains standing.
"Clean this mess," he mutters, refusing to meet her eyes. His next words sting more than the deep cut along her palm. "The next caravan should be here soon. Ensure that you do not miss it."
He leaves the tent, steps heavy as he storms out. Leaves his daughter sitting sprawled on the floor, oil dripping down upon her shoulder, her tears falling silently down her face. Santana feels numb as she listens to his steps echo into the night. Her hand barely hurts as she stands to shaky legs, cheeks wet. It doesn't matter, she thinks. She lets her instincts take over, her motions involuntary as she pulls out from beneath her cot the small medical kit she'd made on her first day at the camp. A brief smile passes over her lips as she thinks of Brittany.
So it seems tools belong under the bed after all.
The thought barely passes her mind when a sob chokes its way out. She breaks down.
She intends to see to her wound, but can't seem to muster the strength to do any more than sit upon her cot, crying pathetically for the father who will never respect let alone love her. She despises herself. Despises every sniffle her body takes. You're weak. Every tear escaping her eyes. Worthless. Every frantic pump of her heart. Nothing...
The kit rests in her lap, forgotten. Her blood leaks slowly from the gash and spills onto the box, staining the wood a dark red. She doesn't care.
"San?" a small, familiar voice calls from the tent entrance, timid and worried. Santana sniffles, hurrying to wipe the remnants of tears from her eyes as Brittany peeks her head inside, eyes widening at the broken glass littered across the floor. Brittany lets out a gasp, quickly entering as she immediately seeks Santana. Again the blue eyes widen, growing darker as she rushes to the crying woman's side. Her hands are quick to find Santana's as she kneels beside the cot. Brittany's expression drops, brow furrowing further as she pulls her fingers away to find them covered with blood. "Goodness! You're hurt…"
Obviously, you idiot! Santana wants to scream at her, her temper rising as Brittany tries reaching for her hands again. She takes a deep breath as she slides further from Brittany, ripping the top of the medical kit off as she digs inside for the bandages and ointment she needs.
"No," Brittany says, scooting closer as she takes the bandages from Santana's trembling hands. "Let me," she tells her, ignoring the look of vexation in the dark eyes above her. She simply gives Santana a soft smile as she gently turns her palm over to inspect the damage wrought by the glass. She hisses as her eyes rake over the wound. The cut is deep, slicing clear across Santana's hand. Brittany has an inkling of what happened. She tried so hard to keep walking but something inside her kept screaming for her to turn back. And when she did make it back to the tent, only to hear raised voices and hurtful words, Brittany knew she had been right to return.
She hadn't expected this to happen though.
She wishes she'd come in sooner. Santana wouldn't have been hurt.
"I'm sorry," she whispers as she uses a spare rag inside the box to wipe the blood gently from Santana's palm.
Santana lets out a sigh, her anger quickly subsiding as Brittany tends so gently to her. "This isn't your fault," she tells her, voice hoarse.
But Brittany knows otherwise, shaking her head as she says. "You sent the money to Pa."
Santana sputters, "H-how'd you know?"
A small, guilty smile forms over Brittany's lips as she wraps the bandage around Santana's hand. "Mister Hummel told me."
Santana growls. "He shouldn't ha—"
"You didn't have to steal for me," Brittany interrupts, finishing the last of Santana's wrap.
"I wanted to," it's spoken with such conviction Brittany is taken aback. "Your sister needs it more. I'd do it again."
"You're a good friend," Brittany tells her softly, rolling up onto her knees, eyes now level with Santana's own. "Thank you."
For a moment, neither moves. Gazes lock. Santana can feel Brittany's hand burning against her knee.
She shoots up from the cot not a second later. "He's sending me home," she tells Brittany as she makes her way over to the broken lamp.
"You can't go," Brittany says, standing as well.
As Santana collects the shattered pieces into a discarded box near the table she asks, "What choice do I have?"
"To stay."
Santana sighs. "He won't allow it."
"Change his mind," Brittany comes up beside her, helping to collect some of the sharper pieces.
"Oh yes, so I can end up with my other hand equally maimed?" Santana rolls her eyes. "Some help I'd be then."
"Then I'll say something—"
"No!" Santana interrupts, reaching to halt Brittany before she can take one more step toward the entrance. Her heart hammers against her chest painfully as she shakes her head, "No, don't. I can't bear the thought of him hurting you as well."
"San..." Brittany frowns.
Santana releases her, turning back to the mess. "When does the next supply caravan arrive?"
"A fortnight, maybe less," Brittany answers. Santana dumps the box to the floor, the metal and glass clattering loudly in the tent. A small mirror hangs just over the desk. Santana catches her reflection; a mere shadow of herself seems to stare back at her, eyes vacant and dark. She can see Brittany from the corner of her eyes, watching her curiously, concerned. Her cap is askew, a few sections of blonde hair resting against a long neck.
Santana's eyes dart down to the table. Her father's grooming kit is still open along the tabletop.
She reaches for the scissors.
"Santana," Brittany calls for her, worry creasing her brow as she asks, "what are you doing?"
"You had the right idea all along, Brittany," Santana says, gathering her long hair over her shoulder. "If he wants a son, then I'll give him a son."
"No!" Brittany surges forward, prying the scissors from Santana's grip. "Stop, Santana, stop it!"
"It's either this or leave!"
"You're better than any son he could have ever had!" Brittany exclaims, finally able to tear the scissors away. She tosses them into the empty trough and turns back to Santana, willing for the distraught woman to understand. It pains her to see Santana so heartbroken. And what more she knows the other woman would never admit as much. Brittany rests a grounding hand on Santana's shoulder, smiling softly as she tells her, "Turning yourself into a man like me won't change how he sees you."
Santana bows her head, tired. "He'll never respect me..."
"He's not a good father if he doesn't already."
She groans. "I hate the way he makes me feel so… so impotent."
Brittany stares back at her, uncomprehending.
Santana lets out a sigh, "Weak, Britt, he makes me feel weak."
"Impossible. You're one of the strongest people I know."
She wants to believe Brittany. So much wants to believe in her promising words. I trust you, echoes in Santana's mind. But the pain in her heart is still so fresh, the blood upon her hands still wet. She can't believe. Not yet.
And then Brittany says something Santana doesn't expect. Something she holds close to her heart the moment it's uttered.
"I think… instead of doing all this for him, you should do it for you."
And because it's the smartest thing anyone has ever conveyed to her, and spoken with such unfailing honesty, Santana smiles shakily up at Brittany. It's not a perfect solution, and hell it's barely a possibility at that. But someone believes in her. Someone trusts her. It's more than Santana's ever been given before. And from someone with only the best of intentions. From Brittany. From goodness. With her heart feeling just a little less bleak she tells her, with utmost truth, "Has anyone ever told you that you're a genius, Brittany Pierce?"