AN: Hi all! Just wanted to add a note here with the song info for this chapter. Long, Long Ago was composed by Thomas Haynes Bayly way back in 1833. It was muy, muy popular... 10 years later haha.
Chapter 5
At a Precipice
Santana is regarding Brittany from a far, safe distance. Or at least to her it is, anyway. An entire field seems reasonable enough space. Two fields would have perhaps been better. Regardless, it certainly helps to ease the tightness she feels in her chest whenever Brittany draws too near. Santana can't explain the sensation; she equates it to what she imagines a palpitation irregularity must feel like in the heart of a distressed, and typically much older, patient. She's not old, nor is she suffering from immense and irreversible anxiety. A bit of stress is a given, yes, but this…. this is unexplainable.
Brittany is just…
Santana lets out an exasperated groan at the lack of thought that transpires after. And frankly she grows concerned at its absence. Words come easy to her. They are her fire with which to repel the world and those unfit to inhabit it. Yet for people like Brittany, for those she doesn't quite mind sharing this miserable world with, she's not a single complete thought in her mind.
Because she's not entirely sure what this is that's stirring within her. It's welcome and repellent. Confusing and yet so simple. It is just…
Brittany.
Thinking of the woman sends her back to the previous night. Everything is still sharp in her mind. Every angry word spat by her father rings harshly in her ears whilst every word of kindness whispered by Brittany feels imprinted upon her heart. She rolls her eyes at the sentiments spinning in her mind. Imprinted on your heart? Really? Who are you? Santana Lopez does not dwell upon the actions of others. Does not sit here, stalking them from a distance. She is merely observing, she tells herself. Curiosity is a natural thing and she needs answers. Brittany Pierce simply cannot be so… so wonderful.
Santana sighs, resting her chin atop her upturned palm.
She is wonderful though, she thinks. And good, and sweet and—
She stalls her rambles, wincing as she thinks of how easy it is to let her guard down around the other woman, to accept her help last night. Do it for you, Brittany told her then. How easy it was to believe in that conviction when she was with Brittany. It was a beautiful thought, but impractical. She's being sent home, there is no changing her father's mind on that matter.
Her hand throbs, the cut beneath her fresh bandages burning at the mere thought. Santana flexes her fingers, willing the pain to subside and the prickles along her skin to quell. She wishes it'd been her right hand that had befallen such an unfortunate fate. She favored her left. And no matter the drastic attempts of both her parents to force her to adapt to the other she always would revert back to what was natural.
Santana feels the same could be said for her rapport with Brittany. The moment she finds herself in the presence of the other woman it's as if all these meticulously built pretenses within her are lost. Easily. One smile from the blonde and Santana can't help but revert to the part of herself even she is surprised to know exists.
It scares her; how natural that part of her feels.
With her right hand she spoons up a bit of her cornmeal and takes a bite, tongue accustomed, yet objected, to the rough and bland taste. As she slowly chews she watches Brittany's company carry out their morning drills. Even from afar Santana can still spot the leggy blonde amidst the other men. She keeps in step, blends in with the best of them. She wonders how long they've been out there, running through the fields. Far before she ever sat down to eat her breakfast, that's for sure. It looks like grueling work. She feels stressed just watching them.
As if I could be any more stressed, she groans to herself.
Today started long before dawn broke across the camp. She was stirred from sleep even before the embers of the camp fires could fully burn out. Captain Briggs had suffered a seizure of sorts. It was over by the time they arrived in his quarters, the Captain short of breath but sitting upon his cot with one hand clutched tightly over his chest. He'd told them he was fine, swatting Dr. Lopez away when the man tried to inspect his eyes. Awaiting instruction, Santana observed from a few paces away. Captain Briggs had obviously not been getting much sleep recently. Large bags hung below his eyes, beard scraggy and skin limp in places it was otherwise usually taut. His hands were trembling, the quivers subtle but noticeable. He was fighting to keep them under control. The power of his strength evident in the contrast of white splashed across his knuckles. It was a familiar type of pain expressed on his features. Something he's had to endure before.
And something Santana believed he had done well to keep hidden for so long.
If her father were to diagnose him correctly it would only be a matter of hours before Captain Briggs was relieved of his position and sent to the nearest hospital. Epilepsy had the stigma of being considered irrevocably contagious. No matter how minor the case. Once diagnosed one was shipped off and promptly forgotten. Of what Santana's studied of the few patients her father had sent to such fates she thinks it was wrong of him to do so. They were mentally sound, perfectly healthy in all aspects of their life aside from this one thing it seemed they simply could not control. There were a few surgeons she's read of in Britain, trying to better understand this phenomenon. Of what she could recall it was a neural disorder, not something to be feared. Incurable but not spreadable. Often times debilitating but in Captain Briggs case, manageable. He had obviously lived well even given his disorder. She believed it was triggered by his sleep deprivation. He couldn't be blamed for the stress everyone was feeling.
"It's nothing," Captain Briggs grumbled when Dr. Lopez wished to examine him further. "Merely the worries of a captain for his ill prepared men. They aren't ready and we'll be called to arms by the weeks end, I promise you that! It's preposterous!"
Weeks end? Santana repeated in her head, eyes wide.
"Settle down," Dr. Lopez commanded, though Santana noted, with an air of resigned respect. "Your worries are doing nothing for their confidence."
The captain glared up at Dr. Lopez. "I don't worry before them. You think me stupid, doctor?"
"No, captain," Dr. Lopez replied as he stood back to his feet again. "I think you stressed."
Santana breathed a sigh of relief at his words. It seemed even her father realized the importance of keeping the Captain in his post. Release an infantry of their leader and the chaos that was so feared would surely descend upon the men. And in its wake; the beds of the medical tent would fill.
She could see her father shuddering at the thought of such a disastrous end.
Dr. Lopez tossed Captain Briggs one of the bottles of whiskey lying on his desk.
"No better way to get you rest then to down some good spirit," he explained as the Captain gave him a quizzical look.
"I'm not a drunkard, doctor," Captain Briggs barked.
"Consider it a prescription than," Dr. Lopez said with a shrug. "Until my supplies arrive this is all I can offer you."
They left shortly thereafter, her father not once speaking a word to her the entirety of the visit. She preferred his bitterness, she thought as they settled back down into their cots for the night. His silent indifference, nay his outright disregard of her entire existence, was not only petty, it hurt. She was nothing to him. Officially.
There was but one person in her life that's yet to disappoint.
The longer she watches her now the more Santana finds herself looking forward to their lessons tonight.
And it's only once she's finished her breakfast that she realizes she's been using her left hand for quite some time as well.
All day Brittany has been rushing messages, maps and instruments she's never seen let alone heard the name of till today, back and forth across camp. She's finally beginning to feel a bit exhausted by all the sprints she's pulled in the past two hours alone. Something is going on, serious enough to pull her away from her duties with Burt. She wishes to know what it could be but at the moment a message is handed over the flap to the tent she waits outside of is closed and she's sent on her way again. It worries her, what could have happened, or will happen, that has all the Captains and Colonels rushing to and from Major General Buell's tent.
Whatever it is can't bear very good news for the regiment.
Nor for the men, some of which she's come to consider her friends. Finn, Sam and Noah are sure to be on the lines. They hardly seem ready for war. They hardly seem ready for life if she truly is honest. Good music, good company, and good women. That's what they care to speak of. And at great length, Brittany muses as she recalls the bits of the night spent in their company that she can remember. Of what she does recollect are their songs. All upbeat pieces laced with melancholy lyrics. Nostalgia for home, lament for their futures. An acceptance almost, of what is soon to come. Brittany had danced without care alongside Noah, laughing with them.
She thinks it's how they cope and to her it is a far better way to spend one's time than how her tent neighbors spend their nights. She can always hear them, roused from her sleep late at night as they wretch into the dead grass behind the tents. She's not stupid, she knows they drink their fears away until all that's left is a numbed pain that even their bodies cannot sustain. Hearing them, so hopeless, she whispers a prayer for their strength.
She whispers one now as she jogs back down the main path, hoping her mother can hear her breathless words. A prayer to keep as many men safe as she can. To give them courage. She runs past the medical tent for what feels the hundredth time today and her stomach falls as she thinks of what the news could mean for Santana.
"Bret!" Burt's voice calls for her from down the row. She spots him, hobbling over quickly and she hurries to meet him before he can exert himself further.
"Yes sir?" Brittany asks of him with a respectful tip of her hat. Her cheeks burn when she realizes she's addressed him much the same way she's been addressing so many this afternoon.
"Bret, what have I told you about the formalities?" Burt says with a chuckle.
Brittany gives him an apologetic smile as she tries again, "Yes, Mister Hummel?"
"I know the General has kept you pretty tied this afternoon so I hope you're free for a bit. I've got some great news," Burt tells her as he rests an arm over her shoulders and steers her toward the camp entrance. For a fleeting moment Brittany thinks perhaps her father has come. It elates her, simply imagining his face as she runs into his arms. But the image is quick to dissipate. He'd never come. He'd never risk her safety like that.
"What is it?" she asks, her voice far less enthused than the usual excitement Burt is used to at such a pronouncement.
"Well, nothing to be so sour over that's for sure," he replies, nudging her side as they walk. "The trains arrived in Lexington a few days ago, bet you can guess what was on board."
"Feed!" Brittany exclaims, smile wide. She can't believe their good luck. "Please tell me they've hay?"
"Tons and tons," Burt grins. "The wagons should be pulling up soon, help me to unload?"
"Of course!"
Burt is spot on. Yet Brittany thinks 'tons and tons' of hay doesn't even seem to cover it. At least a dozen wagons pull up to the camp containing feed for the horses alone. The cavalry soldiers are beyond ecstatic, some even clapping Brittany over the shoulder in glee as they scoop some of the fresh hay into their hands and feed it to their eager horses. Brittany is thrilled, watching the teams as they pull cartloads of feed away and back toward the cavalry barracks. Even as she forks more of the hay down into awaiting soldier carts she can see more wagons heading down the road.
Boots, coats, rations, muskets, you name it. The shipment couldn't have arrived at a better time.
Except for perhaps one member of the regiment. And as Brittany thinks what the caravan's arrival could mean for Santana, her stomach sinks for the second time today.
The moment Santana hears the shouts from outside the medical tent she knows. Her father never says a word, merely stares expectantly at her whilst a soldier runs in to relay the news of the caravan to him. As the soldier leaves Santana remains standing, meeting his gaze evenly. Dr. Lopez's eyes narrow into her own and she swallows down her nerves as he strides over.
"I believe you know what need happen now," he says to her, voice devoid of any inclination of emotion.
Santana wills her heart to stop beating such a painful rhythm against her ribs. With as much strength as she can muster to her voice, she tells him, "I'm not leaving."
One brow rises along his forehead. "Are you questioning my decision?"
Santana holds her position, even as he takes another step toward her. "This isn't your decision to make. As an adult I am free from your will. If you force me to desert my post it will reflect badly upon you and I'm sure the General would be none to pleased to hear of you disservicing his regiment."
When her father takes the final step Santana holds out a hand, pressing it straight over his chest. He looks surprised by the move, eyes darkening as Santana gives him a gentle push back.
"I'm not leaving," she hisses at him. "You need me even though you're too proud to admit so."
Dr. Lopez chuckles, it's a deep, stabbing sound and does nothing to quell the heated blood rushing painfully through Santana's heart. "I don't need you."
"Maybe not," Santana counters, expression hard as her eyes dart to the few patients sitting nearby. "But you can't deny that they do."
Dr. Lopez says nothing for a moment, merely staring down at his daughter, willing her to break as she did the night before. But he sees nothing of her earlier fear reflected back in those brown eyes, eyes so similar to his own he forgets sometimes just how much alike they truly are. He'd never admit it, let alone give her the satisfaction of knowing he ever thinks of her in such regard. She's been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment she was brought into this world and the midwife had told him his wife would never bear him another child. He'd never get the son he wanted. Needed to succeed him. Everything he's built for this family was so that his son could see to it the name carried on; that the worth of his life was not lost.
And yet there he was, holding that little girl instead, all his hopes dashed in favor of a future filled with dresses and mindless frivolity. A daughter who could never amount to anything aside from being the wife to a wealthy man, and that was only if he was lucky. He could not dote upon her, not give her the life she'd stolen from his would-be son. She was his wife's to deal with; from that day on he wanted nothing to do with her.
As he looks down at that girl now, he thinks how wrong he was. Santana was never one for fawning over the frivolities in life. He is stuck, stuck with a daughter who seldom listened and seldom yet held her tongue. Who challenged him whenever she felt he'd overlooked something he hadn't the patience to think further upon. Who kept him in business with the kindness bestowed toward his patients as they parted.
She is so much like him. What more, she is the absolute best of him. And that is what pains Albert Lopez most.
His daughter is everything he could hope for in a son, more.
And for that, he can never forgive her.
"Dr. Lopez?" she ventures, voice still hardened yet the bitterness evidently subdued. He nearly flinches at the honorific she uses. He's forgotten the last time she ever deemed to call him her father, and not in mockery. No matter, he thinks. She's merely giving him what he wants. For now he will relent.
She'll break soon enough.
"Stay if you must," he says, brushing roughly past her. He collects a few empty boxes from the floor, tossing them into her chest as he adds, "Besides, your mother would castrate me if I let you leave on your own. Go see to it the supplies arrived safely. Surely even you are capable of such a menial task."
Santana can hardly contain the prideful grin that wishes to pull across her face. Instead she musters her most stoic expression as she arranges the boxes in her arms and gives her father a curt nod.
When Brittany catches sight of Santana, standing beside a few nurses as they unload the wagon filled with their much-needed medical supplies, she can't help the way her heart fills with delight. She's never seen Santana look so pleased, so relieved. She isn't being sent home. It is only natural then that as Santana turns, arms full, that her gaze comes across that of Brittany's. They share a smile; Brittany's bright and overjoyed, Santana's demure and grateful. Yet their eyes reflect the warmth each feels wrapping about their hearts.
We'll be all right, they each think, hoping the other can somehow hear their silent wishes.
Santana sits at the table just outside the medical tent; a few oil lamps in need of more fuel flicker meager light down upon her from the entrance posts. They have enough, she knows, more than enough after the shipment arrived earlier this afternoon. But she's too engrossed in her reading to get up and fetch some more. Ever since her earlier lesson with Brittany ended (the blonde called away on errand) she's been perched upon this bench, nose absorbed in the new edition journals she pulled from her father's delivery. He'd skimmed them of course, as he always did. She was thankful there wasn't a hearth in their tent otherwise she's sure he would have tossed them to the hungry flames once he'd finished. She'd exhausted every book she and her father had brought, along with a few others she was able to borrow from the nurse aides in search of an answer to Emily's plight.
She's already come to the conclusion it must be Tuberculosis— consumption as it was still known to most. Her symptoms are quite in line with the progression of the disease. For every patient her father has ever diagnosed the treatment was always the same. Be sent to the local sanatorium and pray to god you were lucky enough to live. Santana is sure Lima has no such facilities, and with winter fast approaching moving Emily at all would prove a fatal mistake. She hopes she can pull some new knowledge from one of the journals, but thus far they all read the same. She feels so long as Emily is stable then the case has not progressed to the more rapid, detrimental strain of the disease. The one sure to bring pneumonia quickest and thus death swiftly thereafter.
The best she could do was to be sure Mr. Pierce was well acquainted with what is ailing his daughter. And that he is smart enough not to enter her presence without use of a mask. As she writes such in a letter she makes sure to slip a few extra masks into the envelope for him.
She wonders with a heavy heart how she'll ever tell Brittany.
Santana is beginning to fold the letter when she gives a yelp as a pair of warm hands clasp over her eyes and even warmer breath brushes against her ear.
"Found you," Brittany giggles softly.
"Dios mio! Brittany!" Santana breathes, clutching her dress above her heart in a futile attempt to cease its rapid beats. Brittany slips into the spot beside her, arms folded across the table as she smiles over at Santana. Santana regains her composure, stuffing the envelope into a book as she tilts her head with a squint over at her intruder. "Come to frighten me or is there a purpose to your teasing?"
Brittany smiles and Santana feels herself relaxing under the tender gaze. "Come dance with me," Brittany requests, holding her hand palm-up toward Santana upon the table.
Santana blushes, eyes cast down to the books scattered across the tabletop. "I can't, I really must—"
"If I were to tell you tonight was our last night to live," Brittany interrupts, yet quietly so. Something about her voice pulls Santana's attention up, eyes locked with the shinning blue pair in front of her. Brittany slides closer, hand just brushing against Santana's own as she asks. "Would you dance with me then?"
Santana wants to shake her head, to tell Brittany how frivolous it'd be to dance with her when she has so much she needs to tell her instead. And what of tomorrow? She needs to be well versed in the newest nurse pamphlet that had come, even if everything it contained was laughably antiquated. The nurses will need to know otherwise, be taught differently. Better methods. Cleaner. Safer. Who knows what will face them tomorrow if they are not prepared, or the next day for that matter. Called to arms by weeks end! She needs to be at her best, needs to be ready to do this on her own, for the first time without fear of her father's wrath.
Just as Santana begins to collect the words of her protest upon her tongue Burt's voice fills her head. Enjoy it while you can, Miss Santana. The peace won't last for much longer.
Brittany's smile doesn't wane as Santana sits, still and thoughtful staring back at her.
After what feels a small eternity Santana licks her lips, shrugging as she tells Brittany, "I suppose one or two dances wouldn- Brittany!" She squeals as the taller woman gives a joyful holler and pulls both of them up to their feet
"Come on! The boys have already started!" Brittany tells her, hand clasped with Santana's as she pulls the other woman gently down the row. Santana stumbles a bit, Brittany quick to steady her as they fall into step beside one another. Santana looks up at Brittany, the blonde smiling down at her as she says, "you'll love dancing with me."
Santana laughs. "So sure of yourself, are you?"
"I am," Brittany tells her and Santana is amused to note, it is an honest admission.
"Well, well, if it isn't Miss Santana, the frigid queen herself, come to grace us with her wintery presence," Puckerman announces as the two women finally make it over to the boys' fire. Finn scoots down on his log, patting the space beside him as he grins shyly up at Santana.
"No thank you," she says, nose scrunched as she eyes the log with distaste. "I'd rather sit in the dirt than share that twiggy stick of a seat with you."
"San," Brittany admonishes softly. "Be nice."
Santana bristles at the appeal, but relents, giving a huff as she perches herself as far from Finn on the short log as she can.
"I'm Finn Hudson," he says warmly, extending a hand in greeting.
"I'm aware," Santana nods, purposely ignoring his offering of peace because, "You were in my tent three weeks ago. Bee sting on your hind if I do recall."
Finn's face turns redder than the embers in the fire, if possible. "N-no," he sputters, laughing nervously. "Must have been some other Finn Hudson."
"No," Santana corrects him, smirking as she tells him, "I think I know a giant oaf when I see one. And certainly when they're turning the same color now as they did then."
"A song!" Finn declares, springing to his feet. "How about that song Evans, eh? Yeah? The one you were itching to play? How about that one?"
"About the bumble bees, right Finn?" Sam asks, trying to mask a chuckle with an ill-timed cough.
"Ah, give him a break," Puckerman says with a wave of his hand. "Miss Santana is just pulling your leg Finn, she doesn't care one bit about seeing your naked ass."
"I can confirm this," Santana agrees.
"I'd like to hear the song," Brittany supplies, hoping to steer the evening back on course and alleviate some of Finn's obvious embarrassment. She gives Santana a look, one Santana can only equate to what Brittany must throw at Tubbington when he's being a naughty kitty. It makes her feel a bit childish now and she sits straighter upon the pathetic log, giving Brittany a smile, showing her just how well she can get along with these ridiculous boys.
"Anyway," Sam says. "I'm Sam Evans, and we're happy to have you join us tonight, Miss Santana. If there's one thing we've been missing since comin' out to Mackville it's the company of a sophisticated lady."
Santana thinks Sam isn't half bad as she gives him an appreciative nod of her head.
"This one here won't shut up about 'cha." Finn smirks as he gives Puckerman a friendly shove.
Puckerman glares at Finn for a moment before turning his usual suave expression Santana's way. "Only the best of things I assure you. You are, after all, the finest woman in this regiment. And I know my fine women."
Santana rolls her eyes, speech already spilling from her mouth before she can even hope to stop herself. "There's only five of us Puckerman," she begins, counting the numbers off upon her raised hand. "Myself, two nuns, the fourth suffers an unfortunate face pox and the fifth of which I believe has just ducked into your neighbor's tent for what I assume shall be some mutual horizontal refreshment and not to end in some type of monetary exchange. So really, your flattery does nothing to entice you in my minds eyes, as really there is no comparison to be had and therefore just your desperate attempts to yet again woo me into some type of pining stupor. Which, as you are well aware by now, shall never happen lest I am lobotomized and therefore incapable of relieving myself let alone retaining conscious thought. And as the finest woman in this regiment I must really ask that you cease giving me such easy circumstances with which to ridicule you because as much as I enjoy degrading you and bringing you down to the lowliest of the masculine tribe it's not only embarrassing to you it's also upsetting to Bret. And frankly, not worth it."
Brittany gives a sigh once Santana's finished. The rest of the boys, save for Puckerman, stare, astounded at her.
Puckerman groans, smirking Santana's way as he gives Sam's shin a soft kick. "Song?" he prods.
"Right!" Sam says, his attention snapping to his violin. As he begins the first few notes to a song, Finn humming along with the tune as his own mind finally shakes free of his stunned state, Brittany extends her hand out to Santana. And this time Santana notes, none to gently.
"That wasn't very nice," Brittany whispers as Santana takes her hand.
"I'll apologize," Santana tells her, allowing Brittany to pull her up to her feet.
"Nicely?" Brittany implores.
"I promise," Santana gives her a smile. It falters and her breath hitches when Brittany rests her second hand unexpectedly on the curve of Santana's waist. It takes Santana a moment to recognize the dance, her eyes rooted down to Brittany's feet as she watches the boots glide in step to the strum of the fiddle. A simple waltz, something even she should be capable of following.
Brittany pulls her a little closer, "Is this all right?" she asks, grinning through her whispered words. Santana looks back up at her, surprised to find all traces of Brittany's disappointment gone, replaced with a look she can't quite recognize.
She nods numbly as Brittany sweeps her around and back in into step, all flourishes of womanly grace supplanted with gentleman charm. Bret Pierce at his finest. She hopes the boys don't notice the blush upon her cheeks, even if Brittany must. If the courier does she says nothing, merely leading them through the dance, a wistful smile upon her face all the way.
Brittany is thoroughly enjoying herself. She knew she would. That was never a question. But to see Santana enjoying this as well? Brittany is beyond elated. She's been hankering to share a dance with Santana for some time now. God knows she's dreamed of this very moment nearly every night since she's met the woman. She always knew Santana would make an excellent dance partner. The best she's ever had the pleasure to share. And frankly the best lookin' too. And while she enjoys the time they spend together during her lessons this is something quite different. Not better, no. She cherishes their evenings reading by the firelight. This is different in another way. One she's fairly sure she is beginning to understand and what more, whole-hardheartedly accepts.
Storybooks were never wrong after all.
Though she's starting to think perhaps more than one prince may have been a farm girl in disguise too.
Their cheeks were just too rosy.
And as she pulls Santana closer, the shorter woman's breath hitching once more, Brittany wishes Sam never ceases playing.
She doesn't want to let Santana go.
But time is ever present and the song ends far too soon for both their taste.
Puckerman watches curiously as they come to a stop. He nudges Finn, nodding toward them.
"You're an excellent dancer," Brittany tells Santana as the song fades and Bret gives her bow in thanks. Santana hasn't even realized the music has stopped until the telltale crackle of the fire meets her ears and nothing more. She shakes herself from her daze, cheeks still warm as Puckerman approaches.
"Care enough to allow the lowliest of the masculine tribe a turn?" he asks, a smile and not a smirk for once upon his lips. And she takes his hand, the apology evident in her eyes as she allows him to lead her through the next song.
The hours pass quickly for the group. Time is lost as they indulge in this last stand. By the end of the night, Santana's feet are tired, so she sits on the ground, back resting against the log as she shares a rare bottle of bourbon with Finn. They watch Puckerman and Bret, sweat dripping from their faces, as they dance vigorously on. Eventually Puckerman falls exhausted beside Santana, laughing as he steals the bourbon from her hands and chugs a good portion down his throat.
"Easy now," Sam warns him, snatching the bottle away and hiding it behind his own spot on the ground. The fire is dying, the flames barely licking into the air as he plays a few last notes and declares, "One more song and call it a night?"
"I think Miss Santana should be the one to take us into sleep tonight," Puckerman jests, nudging her shoulder.
She shoves him aside and with a shake of her head tells them, "I think not."
"Everyone else has favored us with a song," Finn points out. He turns to Brittany, disoriented from drink and smirking lazily. "Except for Bret. I still don't know how you can't remember one song."
Brittany shrugs as she plops beside Sam, grinning as she pleads, "Yes, one song San, please?"
Santana squirms under the attention, uncomfortable, head buzzing from the alcohol as she says, "I only know a few."
"Only need one," Sam smiles.
"You mustn't laugh," Santana warns, hugging her legs to her chest. When they all swear she asks Sam, "Do you know 'Long, Long Ago?'"
He doesn't answer, merely striking up the familiar chords that still Santana's heart and bring chills to her skin. She hasn't heard the song in ages, merely recalls it from her childhood. Her parents were never ones to dote upon her let alone sing her a song but this one seemed even their cold hearts could not escape. For an entire summer she could hear them humming it; her mother as she attended to the household chores and her father as he balanced his ledger in his office. She would sit in their front room, singing softly to herself as she fashioned new dresses for her doll. It was the greatest summer of her life.
The closest she's felt her family ever came to happiness. All due to one simple song.
Her eyes meet Brittany's across the fire as she starts to sing, "Tell me the tales that to me were so dear. Long, long ago. Long, long ago."
Brittany's only ever heard a few people sing in her life. The first being her mother. She'll never forget her voice. It is so ingrained upon her memory only an act from God himself could pry it from her thoughts. The rest, they were forgotten. A song sung here or there at a local dance, hummed along a street corner. They were fleeting. Easily consigned to oblivion. Listening to Santana now, Brittany thinks it would take more than God to make her ever forget this. Even when Sam joins in, Brittany hears only her. She feels the words being sung as if they were meant for her ears alone. So she listens and watches, spellbound and smitten with the voice of the woman she's sure she feels more toward than she should. But it feels right, the longing in her heart and warmth in her belly.
Santana Lopez is something else, and Brittany Pierce thinks she doesn't quite mind falling for someone so wonderful.
In fact she embraces it.
The last notes of the violin echo into the silence of the camp as the song ends. Puckerman and Finn clap, mindful to keep their enthusiasm at an appropriate level. Sam praises Santana with kind words. She doesn't really hear any of them, not with Brittany staring at her so. She remains, unable to move under the intensity of those piercing blue eyes focused upon her own. She sees in them something that makes her breath still and legs tremble beneath her hold. And just as quickly, Sam claps Brittany on the back, shattering the gaze. Yet the feelings continue to burn deep inside Santana long, long after.
Brittany offers to walk her back to her tent whilst the boys stay to tidy the fire pit. They meander slowly, neither quite wanting to leave the other just yet. Santana wishes to ask what was on the other woman's mind, especially why she stared at her so. But she keeps silent, comfortable in this moment together. Brittany is grateful for it. She's not sure how she would even begin to explain what just passed between them. And especially when every time their hands brush as they walk now, she feels a bit of that spark that coursed through her earlier as they danced.
"Here we are," Santana announces as they stop a few paces from her tent. They can each see the soft glow of a lamp still burning inside, both dreading what Santana's late arrival could mean. "I'll be fine," Santana says before Brittany can even voice her concern. She smiles softly up at Brittany, "go get some sleep."
Brittany is hesitant to leave her, especially when her eyes lock upon the bandages still wrapped around Santana's wounded hand. She gives sigh, "if you're sure."
Santana nods, "I am, but thank you."
"I still want to pay you back, for what you did."
Santana shakes her head. "Consider it a gift, that money is as much his as it is mine. We both earned it and Emily needs it more."
Brittany bites her bottom lip, willing the tears in her eyes not to spill. Santana moves to reach forward, but pulls back, wringing her hands near her waist to keep them from where they desire to be; brushing the tears that now fall down Brittany's cheeks.
"Don't cry," Santana whispers.
"You've done s-so much for me," Brittany tells her, voice hushed yet cracking with emotion. "I've nothing to give you in r-return."
Santana smiles, "you gave me a dance."
Brittany chuckles, wiping the water collecting in her eyes. "It was four, actually."
Santana shakes her head, an amused grin spreading across her face. "Thank you, for the four dances then."
The smile is quickly wiped from her lips as Brittany takes hold of her hand, and in the perfect picture of a gentleman gives a bow and presses a kiss over the back of her bandage. Her blue eyes flicker up, smiling at Santana, "They were my pleasure."
Santana feels a different type of burning sensation bloom down through her palm. And she is unable to regain her wits, simply staring, mouth agape as Brittany stands upright once more.
"Goodnight, San," Brittany tells her as she releases Santana's hand.
The motion snaps Santana back to present; her cheeks flushed a deep red as she stammers out, "G-goodnight, Brittany."
With one more smile exchanged Brittany heads off toward her tent, Santana watching her go until she can't even see her head bobbing along the rows of tents anymore. She enters her tent, unknowingly with a similarly faraway look upon her face.
Dr. Lopez lets out a groan upon seeing it and his daughter acting so… so foolish, he thinks. "Why must you always sneak off with the least suitable suitor here?"
Santana ignores him, shrugging as she plops down upon her cot and settles beneath her blankets. Nothing will take tonight from her, not even his vicious words.
"If you must be seen with anyone at least someone who won't embarrass me further. Even Hudson will suffice."
Santana lets out a scoff that quickly dissolves into chuckles at the thought of Finn Hudson ever being suitable for anyone let alone herself. She's about to reply in kind when shouts are heralded from outside.
Shouts specifically calling for the medic staff.
Panicked.
Dr. Lopez springs up from his chair, grabbing his coat and emergency kit as he dashes out through the tent. Santana sprints out after him, her own kit clutched in her hands. She's not prepared for what meets them as they run toward the ruckus of sound and bright lamps making their way hastily toward the medical tent. A trail of blood follows some men being dragged along the ground, open wounds rendered deep into the flesh of their sides.
"Get them inside!" Dr. Lopez orders, motioning them into the tent as he hurries to aide a man who clutches at his organs to keep them from spilling out of the bloody cavity in his body. Santana can't move as she watches the dozen some men get carried inside, all ashen-face, broken and... and dying.
"Why are you standing there?" her father shouts her way. Santana meets his gaze, his usual steely reserve forgotten in place of the frantic alarm that has seized the camp. "Help them!"
She's in motion in an instant. The medical tent is a frenzy of activity as they each tend to separate patients, desperate to keep the men alive. Of what the soldiers able to speak have told them there was some type of ambush near the river. The confederates were close, much closer than even they had imagined. She hurries to stitch a soldier's side, careful of the bullet holes still leaking blood down upon the cot.
"San?" A familiar voice rings through the chaos and Santana's head snaps toward the owner. Her heart beats faster yet as Brittany runs over, blue eyes never once venturing down to the soldier dying below her. "Found you," Brittany manages a smile through the queasiness she feels overwhelming her stomach.
"What is it? Have you news?" Santana asks hurriedly as she refocuses down upon her patient.
"They're sending me out, I haven't much time," Brittany tells her. Santana's heart does more than punch against her chest; it feels as if it's burst at that news. She begins shaking her head even as Brittany rushes to say, "I don't want you to worry for me. I'll be back soon. I promise."
And with that Brittany is gone, sprinting back out the tent before Santana can even say a word. She wants to rush after her, scream at her, at whoever has tasked her with this obviously treacherous mission. She's frightened, so much so her hand begins to shake as she tries to thread another stitch through the man's skin. Brittany is never sent out in the middle of the night.
And certainly not on the brink of a battle.