AN: Holy crap you guys. I was - no, still am - absolutely floored by all the support and sweet messages you've sent about my story. Seriously it must have taken me a few hours to reply to all of you! :) Thank you, everyone. I bring with me chapter two and I hope you enjoy it as much as you did the first. Happy Holidays!
Chapter 2
Far From Home
Mackville, Kentucky. October 1st, 1862
It's too early in fall to see so many splashes of yellow amidst the green leaves. The air isn't yet cool; the last warm remnants of summer still cloud the breeze. Brittany finds it strange. It's almost as if the seasons have declared war upon themselves as well. The clashing, even within nature itself, is inescapable. She wonders if autumn has started in Lima too. If Emily is well enough to collect leaves for their mantle…
She closes her eyes for just a moment, willing the thoughts of her sister to pass. Home is so far away now. Thinking of all she's left behind just rips open wider the hole already entrenched in her heart. It's already so deep, she thinks, pressing her hand against her chest. She's afraid of the emptiness that sprouts inside her. The loneliness. It's unbearable at times. Like nothing she's every felt…not even the cold prickle of frost that used to bite at her back on long winter mornings spent tending to the cows can compare. Because at least then her father would always bring her a scarf and extra thick mittens.
He's not here now. Emily isn't beside her.
She's lost count of the nights spent curled in her tent, alone, willing the tears not to fall. She must cry even in her dreams, she thinks. Because she always wakes to a damp pillow and that same unwelcome emptiness in her heart.
But then she reminds herself why she's here.
"Emily is getting better," she repeats to herself. "They're all right and you have to be all right too."
Believing so brings her spirits up.
Her eyes scan the road a few yards ahead from where she rides. Except for a few birds overheard, there's not a single soul in sight. She imagines the flock must be heading south for the coming winter and wishes them well on their travels. Soon the ducks will be joining them. She tries not thinking more of them, wistful already for thoughts of home.
Brittany relaxes more in the saddle, smiling even as the horse lets out soft whinny when the wind kicks up and a few wayward autumn leaves brush over his nose. His pace is brisk along the embankment; the leaves soon forgotten to the grass behind them. Brittany wishes she'd picked a few earlier when they stopped for rest. They'd look nice in her tent. Home may be far but it could feel a bit closer.
I can't, she sighs to herself. Bret wouldn't do that. Boys don't decorate.
The leaves will have to remain where they are.
She brushes off the few stuck to her horse's mane. Out of sight, out of mind. The supply bags full of mail tied to Piedmont's saddle thump against his hind with every hurried step forward he takes. It drums a calm rhythm, distracting from thoughts of home and the camp she's riding back toward. She makes up a song to the beat, something silly about horses with socks and skies dotted with patches of pink clouds.
It makes her daydream of summer days spent in the fields, gently coaxing Apple along.
She misses him.
Piedmont just isn't the same.
"Not that I don't like you or anything," she tells him, ruffling his brown mane. "You're a good horse too."
She'll have to knit him some socks just like she made Apple once. She hopes Piedmont doesn't eat his too.
An itch prickles on the back of her neck.
She scratches just above her shoulder, still so unused to her hair being tucked – concealed more like it – snuggly beneath a cap. She pulls gently back on the reins, slowing Piedmont's gait as her eyes skim the nearby trees for the bark she'd etched a sun upon earlier on her journey toward Harrodsburg. It was a few hours' trip from the camp into town, something she'd usually never undertake. But the telegraph lines hadn't been laid out to Mackville yet and the only way Colonel Wright could get word sent on was through courier.
As for the bags of mail she'd acquired, well, Brittany has a few choice words for the man responsible with unloading this burden upon her poor horse. She detests that the express carrier in Harrodsburg was such a lazy fat tub of a man. He'd practically shoved them onto her the moment she rode into town and took off (surprisingly fast for such a big man, she thinks) without so much as a word in explanation. Like a human version of Tubbington with even less manners. Though to Tubbington's credit, at least he always made up for his many grievous faults. Even if most of the time his apology consisted of merely being adorable.
Stop it, Brittany warns herself, her heart once more filling with sorrow. Piedmont snorts loudly, shaking Brittany from her troubled thoughts.
"I'm sorry about this Piedy," she whispers, stroking the horse's mane. He belongs to Corporal Hummel– no, she reminds herself, he's asked her to simply call him Burt and if she should forget that than just simply Mister Hummel will do. He's a blacksmith who enlisted in place of his son. Brittany trusted him implicitly the day he told her that bit of information. Though she dare not reveal to him how similar their stories were. He always tells her how much she reminds him of his son, Kurt, back home in Columbus. Brittany once glimpsed at a picture of Kurt. Burt kept it tucked in his lapels most days but for some reason it was lying atop his worktable when she'd come in looking for him. It was a newer photograph; the edges still crisp and finish unscratched. She didn't think she looked anything like the immaculately dressed boyish fellow that beamed back at her. But she took it as a compliment nonetheless.
She prides herself on acting as much like a man as she can.
And even though she has a feeling it doesn't matter much to Burt she maintains her character anyway.
Bret is a quiet boy from Lima. He likes spending his time with the cavalry's horses as opposed to drinking beside the fires. He pretends to shave outside his tent like the other men do despite never having grown a hair along his chin in his life. He loves to watch, always from a far, as the camp musicians bolster spirits with a song. His feet itch to join the others, body aching for the fun of a dance. But he always keeps himself away. It will only give the other men more reason to mock him later. They already think him strange enough. God knows they've come up with enough names to shout his way. It's why he never, under any circumstances, lets his gaze linger too long upon another's. Bret is too afraid they will see through his rouse and punish her for disobeying military law.
Brittany doesn't like to think about what that can entail. Instead she squares her shoulders, sits taller upon her saddle and tells herself she needs to stay focused. She gets ten dollars a month for being part of this infantry and every penny must be sent home to help Emily be well again.
Her family needs this money.
And her father needs to remain by her sister's side.
The mid-afternoon sun hangs low in the sky by the time she makes it back to camp. Burt greets her with a wide grin once she's inside the boundaries. Of course he was waiting for me, she thinks, smiling back as well. Burt always makes sure to be there upon her arrival. He's the one thing keeping the emptiness from overwhelming her. Brittany dismounts, giving Piedmont a pat on his neck as she takes his reins loosely in her hands and leads the horse back to his master.
"Safe and sound, as always," Burt says to her with a chuckle. She smiles in return as he takes the reins and gives her a solid thump along her back. Brittany stumbles a bit, but recovers effortlessly, returning the gesture and silently praising Bret for his effort. It was a good, manly pat.
"With the mail," Brittany tells him, her voice purposely lowered a few octaves into Bret's usual tone. She'd practiced the perfect pitch, not too gruff, not too deep. Something unnoticeable but natural. A voice no one would think twice about.
Bret Pierce has to be forgettable.
"The mail?" Burt quirks an eyebrow at her in question and Brittany merely keeps her head bowed, shrugging in response. She doesn't like speaking unless it is necessary and thankfully Burt doesn't seem to mind her quieted tongue. It is easy to get along with him. He is kind, helpful and so much reminds her of her own father. Though Burt can't much get around as well as him, what with his knee in such poor condition from a welding accident back in his hometown. Even with his injury he is an asset to the infantry nonetheless. Mending weapons, fabricating horseshoes, and recently undertaking the correspondence deliveries.
Brittany walks alongside him, careful to mind her steps. Burt's limp caught her off guard on a few occasions but she's become accustomed to his way of walking now. She enjoys his company. He doesn't ask her too many questions.
"Bret, when was the last time you washed?"
Except maybe questions like that.
Brittany sighs, scratching at her neck again. She's starting to think perhaps the itchiness of her skin isn't so much from her hair but the dirt that may as well have collected back there. She shrugs in answer, uncertain. It's been a while. She also doesn't quite like thinking too much on the reason why.
"You might want to. You smell something fierce boy," Burt chuckles and the sound warms Brittany's heart. She knows he's speaking in good humor, especially when his hand comes to rest gently on her shoulder.
"Ah, there you are eunuch," a young man calls out from a few paces to their right.
Brittany winces at the familiar voice.
Burt stops walking altogether. His hand squeezes Brittany's shoulder, holding her in place beside him. He lets out deep, throaty rumble, a sound so defensive that it makes Brittany nervous. She glances up at him, worried for the confrontation soon to transpire. Burt's never been privy to the verbal abuse she endures day after day. But he's not ignorant of it either. Gossip after all, isn't just a sport for bored women. As it turns out it is also the preferred sport for bored men. And Burt will be damned if he stands idly by as these boys badger his charge. Especially since they have the audacity, and idiocy, to do so in front of him.
He turns toward the group of men, a snarl fixed upon his lips as their malicious laughter rings sharply in his ears.
He leans toward Brittany, eyes focused upon the advancing group as he gives her shoulder another reassuring squeeze. "Don't mind them," he tells her softly. Then he straightens, shoulders squared and eyes set in a stern glare as they finally stop a few paces in front of them. Brittany keeps her own gaze focused upon Burt's boots, the tip of her cap obscuring her eyes from sight.
She never minds them. Half the time she doesn't even know what they mean to say. But she knows, just by their cruel tone, that whatever it is can't be very good. Eunuch is their new favorite word. It confuses Brittany.
Eunuch…
She is either unique, or half a unicorn.
Neither sounds bad to her and she quite likes fables. Unicorns especially.
"What do you fellows want?" Burt snaps.
"Sir," the taller of the bunch, a boy Brittany knows as Scott Cooper, nods respectively to Burt. His blue eyes flicker toward Brittany, a smug expression crossing his features. "I'm afraid we need the whelp."
Burt steps forward, pleased as the private before him takes a step back in reaction. "And I'm afraid you've misplaced your conduct," he says, eyeing the boy before him and the other three flanking his sides. "He is to be addressed as Private Pierce."
"Private Pierce is needed," Cooper repeats, though it is obvious that it's a strain for him to do so.
"For? Under whose orders?" Burt asks, arms crossed over his chest.
Cooper bristles at the questions, having not expected to be addressed so callously. Corporal Hummel is his superior though, and despite wishing he could say as he pleases to the old cripple he keeps his mouth smartly shut. His eyes flicker toward Brittany, a glint of bitterness held in his gaze. He focuses back upon Burt and motions out toward the field atop the nearby hill. "The horses need to be taken to pasture. It's Private Pierce's duty per Captain Hartman's orders."
"You've delivered your message," Burt says to them as they continue to stand, unmoving. "Leave."
With a nod from Cooper he and the boys depart. Brittany shifts on her feet, head still bowed as Burt sighs beside her.
"You know I'm always telling my boy not to let simpletons like that bother him so," Burt says. "It'd serve you well to live by those words too."
"I will," Brittany tells him, allowing a small smile to show. "Thank you."
Burt ruffles the cap on her head, chuckling when Brittany seems to brighten considerably. "Take care kid, all right?"
Brittany nods wishing she could give Burt the hug she's wanted to for a month now. But she holds back, reminding herself, Bret doesn't like hugs. Instead she smiles wider and scratches Piedmont's neck before she takes off toward the cavalry's station to carry out her afternoon chore.
The grass is tall in the pasture, obscuring Brittany from sight where she sits upon the ground. She watches the clouds pass lazily overhead, their shapes morphing in the light breeze. She thinks the mass of fluffy white to her left resembles a leggy rabbit… or maybe a squat fawn. She's not too sure. It makes her smile nonetheless as her fingers work to braid a few strands of grass. The sounds of the camp are far below her down the hill, muffled by the distance. Yet she can clearly see the beginnings of tonight's fires being started, their smoke billowing to mix with the rabbit-deer hybrid above.
A horse shakes his head to her side, his snort loud and the warm breath he exhales tickles her cheek.
"Hungry?" she asks him, holding out her braid of grass. He nibbles at the offering before pulling it from her grasp and chewing it eagerly. Brittany sighs watching him eat. They need more. Hay and some oats would do well, she thinks, eyes scanning over the top of the grass to where the other ten horses she's brought out are grazing. Burt told her the supply train was held up somewhere North. The lines were clogged with enough orders to last years. The companies operating the engines have been unable to keep up since the war began.
The rations for the horses will have to wait. Grass will do for now.
Brittany hopes when the trains do arrive they are filled to the brim with oats, tons of hay and lots of corn. At the rate the infantry's horses feed they'll have eaten their way to Harrodsburg by next week's end.
Brittany lies back in the grass, breathing out deeply. While Bret doesn't much mind war, Brittany hates it. Especially when such beautiful animals can't be cared for properly.
The horse she fed her braid to suddenly snaps his head up, ears perked toward the far corner of the pasture near the woods. Brittany quickly scrambles to her feet, collecting the length of wrangling rope along the ground as she does. She sees nothing near the edge of the trees, but she knows something is amiss. All the horses are focused upon the wooded area ahead, anxious and still.
A gunshot rings out. Shouts of men soon follow.
The horses scatter, taking off in full runs across the pasture.
"No!" Brittany yells, giving chase to the scared animals. She can't believe what's happening. Who are those men? Are they Southerners? Have they found their camp? A sweat is quick to break across her forehead, more from the thought of imminent battle than the exertion of her run. As she urges herself faster, rope held tightly in her hands, she realizes she doesn't hear the loud sounds of fighting she assumed would be coming from the camp down the hill. With skilled ease she manages to rope one of the horses that dashes past her. The great mare cries out, rearing back suddenly and yanking Brittany off her feet.
She tumbles to the ground, landing hard on her shoulder. A loud pop resonates from her bone and Brittany releases the rope as she bites back the scream threatening to tear through her throat. Her shoulder explodes with a fresh wave of pain, her back arching in protest against the frayed nerves.
The ground beneath her begins to shake, her vision dotted with an array of colors as she tries to stand to wobbly legs. The pain in her arm is unbearable. Tears sting at her eyes. The rumble of horse hooves grows louder. Another gunshot is fired from behind. The horses divert in their path.
Brittany barely has time to think as they sprint straight toward her, their dark eyes wide and panicked.
The last she recalls before being kicked to the ground and losing conscious thought is that someone, somewhere in the pasture is laughing at her. And they sound a hell of a lot like Scott Cooper.
"Boy, if you squirm anymore I'll be forced to write you off as the worm you clearly fancy yourself to be, whereby you'll be tossed to the river as fish bait lest you waste my time any further!" Dr. Lopez exclaims, seething down at his patient. "And if that wasn't clear enough; hold still you little fuck before I render you still myself!"
The young soldier grows slack upon the command, reclining deep into his cot. Pierced straight through his foot is a tent stake, the metal long since rusted and flaking bits of its old skin upon the boy's, now useless, Santana notes, right foot.
Dr. Lopez's calm façade is back again as he taps at the boy's unresponsive toes with the blunt end of his saw. "This has to go."
"No! Please!" the frantic boy begs, green eyes wide with terror, his face growing impossibly pale. "You can save it, right? It's not…it's—"
"It's in danger of becoming gangrenous," Dr. Lopez explains, impatient. He pushes Santana aside as he squats beside the boy and motions with the saw toward the fresh wound. "Better to chop it off now before your whole leg has to go with it later."
The boy gulps. "M-my whole leg?"
Dr. Lopez resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead grunting, as he says, "No, stupid boy, just your foot. So stay still. We've no chloroform for you. Santana, hand him the belt."
Santana is quick to retrieve the belt inside her apron as she squats opposite her father beside the trembling soldier. He hasn't even been enlisted a week and already he is losing a limb. She tries to muster a look of sympathy to her face, but she finds it hard to dredge up any ounce of sympathy for someone stupid enough to stake himself. That thing has to be at least a foot long; he had to have seen it.
"Open your mouth," she instructs. His eyes lock upon hers, pleading and full of unshed tears. She looks away before the chill forming over her spine can take hold. He obeys and Santana slips the piece of leather between his teeth. She doesn't have to explain what it is for. The boy instinctively bites down upon it, eyes squeezed tightly shut, anticipating with shallow breaths what is sure to happen next. She's about to stand when his hand finds hers, fingers shaking uncontrollably as he grips desperately onto her. She wishes she could offer him the comfort of sleep, but with the supplies still on their way she has nothing but a hand to provide.
She looks back over to her father after a moment, wondering why the sound of skin being torn to shreds isn't meeting her ears. He's staring at her, saw poised just over the boy's ankle with a look of contempt upon his face. "Why are you still sitting there?" he demands. "Fetch me a bucket."
Damn, Santana curses to herself. She'd brought it over, of course, yet with the soldier clinging to her like some whimpering child she's forgotten to slide it into place below his foot. She wretches her hand free from his iron like grip, ignoring his protests and pleas with her to remain. The bucket is in place a moment later, her father not bothering to warn the boy before he digs the saw deep into his flesh.
The amputation is completed quickly, and for once without quite so much a mess. Santana is thankful for this, as well as the fact the boy passed out midway through. His screams, even muffled as they were with the leather belt, were still jarring. She hopes that shipment of chloroform arrives soon. If anything so that in the coming months of battle her sanity can remain somewhat intact. She's not deluded herself about war. She knows she will see gruesome, terrible things far beyond her already vivid imaginings. She's both eager and dreading them.
At the moment, she's sick of war. A month of trailing after her father mending accidents and dealing with the illness brought on by the more promiscuous has left her quite repulsed by humanity. Stupid men, in particular. For some reason war seems to bring those types out in large droves.
Her gaze settles on the face of the unconscious soldier her father has just operated on. He must have been drafted. Volunteers aren't this careless. Regardless she takes special care to tend to his ankle, always prideful in her work no matter whom the patient is. Once she's finished with the soldier she motions for a few nurse aides to see to it the mess upon the floor is taken care of. They give her kind smiles as they come over and quickly gather supplies for their work. Santana has a feeling their smiles are just masks with which to hide their contempt. She leaves before they're even within distance to address her.
Santana catches up with her father beside his next patient. She recognizes the man. He's come in complaining of rashes a few times already and it is obvious now that he's developed a rather serious case of syphilis, which in Santana's opinion, should have been obvious given his rather sordid reputation within the camp. Her father would hear none of her conjectures though as it wasn't a secret he'd been partaking in much the same nightly trysts with the camp harlots. Invisible is what he fancied himself. 'Your mother will hear none of this,' he'd hiss at her whenever he'd return to their tent reeking of sex and lead powder.
She didn't much care and only fleetingly did she ever hope he kept himself safe.
Unlike the poor bastard they are tending. For some time now the patient's rashes had been easy enough to quell. But now his skin has finally exploded in a series of painful lesions across his hands and crotch. Before Dr. Lopez reaches to remove the sheet over the patient's groin he turns to Santana. Weary and with smidges of blood still doting his forehead from the amputation he tells her, "Go check upon the less critical. This isn't the place for a woman."
Santana's temper flares at the dismissal. "How else am I to learn if I am not present?"
Dr. Lopez's eyes narrow furiously into her own. "Medicine is not a practice for women. You are here as a nurse aide. That is all."
Santana stands her ground for a moment, his words sinking deep beneath her skin. They make her wish to stay, to show him otherwise. But she knows he holds the power to discharge her. And worse yet, send her home. With a terse nod she takes leave of her father and heads toward the ward at the back end of the tent. She hates the less critical patients. The ones who come in complaining of head-pains and superficial cuts upon their hands. In other words, those who are known as giant pansies in her mind. It is an insult to be sent away. And even more so to be sent to this ward. She slaps away the tent flap, storming into that small room with a challenging scowl already planted on her face.
A few of the boys hide their injuries. Of what Santana can see two conceal paper-cuts, one a bruised calf, and the other scampers off before she can even get a glimpse. At the sight of her scowl deepening the rest quickly shuffle from the tent.
Santana is more than pleased by their speedy exits. She learned quickly some men were willing to pass off any injury as serious enough to have them sent home. It was ridiculous. As if Wright cares whether you've sprained your pinky finger, she thinks. Unless you were near death, or limbless like their recent patient, you were classified as fit for battle. Patch 'em up or send 'em back in a box. It was simple as that.
"Good afternoon, beautiful," a particularly familiar and arrogant voice calls from her side.
Santana groans, rolling her eyes as she comes face to face with one of her more repetitive patients. Private Noah Puckerman. He's sporting a rather fresh black eye below his cocked brow and a cut upon his smirking lips. He beckons her closer and Santana reluctantly moves toward him.
"What's wrong with you now, Puckerman?" she spits, angry and frustrated to be seeing him in here again. It seems he was intent upon winning her favor, and doing so in all the wrong manners.
"Can't you tell?" he husks.
A bad taste develops over Santana's tongue at the sound. "I see you've lost yet another fight, if that's what you mean to say."
Puckerman places a hand over his heart, feigning hurt at her words. "A fight for your honor."
This time when Santana's eyes take a roll they stay focused upon the tent ceiling. "You're fine," she snaps before meeting his arrogant gaze once more. "Get out of my tent."
"But my swollen bits," Puckerman concedes, smirk still firmly planted on his mouth. "I think you need to check, just to be sure."
"So help me god if you say it's below your belt again."
"Miss Santana! I am a gentleman," Puckerman says with over exaggerated offense. "Therefore, I believe a kiss will suffice in lieu of an apology."
Santana unsheathes a particularly nasty looking scalpel from within her apron pocket. "Your dick will suffice in lieu of payment for wasting my time if you don't leave my tent right this second."
"All right, all right!" Puckerman says, holding his hands skyward in defense. "I'm leaving. Don't pull out the saw just yet."
"I won't need more than this," she threatens, waving the small operating knife in her hand.
Puckerman slips down from his seat on the stool, hands still held above his head. "I'm going, I swear, see?" he points toward the tent entrance, steps light as he retreats. "Walking right out your door."
Santana folds her arms across her chest, eyes set in an unyielding glare as Puckerman collects his things and with a grin blows her a kiss before rushing out of the tent. She lets out a loud groan as the flap settles back into place, her irritability quickly lowering with him gone but leaving her still very much on edge. She turns to the only remaining patient, a timid looking boy clutching his shoulder where he sits upon the lone examination table. His legs kick in a lazy rhythm as they hang over the edge, half his face obscured beneath a worn cap. Santana can see him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Her eyes rake over his uniform. The badge over his lapel claims him as the lowliest of the infantry. A simple courier. An errand boy. And yet most important of all he'd obviously never been in the medical tent before, or at least not while she was on shift.
The soldiers knew better than to waste her time.
Both Lopez's have notoriously short tempers.
Time to show him just exactly how short it is.
She stalks up to the boy, hoping to intimidate him into leaving so she can return to the real work. She makes it three steps only to stumble back a few paces upon being bombarded by the smell pouring off the lad in solid waves. "Dear fucking god!" Santana shouts as she stares incredulously over at the soldier. "When was the last time your body was acquainted with soap?"
He looks up. "Huh?"
"Soap. A bath," Santana says, approaching the soldier once more and this time mindful not to breathe too deeply. "When was the last time you bathed yourself? You smell horrid."
"Oh," he blushes, eyes downcast. "I don't remember the last time. It's been a while. I apologize for being so stinky."
"When you leave here you need to do something about this," she says, motioning up and down his body.
"Do you know where there's a tub?" he asks.
Santana's brow quirks at the question. Perhaps he is a new recruit? She can't very much see his face; the boy seems to be purposely avoiding looking directly at her for too long. "The men wash in the troughs out back. Weren't you shown to them when your Captain brought you here?"
He leans toward Santana, voice barely above a whisper as he tells her, "I can't wash there. The men are all naked."
Santana can do nothing but blink for a moment. When she finds her voice she says dryly, "That is the point. So you'll have to get over this issue of yours seeing as it's either bathe there or continue masquerading, quite adequately, as a human manure pile. Unless this is some genius ploy on your part, though I highly doubt it, to repel any confederates you may come across on your travels. Though, like I mentioned, I highly doubt your ability to enact such a complex scheme. Not to mention that you reek so highly to heaven that the only people you are foiling are your own allies. So now," Santana says, tilting her head as she examines the boy before her with a scornful and critical eye. "Why are you in my tent, shit pile?"
The boy shifts uncomfortably, still clutching his shoulder as he nods down the piece of paper on the table beside him. "I don't know but Mister Hummel told me to give you this."
Santana plucks the sheet from the table, quickly reading over the letter.
Doctor Lopez,
Pvt. Bret Pierce has suffered a dislocated shoulder and some other injuries I am not equipped to assess. I've popped the joint back into place but am afraid there may be internal damage and beseech your expertise further. Please take care of him. He's a good boy.
Many thanks,
Cpl. Burt Hummel
Interesting, she thinks as she folds up the note and stuffs it into her apron. And also vague. But before she can even ask one question to evaluate this case further Brittany speaks first.
"Where do you bathe?" she asks. Something about the doctor makes her nervous; it's obvious Santana's not the kindest soul around. But something also makes Brittany want to look up, to be brave and look at the woman who she's been told will help her stop hurting so much. Because if there's one thing she is for sure of, it's that her shoulder aches something fierce and the rest of her feels no better. Yet even her pain seems mild compared to the doctor's reaction over her smell. That needs to be dealt with first. She doesn't want to make… San…Sant-anna, was it? Maybe her parents really liked Christmas, she thinks. She doesn't want to make Santana dislike her anymore than she probably already does.
The question catches Santana off guard. She looks over at Brittany, startled to find curious blue eyes staring openly back her. It's unsettling. No one has ever stared at her with such obvious esteem.
She shakes the warm feeling creeping into her aside, snapping back instead, "Where I bathe is not your concern."
"But you must wash separate of the men," Brittany continues. "And you smell awful nice."
"I uh," Santana stammers, flustered over the sudden heat settling in her cheeks. Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the soldier before her as she answers gruffly, "I share a private trough with my father in our quarters."
Brittany's entire face seems to light up her words. Santana takes a step back at the enthusiasm even as Brittany asks, hopeful, "Could I bathe there?"
"No!" Santana exclaims, waving the question off with a flick of her wrist. "It's not for soldiers' use! Why do you have such an aversion to bathing with the others? You're all the same! Are you truly so insecure?"
Brittany lets her chin fall, eyes once more focused upon her feet. "No, I just can't let anyone see me. It's very important."
Santana rolls her eyes. Another pansy. "Why ever not?"
"I just can't," Brittany says, voice still low but now tinged with immediacy. "So may I please bathe in your quarters?"
"The answer is still no," Santana tells her evenly as she moves to stand just beside the soldier, careful to breathe through her mouth. Her nose scrunches in disgust anyway. She's sure she can taste the horrid smell upon her tongue. "And now that you've gone and wasted valuable time sit up, don't breathe upon me, and try not to scream too much."
Brittany isn't prepared for what happens next but she follows Santana's orders explicitly. Her spine grows rigid and straight, lungs filled to capacity with a giant breath of air. All before Santana grabs hold of her shoulder and gives a gentle tug on the painful joint. Brittany purses her lips and bites down hard on her tongue in response.
"Sorry," Santana mutters as she eases the arm around. And with empathy she's surprised to even muster, asks, "it hurts, doesn't it?"
Brittany nods quickly, breath still held, face turning red. Santana doesn't bother looking up from where she inspects the rotation of Brittany's shoulder. She thinks this Hummel fellow may know a thing or two about injuries; he's obviously set it back in place properly.
Santana looks back up to Brittany, about to explain what she's just done but her eyes grow wide upon seeing the soldier obviously suffering from acute oxygen deprivation. "For goodness sake Private! Breathe!"
Brittany exhales what little air retains in her lungs, quick to gulp as much oxygen back in as she can afterward. She looks back up at Santana, breathless and upset. "You said not to!"
"I didn't mean it literally!" Santana exclaims. "Dios mio! Que stupido!"
Brittany's brow crinkles, eyes darkening as she tells her, "I'm not stupidio… I'm not stupid."
Santana scoffs. "Could have fooled me."
Brittany lets out a sigh; her usually immaculate posture slumping as she scuffs her boot along the table leg. "I know I'm not the sharpest tool under the bed."
"Don't you mean shed?"
Brittany gazes up at Santana, confused. "Why would I say shed? Who keeps their tools there? It's cold."
"I just mean…" Santana begins to say but stops as Brittany holds her gaze. Something about the soldier seems off to her, different than the others. And she swears Pierce's tone changed just then, the boy's usual timbre several octaves off. Higher. She shakes her head, thinking the stress of the day has finally started to take its toll on her mental facilities. And the smell isn't helping, she notes. "Never-mind," she says. "Turn this way, please."
Brittany scoots along the table, sitting so that her side fully faces Santana, her legs now crossed in front of her upon the table. "I'm sorry you have to smell me," Brittany says quietly as Santana inspects a rather large bruise forming just along her temple. Warm fingers brush against the broken skin and Brittany lets out a hum at the soft touch. It hardly hurts anymore.
Santana can't help but chuckle at the apology. "Sadly, even despite your lack of hygiene, you're not the worst smelling patient I've attended to."
When Santana tries to remove her cap Brittany yelps, tugging back down upon the brim. "Can I keep it on? My head is cold."
Santana adds this to the growing list of concerns she's shortly acquired over the strange boy. She shrugs, "Fine by me, though if you're hiding a wound up there I'll never be able to help you."
"My head doesn't hurt, just here," Brittany tells her, pointing to her shoulder. In fact the rest of her seems to be doing much better since the doctor started to check on her. Like magic, Brittany thinks with a smile. Like Santeclaus.
"Well, that's good news then." Santana says, choosing to ignore the blissful grin on the boy's face. God, is he ever strange, she thinks. Lanky, confused, and she also can't help but notice the lack of stubble on his jaw. "How old are you Private?"
"Twenty-two."
Santana's eyebrows rise along her forehead.
Brittany blushes under the stare she knows Santana is boring into the side of her face. "I have really light hair."
"Naturally," Santana replies, skeptical as she taps on Brittany's knees, instructing Bret to face her once more.
Brittany does so and grins. "I like you better than the other Doctor."
This time it's Santana that's blushing. "Yes, well..."
"And your eyes aren't scary like his. They're really pretty."
Blushes exceedingly so. Her whole face feels as though it's been lit ablaze. "You're a very… odd fellow, Private Pierce."
Brittany shrugs, wincing at the pain that blooms from her shoulder at the move. "I've been called a lot of strange names since I've been here," she explains simply. A small smile forms on her lips as she tells Santana, "I have a favorite though. Just a few days ago some of the boys began to call me a unicorn."
Santana's nose scrunches. "A unicorn?"
Brittany stares into the empty space over Santana's shoulder. "...I think so," she says, trying to focus upon the memory from just earlier this afternoon. It's just out of reach though, her grasp not quite able to take hold. She sighs. "I really can't remember."
"I think he called you a eunuch," Santana tells her. She's heard it mentioned a few times in passing, though never quite sure who it was directed toward. Definitely found him, she thinks now.
Brittany laughs. "It's unicorn. Aren't doctors supposed to be smart?" she asks with a smirk.
"I—!" Santana begins to refute but is so secretly thrilled hearing that title again that she can't quite articulate anything else at the moment. She's had enough of this back and forth though. And she's certainly grown tired of being so tongue-tied, especially around such a poor excuse for a soldier, let alone a man. Her eyes narrow as her entire demeanor shifts in the blink of an eye. Brittany's smile falls as Santana glares up at her. "Look, this is how this is going to go. I am going to examine you for further injury, fix whatever is wrong, and then I'll have you on your way so you can go smell up someone else's tent. If you haven't noticed people are dying and in need of actual medical care. Is that clear, Private?"
"Yes, doctor," Brittany answers, head bowed.
Santana feels her stomach flutter again at the honorific but smoothers it with a growl as she asks, "How'd this happen?"
"Some of the fellows spooked the horses I was taking to feed in the pasture," Brittany explains, voice once more low and timid. "I got knocked down and my shoulder broke but Mister Hummel fixed it up and it feels sore but all right. I don't know why he brought me here..."
"Probably because you're acting like you're concussed," Santana offers, sarcastically yet also suspecting it to be the truth.
Brittany frowns. "I'm not confused."
Santana stares at her, dumfounded. "Well," she begins to say. "This explains… a lot, actually. Do you feel lightheaded?"
"A bit, but only when you get really close like now. Is that normal?" Brittany asks. She thinks it's because the doctor smells so nice. No one she's ever met has smelled quite so wonderful. She can't even begin to explain it. Like water lilies and fresh coffee and her favorite book of stories. It makes her head float and her gut feel as though it's filled with bubbles. She thinks she may be nauseous but so far hasn't felt like retching. It confuses her. Maybe she is contusioned like Santana said.
"I, uh…" Santana once again finds herself unable to speak. If Puckerman were to sprout such utter nonsense to her she would have had him writhing in pain by now. But the way Private Pierce said it… as if it were a mere truth, something felt and not to be turned to pandering flattery... it makes Santana think more and more that the poor boy is entirely mad. She clears her head and reaches forward, tugging up on the soldier's shirt before Brittany can even voice her protest.
With a gasp Brittany's hands are quick to still Santana's, clasping firmly over the shorter woman's fingers halting them before they can remove the shirt any further up her torso. Again Santana is met with skin free of hair, of even the slightest inclination that the boy before her has reached manhood, let alone that he's anywhere near twenty-two. Bret is thin; thin in a way that reminds her of someone more woman than man. Impossible, she thinks. Yet his reaction…
"You're a bit slender for your age." Santana says. She looks up, meeting Brittany's fretful gaze. Full cheeks, soft brow… Curious, Santana thinks. Instead of voicing her opinion she asks, "Have you been getting your rations?"
"I've always looked like this and yes, I have." Brittany replies, daring her voice lower.
Ah, that'll do it, Santana muses. "And when were you going to tell me you're actually a woman?"
Brittany's eyes grow impossibly wide as they dart to the tent entrances before focusing intently back upon Santana. "Shh! I know," she rushes out, very much in her own voice.
Santana smirks as she shifts her weight to one leg and rests a hand over her jutted hip. "Of course you know! It's quite obvious. How has no one discovered you yet?" she asks, genuinely curious about how the dim girl evaded notice. She's heard of woman masquerading as men, it is no secret after all. But here is one, right in front of her, and doing a piss poor job of it. If anything Santana is peeved she didn't catch on sooner. And now she must be the one to introduce sense into the girl. "Have you any idea what would happen if you were found out? You can't continue feigning to be a soldier! You could be killed!"
"I won't be killed." Brittany tells her, adamant.
Santana is taken aback by her fortitude. Was this even the same coy patient she'd first walked up to? "Don't be stupid." Santana tells her. "If anyone knew—"
"They won't."
Santana groans. "I'm obligated to report you, you know."
"You can't. Please," Brittany begs, panic quick to seize her heart. She reaches forward, hands grabbing nothing but air as Santana takes a step back, unsympathetic. To her this girl has entangled herself in something far more serious than she imagined. She should face the consequences, before someone else's life is placed on the line because of her insolence. Another man lying in the tent behind her, another's screams she must endure.
Brittany slips down from the table, hesitant as she approaches Santana. Her hands shake, her entire body trembling as she silently pleads with the doctor to look back at her. To see just how much she needs to stay. Needs to remain as Bret.
"Please," Brittany's voice breaks, a sob catching in her throat as she stops just a foot away from the cold woman whom holds her fate in one simple decision. "I had to take my father's place. There was no other way. You must understand, my—"
"Your father sounds like a real jackass," Santana interrupts with a snort.
"He's not," Brittany snarls defensively. Santana squints up at her, searching the watery eyes for the truth. Why would one woman sacrifice so much for her father? Santana would never do the same for her own. What made Pierce's father such a saint? She moves to turn away, mind made up when Brittany reaches out, fingers wrapping around Santana's arms quickly, holding her in place.
"Let go of me!" Santana hisses.
"He has to stay with my sister," Brittany says, crying freely as her hold on Santana loosens, but her hands remain pressed against the sleeve of the medic's blouse. Santana doesn't move; the touch is deliberate, coaxing. Her arm feels warm beneath Brittany's hold, the taller woman's stare penetrating. Brittany lets out a breath, voice catching as she whispers, "She's very ill and we n-need this money to make her better."
"Then why isn't he here?" Santana asks. Brittany is surprised by the change in Santana's usually surly tone. She sounded uneasy, almost kind. But the snark was back full force not a second later. "Surely he can do his civic duty as a man and fetch some post while you tend to her."
"I can't..." Brittany whimpers. "Medicine confuses me. I would only make things worse. This was the only way. I had to take his place when he received the summons."
Santana's stomach sinks. "Does he know you're here?"
"Yes," Brittany tells her, voice still hushed. "He's sent some letters, I have them with me, here, but I ain't so good with words so..." she trails off as her eyes revert back to the ground. Brittany's embarrassed for even admitting such to someone so obviously well read. But there's a hope growing inside her heart, one that takes such strong hold she cannot in good faith let it go. Even now revealed as a woman, a traitor to the very flag they stand beneath, Santana has not gone to turn her in. She stands there, looking torn between doing so and staying. Brittany knows she must keep her here. Must appeal to some part of her, one she feels is buried beneath Santana's callous exterior and biting words so deep down inside the woman that perhaps it hasn't much seen the light of day in a while.
Brittany's seen a glimpse of it, in the way Santana's eyes softened ever so slightly whilst they talked. She needs to see that look back in those brown eyes again.
She needs it more than she thinks she's ever needed something before.
It frightens her, having everything placed so fragilely in the hands of someone meant to heal, yet so inclined to bitterness instead.
As their gazes meet again, Brittany is stunned to find the brown eyes before her so intrigued.
"You can't read, can you," Santana notes, her voice neither judging nor spiteful. She sounds… sad, Brittany thinks. A tinge of pity blooms inside Santana at the thought of Brittany being unable to read. To hold word from a home she obviously misses and yet cannot interpret. Illiterate, easily confused, and a woman at war. She really has no idea how Brittany has survived thus far in this camp. Though it would explain her obvious aversion to the bathing troughs out back.
Brittany lets out a sigh as she steps back and sits down atop the table once more. The look was gone again in Santana's eyes almost as quickly as it appeared. "It's all so confusing," she laments as she digs a handful of folded up paper from the pocket just inside her open jacket. She gingerly leafs through the letters, a wistful half of a smile on her lips. "I just wish I could hear his voice again. I was too afraid to ask someone to read them to me but...goodness!" Her head snaps up, eyes fixed upon Santana as a beaming grin pulls across her lips. Santana feels the hairs along the back of her neck stand to attention at the look directed her way. "You can read, can't you? You must being so smart! Could you read them to me?"
Santana hurries over, waving for Brittany to conceal the letters. "Put those away! If someone saw them—"
Brittany takes hold of one of Santana's hand between her own. Santana tries to tear her hand away but stills when Brittany speaks, ever so urgently, "Please Doctor, I need to know if my sister is all right. I don't have much to offer but if you—"
Santana can't take anymore of this, let alone continue to maintain her composure being so close to Brittany. "All right! Shh, I'll read them to you. Not now," she hisses as Brittany tires to hand the letters back to her. "Later. After supper, I have to go now."
"Wait, what about my contusion?" Brittany asks, touching a few of her fingers to the cap atop her head.
"Concussion." Santana corrects, brushing down the front of her apron. When she's satisfied it's perfect she looks back up at Brittany. "You're obviously fine." Though strange and missing some vital mental facilities. "Just a bit bruised from the scuffle. That'll look worse before it gets better," she motions towards the bruise along Brittany's temple. "But if you start feeling nauseous or dizzy come see me. Now go and please bathe!"
Brittany springs up from her seat and before Santana even knows what's occurred she's pulled into a hug. "Thank you! Thank you!" Brittany repeats, squeezing Santana tight.
Santana is sure she's dizzy. A combination of Brittany's vile odor and something else that muddles her thoughts so much she feels on the verge of fainting. She gathers her senses enough to swat at Brittany's arms, mindful of the sore shoulder. "Ugh, enough. Enough," she growls. "I already have to stand within range of your foul stench, lets not rub it all over me as well."
"I'm sorry," Brittany tells her, quick to release Santana and put a great deal of distance between them once she does. But the smile remains firmly planted on her face. "I'm just so happy you're going to help me."
"Yes, well... " Santana says, flustered as she straightens her apron once again. "Don't make a habit of it or anything. I'm trying to build a reputable reputation here."
"I think you're a wonderful doctor."
Santana's cheeks burn again. "I, uh—"
"And lovely too," Brittany adds with a warm smile. "May I use your trough for my bath?"
Santana nods absentmindedly.
"Oh, thank you!" Brittany beams, a skip in her step as she hurries to button up her jacket. "I promise you I will smell much better come tonight! Good day, Doctor!"
Santana stares, agape, as the strange woman ducks beneath the tent flap and practically flounces back into the camp. She has no idea what she agreed to, or why she can't quite move at the present.
All she can seem to think is that after all that, she still didn't even manage to catch the girl's real name.