Chapter 3
The Letters
It's nearing supper when Santana is finally able to leave the medical tent. The day had been surprisingly fraught with boredom after her encounter with the Pierce girl. She likens it to an encounter and not a meeting to stave off any agreeable connotations that may have manifested. Of which, she thinks, she's done a superb job of thus far. Far better even than her usual evening routine of keeping as far from Noah Puckerman as she possibly can. Dwelling on her thoughts finds her now, regrettably, within sight of the boy. And as if to add insult to injury she can see him giving her appraising looks from where he sits surrounded by his friends just down the path. Defting avoiding Puckerman she ducks into the next row of tents and is pleased to find the lane clear of men and therefore clear of any more ignoramuses. She truly wonders how her mother can think she'll ever find a suitable husband here. And for that matter why her father bothers introducing her to anyone at all. Not one man has yet to prove worthwhile let alone been able to carry on a conversation without his gaze wandering southward.
Insufferable, all of them. How other women allow such boorishness she doesn't understand.
The day she meets a decent man, she thinks she may be inclined to believe him a hallucination.
Thankfully the walk back to the tent she shares with her father is short. Their small quarters are just a few rows down from the medical tent they seem to find themselves in sun up to sundown. The regiment has yet to see battle but Dr. Lopez is intent upon being prepared for the inevitable.
That means sometimes rising as early as the soldiers out suffering through drills in the fields. Santana usually watches them as she eats her meager breakfast from the small table just outside her tent. They push along, some obviously far more equipped for what's to come than others. The stragglers sometimes prove amusing to observe. She wonders if Pierce is with them, and if so how she can withstand the grueling exercises. Have I watched her, unknowingly, running in those fields on those early mornings?
Santana rolls her eyes as the thought passes. She hardly cares what Pierce does during her mornings. She cares more to think of her own time, easily recalling the men who enter the medical tent after drill sessions, complaining of torn muscles, chest pains and the usual injuries attributed to the unfit. Tending to the truly hurt is her usual morning routine. Sprained ankles, broken fingers and the like. All quickly, and efficiently she might add, taken care of. Her father's scowl as he checks her work is always satisfying. With nothing for him to say, she knows she's done well.
As for the maimed beyond repair, the injuries like the boy from this afternoon with the stake through his foot – those are quick to remind her where she is, and what is soon to come. The severity of those wounds may be rare now, but soon they would be the norm. 'War is no place for a woman,' her father is always telling her. And while she scoffs inwardly and wishes to tell him otherwise she knows doing so will only have her sent straight home. She needs this opportunity.
No matter the horrors she knows she's soon to face.
For the time being she follows his command, explicitly.
She knows better than to question him.
He doesn't have the time to hear of her opinions. Nor does he need them when able-bodied men seem to foil themselves so obviously. It's good practice nonetheless; she just wishes he'd let her contribute more.
Santana is lost in her thoughts as she enters her tent. Her hands nimbly untie the apron around her waist as she steps toward her lone corner, tossing the linen gently to her cot. She can see her journal poking out from beneath her pillow and makes note to jot down the day's patients inside later. For now she wishes to—
"Hello, doctor!"
Santana jumps at the sound, quickly whirling on her feet. Her eyes instantly lock upon the two blue ones staring happily back at her from across the tent. She refuses to let them wander lower, to where the rest of Brittany's body sits, submerged beneath a soapy layer of water in the trough. Brittany sits up straighter, brushing her hands through a wet tangle of blond hair as she smiles over at Santana in greeting.
"I should smell a lot better now," she says, indicating to where a small pile of soap bars sits just along the edge of the trough. "Mister Hummel helped me find your tent and then he let me borrow some of his soap. He said I might need all of it," she giggles.
Santana works her mouth, willing her mind to manifest what she wishes to say faster so she can stop standing gaping like… like some crazed fool. With a shake of her head she turns from Brittany, quickly digging through a lower shelf on her bookcase for a spare towel. Once grabbed she tosses it blindly toward the trough.
"Oh, thank you," Brittany says, catching the towel and laying it to rest against the trough edge. "But I have my own."
"No," Santana tells her, still avoiding looking directly in Brittany's direction. Her gaze darts past a ribbon tied to the corner of her bookcase. It becomes her focus point, even as she gestures wildly to her side at Brittany. "You need to go, now! My father should be here soon."
"It's late isn't it," Brittany mentions, catching a glimpse of the sinking sun through the small part in the tent entrance. She looks down at her hands next, fingers significantly winkled beyond belief. Very late, she thinks and stands from her bath, careful not to splash any more water on the ground than she already has. With the towel wrapped tightly around her body she plucks the spare Santana threw over, using it to dry her hair. "How was the rest of your day?"
Santana's shoulders tense as she continues to stand with her back turned. "We are not having a conversation right now."
"Why not?"
"You're indecent and—"
Brittany sighs as she pulls on her trousers. "I think I'm mighty nice."
Santana chances a glance over her shoulder, relieved to find Brittany slipping into a shirt, the buttons already halfway done. She turns to face her, leaning her shoulder casually against the bookcase. With her arms tucked beneath her chest she continues, "and I don't even know your name."
Brittany's eyes seem to gleam playfully as she says, "But you already do."
Santana lets out a snort. "Your name isn't Bret."
"Oh," Brittany's grin falters, her cheeks growing pink. The smile comes right back though, wider than ever as she tells Santana, "I'm Brittany."
"Brittany," Santana repeats slowly. The name is fitting she thinks, sprightly, just like her. And she now, thankfully, also has ceased reeking to the high heavens. Santana dreads what must have become of her trough though. Unsalvageable, most likely.
Pity, as she'd just gotten used to it.
"It's nice to officially meet you doctor," Brittany says, stepping forward and extending her hand. Santana hates the way her face warms at the ease with which Brittany uses that term. She hesitates, starring down at the obvious offer of friendship. She doesn't want to shake Brittany's hand. The only hands she's ever clasped in greeting were those of people she's detested. Sweaty palms, limp grips, suffocatingingly fat fingers. She didn't want to touch any of them. Brittany's fingers seem harmless enough, and now blessedly free of filth. Bigger than hers, she notices, and so expectant. Trusting. Undoubtedly a dangerous mixture of sentiments.
Reluctantly, she slides her own palm against Brittany's, ignoring the way Brittany's face seems to glow as she shakes her hand tersely. After a brief fleeting moment and not a second more, Santana yanks her hand away, stuffing it back into the crook of her elbow.
"Don't call me that," she tells her gruffly.
Brittany's head tilts slightly in question. Upset. "Why ever not? You are one, after all. I mean—"
Santana closes her eyes, raising a hand to halt any more words that might tumble from Brittany's mouth. She's uncomfortable enough in this situation as is. She never thought getting the recognition she'd always wanted would leave her feeling so flustered and maddened. She's not like her father. She's yet to prove herself to him. "Just," Santana begins to say, opening her eyes to stare up at Brittany, beat and tired of this exchange. "Please, just Santana."
Her impatience must not have come across for Brittany proceeds to nod happily as she says, "All right. Santana it shall be then."
"Thank you, Bret," Santana croons cynically as she brushes past Brittany to drain the trough. "You can—" she begins to dismiss but her words are lost as Brittany speaks over her.
"Brittany, please. I'm not Bret right now," she corrects her softly, not at all deterred by the return of Santana's prickly nature. She doesn't quite understand the other woman, how she can be the kindest person one moment and turn completely into another the next. She was like two people. And Brittany thinks, perhaps they aren't so different in that respect. Bret is another part of her, one she invented but he existed, same as her. The difference, Brittany knows, is that she can control who she is. Santana on the other hand, she laments, seems in a constant struggle with herself. Trapped almost and unwilling to accept… well, she's not sure which part of her she's fighting with now. Santana's brow always seems furrowed a bit, even when she is just standing there.
It worries Brittany, seeing Santana so obviously at war with herself. They may not have known one another for long but Brittany thinks anyone could think the same of Santana. And while she knows she's not the smartest tool under the bed, she certainly has enough sense to know when someone isn't happy.
And Santana Lopez, Brittany has decided, is the unhappiest person she's ever had the privilege to meet.
And that includes the old cranky Lima baker who lost his shop to a fire thrice, both his sons to pox, his wife to another younger man and his health to a bottle of whiskey every other night. Which, frankly, makes her fear what must have happened to Santana to make her this way.
Santana rolls her eyes before focusing a bored stare Brittany's way. "If you're not Bret now then when are you?"
Brittany thinks on the question a moment, wondering the best way in which to answer. The way that would make Santana just a bit happier. As Brittany braids her hair she replies simply, with utmost truth, "when I'm not with you."
Santana's eyes lose a bit of their sting, softening ever so slightly. Brittany notices, smiling to herself. Santana isn't hard at all to understand, she thinks. She's scared. Though of what, Brittany doesn't quite know. She's sure she'll know soon enough; she's a patient girl. She'll wait. The prospect of a friendship, one even as seemingly impossible as this, is just something too precious for her to see lost. And she so does want to see the doctor smile, even if it's just once. She imagines it must be quite beautiful, just like the rest of her.
Brittany moves closer, keeping her thoughts to herself as she collects her old and soiled uniform from the floor. Santana bristles, shifting on her feet as Brittany stands upright again, tall and far too close for her taste. Brittany has her clothes tucked neatly beneath her other arm, that same insufferably worry-free smile planted on her lips. Dark eyes catch sight of the long braid resting just down a uniform-clad shoulder.
"Why not just cut it?" Santana asks, giving a quick flick of the tied blond hair. Her fingers knick Brittany's shoulder, the bruised and sore skin below aching in protest. Brittany flinches, pulling her shoulder away. Santana curses herself. "Damned. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Brittany tells her, giving her a small smile in return. "I know."
"Are you sure?" Santana asks, anxious.
Brittany nods then looks down to her hair, wanting to answer Santana's earlier question before it slips from her mind. Her expression grows solemn as she fingers the ends of her braid. "It's the last part of me that still makes me feel like a girl," she explains, meeting Santana's unsurprisingly bitter gaze once more. Brittany sighs, not knowing when it returned nor why. She continues, undiscouraged, "I don't want to lose that. I feel like I'll forget who I am if I did."
Santana feels it's stupid of her to keep it such an obviously feminine length. Brittany is just asking to be caught. And she'd say as much aloud if it weren't for her stomach suddenly deciding to churn uncomfortably at the thought of such a fate. She shifts on her feet, trying to ward the sensation away. It lingers though, more so as she meets Brittany's gaze once again. But instead of voicing her concern she lets out a harsh chuckle and says, "People don't forget who they are when they get a haircut."
"Not truly," Brittany replies, pensive. "I meant it more poetically."
Santana blinks, quieted by the admission. "Metaphorically, you mean?"
Brittany grins. "I think I know what I mean, it's my hair."
Santana lets out a groan, pushing past Brittany, careful not to pester the healing shoulder as she does. Her cot rests just a foot away and she plops down on it with a slight bounce. "So I take it you won't cut it then?"
"Unless I must," Brittany tells her, looking to the tent entrance and then back to Santana. The sun had already sunk beneath the hill. The shadows in the tent are far darker than they were just moments before. It will soon be supper. Soon she will hear word from home. She smiles over at Santana. "For now this shall do. I'd miss it if I cut it. Emily would be sad to know I'd lost it."
"Who?" Santana quirks a brow as she pulls out some matches from the box beside her bed. She ponders striking up her lamp, but decides against it. An inviting flame would only prolong this meeting further.
"My sister, remember?"
"That's right, the letters," Santana grumbles. "You still wish for me to read them to you?"
"Please," Brittany implores, appreciative. "If it's not too much to ask."
"I promised, didn't I?" Santana replies as she lies back on her cot. "Go, come find me after supper."
"Thank you doc—Santana, thank you Santana," Brittany tells her softly.
"Yes, I'm a saint, I know," she says and motions toward the exit with a lazy flick of her wrist. "Now get out."
Brittany frowns as she adjusts a new cap over her hair. She wants to ask Santana what could be bothering her so, but has a feeling she'd just tell her to leave once again. Wishing her well, she departs. The tent flap settles back into place as Santana listens to Brittany's retreating steps. When they finally fade she feels herself relax against the cot.
The silence of the coming night surrounds her, the tent now encompassed in similar darkness. Her father doesn't return as she assumed he would. Probably out with some whore, she thinks. He isn't very good at hiding his newfound affairs. She's lost count of the times she'd come into the tent during the day to find him entangled in some other woman's arms. When the cat's away, she muses, not bothering to complete her thought. Thinking of her father in any manner as such causes her stomach to stir repulsively. She feels her eyes have already suffered far enough.
Instead she lies there for a long while, just staring up at the tent above, imagining what the stars must look like outside but not caring enough to move. She's seen them before; they're hardly anything spectacular to her. And certainly not something to wish upon as she assumes Brittany must. It would be so like her, she thinks with a roll of her eyes. Santana's long given up hope in dreams and wonder.
They've done so little for her.
And yet astonishingly so much for people like Brittany Pierce.
Brittany always eats supper with Burt, when his time allows it. Tonight is no exception. They sit alone, as they always do, at his worktable, far from the bustle of the soldiers eating along the tent rows. Burt will entertain her with stories of home, and Brittany will listen intently, sometimes carving a drawing or two on his table with one of the many discarded nails lying about. It isn't that she is bored, quite the opposite in fact. She loves his stories. They deserve to be remembered. So just as all her favorite storybooks were beautifully illustrated, Brittany has set about doing the same for Burt. They aren't very good drawings, she knows, but Burt enjoys them and to her, that's all that matters.
Brittany's eyes are tracing a sheep she recalls carving a week or so ago. Kurt had wanted his own flock to save on money for cloth. She thought it sounded like a lot of extra work. Sheep are fickle. She'd told Burt she preferred looking after pigs. He laughed then, said something she can't quite remember but the memory makes her feel good, happy. It's the same sort of happiness she felt when speaking with Santana. It felt good to be herself.
"I still cannot believe Dr. Lopez allowed you use of his bath," Burt says as he picks up his bowl of stew, emptying the last of the broth down his throat. Brittany nods as she absentmindedly stirs her spoon slowly around her uneaten supper. She feels as though her thoughts are still back in the tent, unable yet to catch up with where she sits now. She can't quite shake Santana from her mind, nor does she wish to. She's never met anyone quite so… so angry. It was as if Santana was constantly on edge, waiting for the slightest provocation so she could unleash her sharp tongue. Brittany tired very hard not to upset her, so much wanting to see the would-be doctor relax inside her own skin. There were so many nuances to Santana she wanted to remember, the vulnerability in her eyes whenever she was praised, the tightening of her jaw whenever Brittany drew near. Why was she so uncomfortable? Had she ever had a friend? Someone at all to care for? So many more instances swirl in Brittany's mind and she tries touching upon them all, so afraid of losing them before they can find a home in her memory. They're all significant to her, even the smallest of gestures adding another piece to the puzzle that is Santana Lopez.
Because even though Santana is angry, she's also one of the most extraordinary people Brittany's ever met.
And Brittany really does hope they can become friends.
Burt watches her, curious of the pensive look on Brittany's face. He had expected some type of response from the boy, but Bret's always been the quiet type, so unlike his own son. He smiles, nudging Brittany until her blue eyes seem to lose their haze and focus upon him. "Have you heard a word of what I've said?" he asks with a chuckle.
Brittany blushes, shaking her head in apology.
"I said, I still cannot believe Dr. Lopez allowed you use of his bath," he repeats, this time amusement coating his once inquisitive tone.
"Oh, it wasn't him," Brittany tells him, voice once more lowered in Bret's favor. She takes a bite of her stew before replying, "It was his daughter."
If Burt's eyebrows could rise any higher he's sure they would fill in the missing spots of his hairline. "Santana? She allowed you their bath?"
Brittany hums in agreement, smiling as she sips at the broth. She puts her bowl down though when Burt's stunned expression remains planted on his face. Brittany grows worried. "Is that all right?"
"I don't see why not," Burt says when he finally shakes himself from his stupor. "But it's strange. That girl is as much her father as the sky is blue."
"But it's black now," Brittany notes. "And in the morning it shall be pink."
Burt chuckles. "I stand corrected."
"And she was kind to me," Brittany adds, smiling.
"I guess not all I hear about her is true then."
Brittany can't help it when she asks next, fretful, "What have you heard?"
"Things here and there," Burt says, eyes trained upon Brittany's, gauging whether he should continue or not. It is obvious just by the look in the boy's eyes that Bret has developed a fondness for the surgeon's daughter. Though to the extent of those feelings he's unsure. Perhaps Bret is more like Kurt in this regard. His son always seemed to be surrounded by a flock of woman, spoke highly of them in passing yet in any romantic regard simply closed up like trap, unable to do more than blush and excuse himself post haste. He could tell Bret the truth, that Santana was known just as her father was: ruthless, ill tempered, and much too smart for her own good. Kind was not a word ever uttered about her, let alone attributed. She was well mannered, of that he was sure, but generous? It was possibly even more improbable for her to offer Bret use of their trough than Dr. Lopez. Which only begged the question, what had Bret done to change her mind?
"Mister Hummel?" Brittany waves her spoon in line of his sight.
Burt snaps to, apologizing as he gives her a soft smile. "Sorry, I'm afraid the older I get the more memories I must dredge through."
Brittany doesn't let her hurt over his words show, simply giving him the façade of smile, encouraging him to continue.
"Santana's a strong-minded girl," he decides, happy when Bret perks at his words. "She certainly knows where she's going in life, it seems."
Brittany nods, finishing the last of her stew. Burt wonders if he can venture forward. If Bret will react just like Kurt at his next question. But before he can even open his mouth to speak, a trumpet sounds from down the row, signaling to the camp that evening chores are soon to begin.
Burt smiles over at Brittany. "I think you have some horses to tend to about now."
Oh no, Brittany thinks, paling. "I have to go," she announces suddenly, springing up from her seat. She collects their empty bowls hurriedly, tripping a bit as she tries to pull her legs out from beneath the table. Her shoulder is stiff as she hugs the bowls to her chest and she winces at the dulled pain. She doesn't care though; all she's focused upon is leaving as fast as her legs will carry her. She completely forgot it is her night to gather the horses. She just hopes Santana isn't too mad at her when she shows up late.
She was mad. Brittany found her sitting beside a dying fire just a few yards off from the medical tent. Santana isn't even sure why she waited so long, and she certainly had a lot she wished to tell Brittany once she did arrive. But all her gripes died on her tongue as Brittany rushed up, breathless, a stream of sincere apologies already flowing from her mouth.
"It's fine," Santana cuts her off before Brittany's face grows any redder. God, even her ears are turning pink, she notices. Nothing further is said as they sit down beside one another. The flames at their feet warm their legs; Brittany's are crossed in front of her whilst Santana's remain firmly tucked to the side beneath her skirt. The very picture of proud decorum. Brittany adds a bit more wood to fire, careful so as to not let the flames get too near. She settles back beside Santana; their shoulders are barely brushing and yet Santana can swear she can feel Brittany's body heat threatening to overwhelm her own. It's far too close for Santana's comfort but Brittany seems not to notice as she scoots closer, eyes bright and grateful. Her father's letters are peeking out from where they reside, safely tucked into the front pocket of the union coat she wears. Santana counts about five, dreading their length. At least she smells much better now, she notes. Gone is the stench of the century, replaced with the simple crisp smell of cleanliness. And a bit of grass, Santana thinks, spotting some fresh green stains on Brittany's knees.
Her skin crawls though, the feeling of being watched familiar to her. She doesn't have to look around to know the eyes of the soldiers at their own fires are directed toward her, questioning her position next to Brittany. She can practically hear their reproachful thoughts, wondering what the likes of her are doing beside someone as invalid as Pierce.
She's used to it though. They hardly bring her distress.
Ignoring their stares, she brushes her skirt down to cover her legs further as she turns to Brittany.
A smile, one formed of smug satisfaction, crosses her face when just over Brittany's shoulder she spots Puckerman. His mouth hangs open, wide as his eyes as he stares, stunned and affronted back at her. Pleased, she turns back to Brittany.
"I believe you left these," she says, smirking as she pulls from her pocket a small bag filled with the remaining soap bars.
"Oh!" Brittany blushes, taking the bag and hurriedly stuffing it inside her jacket. "I'm sorry I forgot them."
"As you should be. I'd rather not evidence of your visit continue lying about for my father to find."
"I apologize," Brittany tells her, hesitant to meet what she assumes is Santana's withering stare.
Instead her ears are met with the following quietly spoken instruction, "try to remember next time."
Brittany's head snaps up, bewildered.
"Well?" Santana says, growing uncomfortable beneath Brittany's wide stare. She motions toward the letters. "Let's get on with this, shall we?"
Brittany is quick to snap from her daze and pluck the letters from her jacket, laying them carefully down in her lap. The thoughtfulness with which she touches them causes a brow to quirk high on Santana's forehead. Even as Brittany hands her the first, she seems jarred by the other woman's obvious affections for their sender. A brief flash of envy flares up within her. To have such regards for her own father seems so impossible.
"He sent that first," Brittany explains quietly, fingers brushing over the small number jotted in the corner. "I may not be so good with letters but I know my numbers," she grins shyly.
Santana can't help but think the handwriting resembles that of a child. Again she feels a pang of sympathy for the woman beside her. She can't imagine what life must be like, unable to read let alone teach oneself anything of merit. It isn't any type of life she wishes upon anyone.
Expect maybe her father. He would certainly deserve it.
Brittany stares at Santana, hands clasped nervously in her lap. A large part of her wishes nothing more than for Santana to begin reading, and yet another part, a small insignificant piece of herself she tries so hard to disregard warns her otherwise. It whispers in her ear of horror. That the news can only be bad, and wouldn't she rather be ignorant of it all? Does she really want to hurt more than she already does? Could she be all right, if she knew the truth?
Yes, Brittany repeats to herself, taking a deep, stilling breath as she closes her eyes. She pictures her father, sitting vigilantly beside Emily. Her sister is pale, but the smile on her lips is bright, hopeful, as their father reads to her from Brittany's favorite tale. When she looks back up at Santana she's met with curious yet surprisingly warm brown eyes.
"Are you ready?" Santana asks, unsure of what just crossed Brittany's mind. She looked as if she was preparing herself for the worst, and yet the small smile that sprung to her lips spoke otherwise. Santana feels it's a losing battle, trying to decipher the obviously strange workings of Brittany's thoughts.
Brittany nods, settling herself comfortably in her spot on the ground. Her hands are still twitching but she's resigned herself to feeling nervous out of excitement, not anxiety. They're all right, she tells herself.
Santana begins unfolding the letter, mindful to hold it with a little more care than she typically would other letters. Brittany's eyes watch her hands work raptly.
"Thank you," Brittany whispers as Santana clears her throat to begin reading. Their eyes meet and Santana feels her cheeks warm under the indebted gaze. "Even if it's not all right, thank you for reading them."
Santana wets her lips, a half smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "You're welcome," she says, the words seeming foreign even as they leave her tongue. She doesn't remember the last time she's ever been thanked, let alone been able to return the sentiments. And while she struggles with this newfound feeling Brittany sits besides her, beaming, for that half a smile was surely a good sign. And what more it only makes her wish to see it again.
Santana focuses back on the letter, eyes instantly absorbing the neat, polished script of the penman. While Brittany may be enigma, her father is clearly an educated man, she thinks.
"What does it say?" Brittany asks, hesitant upon seeing the dark brow furrow. She fears the worst.
"Oh," Santana is snapped from her reverie. She glances over at Brittany, eyes squinted in thought. "It's just your father's penmanship is…well, it's exquisite."
Brittany grins proudly. "He's a very good writer."
"Why did he never teach you to read then?"
Her smile falters. "He tried," Brittany begins to say, eyes tracing over the pattern on Santana's blouse collar. Santana's hand instinctively moves to touch the spot, snapping Brittany's attention back up to her eyes. "I'm just not a very good student."
Santana squints more, enquiring, "Why?"
Brittany shrugs, a pink hue blooming across her cheeks. Embarrassed, she nods back to the letter. "Could you read it to me?"
Santana watches her for a moment, intrigued, before turning back to the letter. "Dated the fourteenth of August, Dear son," she reads, pausing as she gives a giggle. She looks over at Brittany. "I can see cleverness wasn't hereditary."
"I'm not smart like him," Brittany tells her evenly, expression hardened. "But I'm smart enough."
Santana stiffens, saying nothing in response before she continues reading. "We miss you back home. I know why you've volunteered and while I'm upset with your decision I must respect your choice to do so. I've sent word to Mr. Schuester in hopes you are in the same regiment. I await his response. Do heed my advice and keep well and safe. Find an ally, someone you can trust. Someone who is hopefully reading this to you at this very moment…" Santana trails off, a sinking feeling forming in her stomach.
A hand comes to rest over her forearm, Brittany's fingers brushing against her sleeve.
"I trust you," she says softly.
Santana swallows thickly, chest burning as she rolls her shoulders, desperate to shake away the sincere feeling creeping beneath her skin. She can't meet Brittany's gaze, but she can feel the blue eyes focused upon her face, urging her to read on. Repositioning the letter within her grasp she continues, voice quiet, "Know I only want was is best for you and your sister. Emily's spirits are improving, as is her health. She wishes to write to you but I am afraid you know why I must keep her from doing so. She could hardly restrain herself when she saw me writing. She sends her love, as do Apple, Tubbington, Clarence, King Benjamin, Daisy, Louie, that mouse you refuse to let me harm beneath the porch that I've forgotten the name of ("Pip!" Brittany interjects with a grin) and of course, myself. Send word home if you can. Come back to us soon. I love you, son. Keep safe, Pa."
Santana holds the letter for a moment, unbelieving of the promising words she's just delivered. It is clear Brittany's father cares for his daughter. Loves her beyond measure of doubt. Santana imagines a balding tower of a man, wishing nothing more than to sweep into this camp and steal his daughter back home. But it's obvious by his unspoken words he knows doing so would only jeopardize everything. And with restraint, he sends his words of welfare instead. Santana is sure Brittany did not catch on to everything left unsaid. How could she when she only seems to take things at face value? She wonders if Brittany knows just how upset he is with her. She wonders more if she should tell her.
"He wants me to leave," Brittany says as she takes the letter from Santana and hands her the next. "I knew he would worry, but not this much. It makes me sad."
Santana stares at her, incredulous. "How did you—?"
"He's my father, Santana," Brittany tells her. "You may have been speaking but it was his voice. I could hear him."
And Santana nods, a newfound respect acquired for the strange woman beside her as she takes the next letter and begins reading anew.
She makes it three quarters down the page before footsteps at her back halt her words.
"Good evening, ladies," Scott Cooper says by way of greeting as he comes to a stop behind the two women, wearing upon his face his usual expression of insufferable arrogance.
Brittany is quick to muffle her gasp, fearing the worst as she tugs down hard on her cap. He can't know, she's been so careful. Before Santana even realizes the move she's made, she reaches forward and places a hand atop Brittany's nearest knee. Scared blue eyes peek out from beneath the brim of her cap, locking upon her own. Santana gives her knee a squeeze and then turns her surliest expression up at the newcomer.
"You slay me with your originality," she drones, pleased when his face reddens and eyes flash with frustration. Santana clicks her tongue at him. "Can't get your fun elsewhere tonight? No, wait, let me guess. The whores have bored of your tiny prick, haven't they?"
Brittany stifles her chuckle into her hands.
Cooper's face burns hotter; his lips purse into a thin line.
"You may want to get that temper under control there," she notes with a smirk. "Lest the more myopic of boys confuses you for a harlot tonight."
"Enough," Cooper hisses, aware of the stares and ears tuned his way. He lowers himself some, bending so as to not be overheard. His eyes are steely, unnerving as they stare down into Santana's. She holds his gaze, willing her unease not to show as she continues wearing her bored façade. "You want to consort with the eunuch, fine!" he spits. "Consider this your last chance to do otherwise."
Something connects in Santana's mind then. What little annoyance he originally caused her increases tenfold, her irritation quick to manifest to fury. "It was you," she growls. "You scared the horses."
Cooper sneers down at her, "Good lot that did."
"Bastard," Santana shoves him away roughly. Cooper stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden strike. She moves to stand, but is stopped by a hand wrapping firmly around her upper arm. Brittany shakes her head, releasing Santana only once she settles back into place beside her. Santana turns back toward Cooper, scowling as she tells him, "Leave us."
"Gladly," Cooper snarls, straightening his jacket as he quits the two women and storms off toward his tent.
"I cannot believe him," Santana seethes as she turns to face the fire once more. "He could have killed you with that rash prank! Why hold me back?"
She turns to Brittany, wondering why the woman seems so quiet all of the sudden. Surely she'd want to chime in. Degrade the horrid boy who'd hurt her so. But Brittany is simply staring at her, eyes full of something far more than just simple appreciation. It frightens Santana a bit, to be honest. Makes her heart hammer in her chest, her fingers twitch.
Face heat.
Brittany touches her hand to Santana's knee, a smile playing across her lips as she whispers, "thank you."
Hotter yet. "He was being a twit," Santana grumbles, tossing a stick to the flames. They eat it eagerly, the fire burning as hot as she feels her skin has suddenly become. "How stupid of him, I can't imagine what else they've put you through."
"Usually silly things," Brittany answers. "Just last night they put a snake in my bedroll."
"They put what in your tent?" Santana exclaims.
"A snake, but don't worry," Brittany tells her quickly, smiling. "She's all right."
Santana blinks, astounded and disbelieving. "She?"
Brittany nods, contented. "Lucy."
"You… named the snake."
"Would you like to see her?" Brittany asks, genuinely excited. "She sleeps under the rock outside my tent."
"No!" Santana squeals suddenly, jerking back. At the raise of one of Brittany's brows she quickly composes herself, tucking some dark hair behind her ear as she says calmly, "I mean no, that's all right. Lucy can stay under her rock."
Brittany stares down the line of tents toward her own, a small smile on her face. "She's probably out to supper anyhow."
A comfortable silence envelops the two; Santana relaxing in her posture as she reaches down to the ground for the letter she hadn't finished reading. "Shall we see how Emily is now?" she asks Brittany with a gentle smile. The first real smile Brittany's seen grace her face. It elates her.
Brittany bounces upon the ground, nodding as she leans toward Santana to hear the latest.
The rest of the letters read much the same. An interruption from Puckerman halted the third and Santana was surprised he'd only wandered over to see to it they were all right. That and to arrogantly deliver the news that he'd personally seen to giving Scott Copper a matching shiner upon his own eye. Brittany grimaced at the information and Santana could instantly fathom why. Scott Cooper was sure to return the sentiments. And who knows what he'd plan this time. She shooed Puckerman away, promising to give him the verbal lashing his fists had seen to it that he now deserved. With him gone, and Brittany's once jubilant mood hindered she continued to read, hoping the letters would resume bringing only good tidings.
The fourth did. The crinkle of a smile came back to Brittany's eyes.
The last, though, brought a grim expression to her usually cheerful face. It was stark in contrast to what Santana had quickly grown accustomed to.
Brittany's eyes gleam wet with unshed tears.
Emily is once again in poor condition.
Santana rereads the letter as Brittany sits quietly beside her, poking at the fire with a mangled twig. It was dated merely two and a half weeks ago.
She hasn't been able to keep her meals down, and I fear a fever is soon to strike again.
It sounds like nothing but a common flu, and given Emily's age she was sure to have recovered by now. A month it's been, hasn't it, that's she's been sick? This isn't just any simple sweating sickness to be cured with bed rest and fluids. Could it have worsened since? Santana makes a mental note to herself to check into what could be ailing the youngest Pierce so. Any number of things, she ponders. Not a pox. At worst vomiting would suggest cholera, perhaps, but a cough no—
"Santana?" Brittany calls to her softly. Santana turns toward Brittany, giving a hum in regards to her attention. "I know I've asked a lot of you already, but if I could trouble you again I'd like to send word home. Would you write for me?"
Santana hands Brittany back her letters, biting her cheek as she mulls the request over. This was only supposed to last one night, whatever this was that had formed between them. Santana can't think of anything to define it; a friendship assumes too much, acquaintance too little. She despises this feeling of uncertainty that pools in her gut every time Brittany manages to hold her gaze. She knows what this is, and what more she thrives in it. Wants more of it if her request is any indication to go by. Santana thinks she should shake her head and be done with it. But Brittany's words echo in her head, I trust you. Trust isn't something anyone has ever given her before…
"Santana?" Brittany ventures, cautious yet pleading.
And Santana tells her, "of course," because really there is no other answer. She thinks it's worth it though, just to see the bashful expression on Brittany's face and the way the other woman tries so hard to contain her joy. She doesn't know what makes her say what she does next, almost as if some other part of her is in control of her mouth instead of her mind. But she doesn't regret the words. "And I'll teach you to read."
Brittany snaps her head back, astonished. "You will?" she asks. "Truly?"
"Yes," Santana tells her, a prideful feeling swelling deep inside her as she smiles almost shyly at Brittany. "And perhaps soon you may be able to pen your own letter back to your father."
Brittany's eyes widen, smile broad. "That would be wonderful!"
"But I must go now," Santana says quickly for Brittany appears to wish to launch herself into her again. And Santana feels one embrace today was sufficient enough. "Find me tomorrow night? In a timely manner."
"Yes, I won't forget! And thank you Santana, thank you!"
It's only after walking away, a tranquil smile on her lips that she realizes what she's agreed to. Her steps halt, expression falling. "Damn and fuck," Santana curses beneath her breath. What have I done?