A/N: Woah! Hahah I see many of you are a little upset with Team Quinn- not that I blame you! Thanks for all the feedback. There were a lot of questions, but there are two things I would like to address before we get to the chapter.
First: why didn't Santana just kill Finn, Quinn, and Kitty? Well, many reasons, actually. We don't know that Santana didn't severely injure Kitty and Quinn- Brittany was a little preoccupied. Santana injured them to the point of disabling, but she didn't really have time to stand over them and repeatedly stab them until the cannon sounded. She saw that Brittany was wounded, so she followed her natural instinct.
Okay, okay, so why didn't she kill Finn? Two reasons, actually. One- Finn was not unconscious. He probably would have fought back, and again, Santana was more concerned with getting Brittany out of there. Second- Santana is not a trained killer. When faced with fight or flight Brittany will choose fight because she feels more comfortable doing that. However, Santana's reaction will always be flight.
Also, I'd like to point out that Santana's weapon is a sickle. I think you guys are imagining the grim reaper's death scythe, but that's not what it looks like, at all. It's a very thin blade used for cutting; it doesn't have the cleaving power of an axe or a sword, and there's no way she could've taken Finn's head off with it. If she tried, it would've lodged in his skull or vertebrae and then she'd have to wrestle it out while Finn attempted to kill her. It's true that Brittany could have killed him- but she's kind of struggling to breathe, so I don't think she'd think it was a good idea.
Which brings me to the second thing I'd like to address. Archery Anon mentioned that you should never pull an arrow out, and in today's setting, I agree completely. You should never pull any foreign item- an arrow, a pen, a metal stake- out of your puncture wound, for two important reasons- first, that it might cause more harm on the way out, and second, that it might have severed an artery or something, and it being there is actually blocking said artery from spewing blood everywhere and killing you. You have no way of knowing.
So, if you get punctured in real life, leave the item- an arrow, a pen, a metal stake- in the wound and immediately go to the hospital so that trained professionals can surgically pull it out. ;)
However. There is no hospital in the Hunger Games, nor is Santana a surgeon, and even if she was, she doesn't have any surgical tools beyond a knife she used to cut the entry hole a little bigger. So Brittana really had no other option.
I'd like to also point out here to Archery Anon that I don't just shove shit in my stories to make it sound cool; I did a lot of research on arrow removal in medieval times and during the Expansion of the West before I wrote the scene. But since this isn't a hospital fic, I didn't detail the actual procedure Santana did to remove it, only what Brittany felt. Hopefully that clears up some of your doubt…. But if not, I'm also state certified as a First Responder in first aid, so, while I'm not an expert, I do know a thing or two about treating injuries... ;) (though I do take some liberties considering this is a fictional story.)
Okay! Whew! Sorry I talked so long! Again, thanks to Lighthouse (NegativeSpaces) and Dakota (Perfectly Censored) for being awesome and listening to me complain about stuff and stuff. They're the best!
We're there, folks!
With the arrow removed, Santana immediately puts pressure on your wound, and you grit your teeth as a new wave of sickening agony ripples through you. She apologizes quietly, and, once she's satisfied your bleeding has slowed, she leaves you for a moment while you try- and fail- to catch your breath, your ribs stinging sharply. When she returns, her hands are free of your blood and she sets to work building a small fire at the mouth of the cave. It strikes up immediately and you mumble your protest, concerned about giving away your location, but she quiets you gently but firmly.
"But, Quinn-"
"Should probably worry about her own well-being at the moment," Santana says calmly, and her tone soothes the panic rising in you. "She won't be coming after us anytime soon- I hurt her."
"And Jesse-"
Santana feeds the small flame. "He doesn't know you're injured, Britt. He won't show his face."
You don't argue; instead you swallow, your breath still shallow and short, trying to remember the brief flashes of the fight you were able to see. You were preoccupied with Finn-
"Why didn't you kill Finn?" you blurt suddenly. You try and find Santana's face, but you're angled away from her and it hurts to move. You don't want to antagonize your bleeding.
"You were injured," Santana says, nonchalant. "I had no way of knowing how badly-"
"But you could've killed him, and-"
"And then what, Brittany?" Santana demands, her voice growing sharp and high with fear and anger. It startles you. You feel a wave of nausea pass through you, and you clench your fist weakly. "Win the Games?" She laughs disbelievingly. "Like it's that easy?"
You shake your head slowly. "It is that easy," you say hoarsely. "You could've killed Kitty-"
"She'll be dead soon, regardless," Santana mutters, digging into her first aid kit. She emerges with a needle and a tiny ribbon of thread. "No way is she coming back from what I did to her."
"And then took out Quinn," you insist.
"And then let Finn kill you," Santana mocks as she sterilizes the needle in the fire flame- not that it matters much. "Simple."
"I'm going to die, anyway," you say softly. "Why can't you accept that?"
Santana pauses, turning her intense, dark gaze on you. She stares for a long moment, her eyes becoming a little glassy before she shakes herself out of it. "Because you're not going to die," she says fiercely.
You wish you could believe her.
"You're good at that," you comment idly as Santana finishes stitching your wound closed. You wish you could watch her, but the location of your injury makes it impossible for you to see what she's doing. You only feel her warm fingertips pressing softly against your cool skin every so often, and the sting of the needle. As she'd worked, you'd tried to focus on the tiny pricks of the needle entering your skin, and not on the sharp pangs of pain in your ribs every time you draw a breath, nor on the burning sensation still prevalent near the arrow's entry point due to the poison.
"We have a lot of accidents in District 9," Santana says gently, tying a knot in the thread. "Sit up, Britt." You do as she says, wincing at the ache in your side. Santana had cleaned your wound- that hurt like a bitch- then quickly and neatly closed it in a very efficient amount of time, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed. You wonder if Santana will ever stop surprising you.
She dresses the sutures in your back, then wraps a clean, white bandage around your midsection to hold it in place. Once she's satisfied that your arrow wound is sufficiently taken care of, she attends to the slice in your shoulder from Quinn's second arrow, then checks on the cut in your back, and the one on your forearm, and you didn't realize you were such a mess. Santana scolds you fondly, and you know it's to distract both of you from the fact that poison is steadily making its way through your body- making its way to your heart. You don't know how long you have before it takes over completely; maybe a day.
You watch Santana roll out her sleeping bag and strip her jacket, arranging it like a sort-of pillow, and your heart thumps dully. You're touched that she's going through so much trouble for you, but you wish she wouldn't waste her energy. She must know that you don't have much time. She must know that you'll be dead in a matter of days.
You wonder if she'll stay with you until the end.
You don't want her to waste time hanging around, but you're suddenly terrified of dying alone. You can't ask her to stay with you, though, can you? That would be selfish, and she's already done so much-
Gentle fingers stroke through your hair, and you tremble, feeling fear grip you at the thought of losing Santana. You can't bear to die alone, but you can't bear the thought of her dying, too. She can't lose the Games- she can't.
Santana bends to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "C'mon, Britt," she murmurs, her lips brushing your skin. You relish her warmth, her nearness, her fingers in your hair. You shut your eyes and try to draw a deep breath, wincing at the stabbing pain in your midsection, and let Santana help you over to her sleeping bag. You lie on your stomach, wheezing, and Santana gives you a pained look, crouching beside you.
"I'll be right back," she promises, setting your knife beside you as a precaution. You nod, feeling exhausted, but terrified for a myriad of conflicting emotions. You don't want to be selfish, you don't want to keep Santana with you. But-
You watch her stand and leave the cave.
And you hope she doesn't come back.
When you wake, you're immediately aware of the smell of something cooking, and you're at once disappointed and relieved that Santana returned. You know you should be hungry, but your stomach churns. You still feel sick, and your head has started to ache; a low, persistent throbbing has taken up residence in your temple, adding to your list of pains. The sun has started to lower from what you can glimpse of the deep colors in the sky outside the cave, and the sight is a reminder that you're running out of time.
"You're awake," Santana comments, offering you a soft smile.
"You came back," you tell her dully, and Santana frowns, her eyebrows furrowing in worry.
"I told you I would," she says.
You try to swallow the bitter taste in your mouth, feeling your throat constricting with emotion.
"Hey," Santana starts gently, suddenly by your side. She strokes her fingers over your cheek, and you selfishly lean into her touch. "Did you not think I would come back?"
You avoid her eyes. "You shouldn't have."
Santana doesn't answer. Instead, she says, "I caught supper. Are you hungry?"
You're not. You have no appetite. But the thought of Santana out in the woods, hunting for you, stirs something in your chest, and you can't turn her down. You nod. She smiles, and she returns to the fire to bring you a portion of whatever it is.
You sit up painfully and force yourself to eat- it's some kind of small animal that you don't recognize, but the meat is oily and dark and reminds you of a small bird your father had bought once for Capitol Week, the weeklong celebration of the generosity of the Capitol. You try not to think of the memory.
Santana offers you water and you drink thirstily, coughing when you inhale too sharply and pain stabs through you. "Shh, easy," Santana soothes, stroking your hair back, and you nod. She leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek before she tells you she's going to check your wound. You sit still as she unwraps your bandages and examines your stitches. She's silent, and you wonder what that could mean. The site still burns, despite Santana having thoroughly cleaned and disinfected it, but you know that's because of the poison.
"It looks better," Santana tells you, her voice thick and slightly hoarse, and you wonder if she's lying to you.
"Doesn't matter." You try to force a smile. "I have a day, maybe less. Right?"
"Britt-"
"Right?" you demand, harsher. Her silence is all the answer you need.
"I don't know what kind of poison it was," Santana says softly. "It could be-"
"Doesn't matter," you repeat. "Sooner or later, it will kill me."
"You don't know that," Santana argues, her voice wavering. "You could get sponsors, or-"
"No," you snap, turning, despite the intense pain, to look at her. You need her to understand. This is it for you. That no one is going to save you. You don't have any sponsors, and even if you did, you doubt your father, or your District, would allow you any help. You've disgraced them, haven't you? Santana's eyes are wet with tears, and your heart twinges, echoing the pain in your ribs. Your expression softens. "No, no one will save me," you say softly, reaching to cup her cheek. "I've made my choice, San." You stare into her eyes, watching them flicker with recognition, and it makes you realize it's the first time you've shortened her name.
She swallows. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She demands, her voice wobbling with tears. One spills down her cheek and you ache to wipe it away. "You're not supposed to save me. You're supposed to kill me and-"
"And we already established I can't do that," you tell her softly, miserably, staring down at your lap.
"You might've won the Games by now; if only-" She trails off, swallowing her tears; she rests her forehead against your shoulder, and you listen to her catch her breath. Her unspoken words- if only you had killed me- resonate in you.
"This can't last," she whispers against your shoulder before she kisses you there. "We can't both win the Games, Britt."
You swallow. You don't know what to say.
A cannon boom cuts through the heavy silence, and you smile weakly.
"One more down," you whisper.
Santana nods, her eyes filled with tears. You think about your own cannon. You wonder if the Gamemakers have it queued up and waiting. You wonder how Santana will react; for a moment you picture her face, and you imagine her odds when you're gone. That cannon must've been Kitty, so that means she'll only have four left. And it would've been three if-
"If you'd killed Finn when you had the chance-"
"Jesse would take me out," Santana says firmly, reaching to replace your bandages.
"You don't know that."
"I don't care, Brittany, don't you see that? I don't want to win the fucking Hunger Games."
"What?" you ask, your eyes widening.
Santana chuckles darkly as she finishes with your bandages. "Not what you were prepared to hear, huh?" She shakes her head. "What's the big fucking deal? Say I win- then what? I go home to my District- a District that put me here to begin with- and live a life of solidarity, except for, oh, when they drag me out of my mansion every year to mentor some kids that are basically already dead? Is that what you wish for me?"
You swallow thickly. It isn't. It's not what you wish for anyone. Not for her, not for yourself. Maybe for Jesse-
But you've never thought of the Games like that. You'd only ever thought of the glory. You'd only ever thought of the parties in the Capitol, of the pride in having punished the lesser Districts and in doing your duty to the Capitol. You'd only ever thought of the riches and having whatever you wanted. Your tributes- the tributes of District 2- won more than they lost. It wasn't anything like the experience Santana just mentioned, and you feel ashamed that you never considered what the cost of the Hunger Games was for the lesser Districts.
You're ashamed that you've lived your entire life in ignorance.
"Why did you volunteer?" Santana asks, her voice so soft you wonder if you imagined it.
You feel your throat constricting as you think back to how proud you were to have your name called, and how it all seems like some cruel, sick joke now. You don't regret it, but at the same time, you wish you'd never met Santana. You wish you could go back to your old life; you wish you could go home to your family, to your father, meet some mediocre boy or girl who makes you feel half as alive as Santana does, and live out the rest of your life working in District 2, maybe as a mason. You'd never feel the insistent, undeniable pull of your magnet, never have to choose between a meaningless, lifeless existence or actually being dead, and you could watch the Games from a distance each year. You could remain ignorant.
You blink, surprised at the tears in your eyes, and laugh bitterly at yourself. Because you did meet Santana.
You can never go back to before.
When you find your voice, it wavers. "It was expected of me," you confess, reaching up to grasp your father's tags. You wonder what he thinks of you, revealing a side of weakness, revealing just how vulnerable you really are. Your whole life, you sought his approval, his blessing. Your whole life, you only wanted to make him proud, to earn his love. But now you realize that love earned in that way is just as easily revoked. Conditional. You don't want that for you.
You look at Santana and wonder if she loves you. You wish you had the courage to ask.
"I've trained in an Academy," you whisper. "Since I turned fifteen."
"Is that why you're so good?" Santana asks with a gentle smile, matching your tone and making your conversation intimate. She nudges your shoulder with hers, and you smile a little at her attempt to cheer you up, even though she was the one crying not five minutes ago. Your heart feels like it might explode with fondness and adoration for Santana.
You nod. "I was trained in every kind of weapon found in the Games; I studied the way people's bodies move. Everyone gives tells- a shift of their weight, a flinch, a twitch- and my Trainer says I'm just really good at reading them." You shrug, like it's no big deal- because it's not. You're not proud of your ability. You wish you were compassionate, like Santana. You wish you were brave like her. She risked her life for you, and she hasn't been trained in an Academy.
Actually, she might have been. You don't really know anything about her life before the Games.
"You're staring at me," Santana points out bashfully, her cheeks turning the slightest pink, even under the complexion of her skin. It makes you smile.
"You're pretty," you say easily, as if that's reason enough. She blushes deeper, and you smile wider. "I was wondering what your life was like, you know- before."
"Well, I definitely didn't train in an Academy."
"But you're good."
"With a sickle," Santana shrugs. "And it's only because I have a life of practice using one out in the fields."
You want to know more, but you also don't want to touch on a potentially sensitive subject. "Will you tell me?" you ask, soft and encouraging. Santana smiles shyly, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. You wish you would have done it instead.
"Sure, though there's not much to tell," she says, and you're grateful for the distraction, for her willingness to help take your mind off of it- off the fact that it's agony to breathe, off of the fact that you're slowly dying and there's nothing you can do about it. "My father lives in the Capitol. See, my mother was extremely beautiful when she was younger-"
"I can see that," you say, and Santana shakes her head.
"Flirt," she accuses. She rolls her eyes a little, but you know she's flattered. "Anyway," she continues, "my father took a liking to her. I'm not sure how they met, maybe he was in charge of the grain export or something, I don't know. Never met the guy."
You feel sad. You already know Santana's mother died, but she never met her father, either? She really did have a rough life. And yet, she's so brave, and gentle with you, and-
"Mom got knocked up with me," Santana says. "And she lived until I was old enough to be sold into slavery at the mill. Then, I don't know. She was killed in an 'accident' but I think it was probably my father trying to cover up the shame and scandal. I guess he hoped I'd disappear into slavery, or die at the hands of Peacekeepers or something."
The mention of Peacekeepers is like a punch to your chest. You'd always respected and liked them. You remember Kurt's words when he'd dressed you in the Peacekeeper outfit, how he'd told you that the rest of the Districts would not be fond of you. And you remember Santana's anger at the sight of you in the outfit. A wave of nausea hits you hard and you struggle to stifle it.
Thunder booms, and you hear the distant sound of rain. The sound of it calms you, but you can't help wondering if the Capitol is trying to censor your conversation with Santana. You're definitely not talking about appropriate things, but it's not like you care.
"So that's it?" you ask softly. "You worked at the mill until you ended up here?"
Santana shrugs again. "Mostly." She hesitates, and you study her. If she worked at the mill and minded her own business, why would her District vote her into the Hunger Games? You know District 9 doesn't view participation as an honor like District 2, so-
"There was this girl," Santana starts, her voice low and rough. "Elaine. She was the Mayor's daughter. When he'd visit the mill, like to inspect it or whatever, she'd be with him."
You feel your stomach tense. You're shocked and honored that Santana is choosing to share such a personal part of her history with you, but you remember the way Quinn and Finn talked about it, and it makes you sick again.
"She seemed to like me," Santana continues, her voice so soft you have to struggle to hear it over the rain. "I'd catch her watching me a lot when they visited every couple of months. And then one day after a visit, she came to the mill without him." You hold your breath.
"We… well." She shakes her head slowly. "It was fast; over before it started really. But every time her father visited, she'd visit me alone. It went on for months, until- until he found out." You let your breath out slowly. Santana laughs bitterly and you wait for her to continue. When she doesn't, you look at her.
"Then what happened?"
She smiles sadly. "I never saw her again. And a month later, my name got drawn in the Reaping." Without thinking, you creep your hand into hers, feeling overwhelming sadness for her and the circumstances of her life. You never imagined someone could experience such heartache and still turn out to be as wonderful as Santana is.
"Well, they'll all be shocked when you win," you say quietly, and Santana sighs.
"Britt…"
"Why did you ally with Quinn?" you ask, changing the subject.
Santana shrugs. "I thought it would be my best chance to survive. If I was with the Careers, then I wouldn't have to worry about them hunting me, at least, in the beginning."
"Careers?" you ask.
Santana blushes. "Oh, that's just- that's just what we call the tributes who volunteer, the ones who train their whole lives to be in the Games- like it's a career, you know? Like-"
"Like me," you state, smiling at her. She nods.
"Yeah, I'd say that's accurate."
You notice a stray lock of hair fall across her face, and this time, you don't resist the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. Then, because you can't resist, you lean forward and kiss her, slow and deep, for long moments.
"Quinn asked me, anyway," Santana says when she pulls back, releasing a slow breath and playing with the fingers of your hand that she's still holding. "I think she only wanted me because she thinks you have some sort of attachment to me."
You freeze, and she looks up at you in that deep, soul-searching way that she has, and you swallow. You're not afraid to admit your feelings, but as you search her gaze for any trace of disapproval, you realize you don't have to. You both know the truth.
You wonder if Santana loved Elaine, but you're scared to ask. You wonder again if she loves you, and if she doesn't if she could love you, if the circumstances were different. Santana shifts beside you and leans her head against your shoulder, and you finally understand that there are things more important than winning the Games.
You snuggle by the fire until the Capitol Anthem plays. Kitty from District 4- you can't believe that's actually her name- is the only face in the sky. You're relieved that the day is over, but also very aware that your time is growing shorter. Your headache has intensified, and your stomach is churning severely, alerting you to the fact that you're probably not going to be able to keep dinner down for much longer. Your palms have broken out into a cold sweat, though Santana has refused to release your hand. You know tomorrow is only going to be worse.
However, instead of the normal silence that accompanies the end of the day ceremony, you're hailed with the loud sound of trumpets, and the familiar voice of Jacob-Ben-Israel, the popular Hunger Games announcer. He greets you, his unique voice blasting out over the arena, and your stomach tenses as you process his words.
"There will be a Feast at the Cornucopia, tomorrow at dawn," he tells you gleefully. "And if I were you, I wouldn't miss it- or you might live to regret it… or you might not live at all!"
You're climbing to your feet, stumbling to your knees outside of the cave just in time to double over, your stomach heaving up its contents. Your ribs scream at you in protest, and the intense wave of pain incites another round of vomiting. You're sick with emotion, with poison, with the thought of having to go back to that swamp to live, with the fact that Santana is going to try to go, and you can't, you can't-
You're vaguely aware of Santana beside you, pulling your hair back, stroking your back, soothing you with soft, encouraging words, and only one thought crosses your mind.
You can't let Santana go to that Feast, which means one thing-
You have to go, yourself.
Come on, you guys totally saw that coming! I read the reviews, I KNOW, OKAY.
Sooo sorry, I had to split this chapter up because I got waaaay more involved with writing Brittana's dialogue than I planned, and I realized I had way too much action planned for the chapter and I didn't want to overwhelm you guys.
Review if you feel like it. See you guys really soon! :D
