Chapter 6
Call to Arms
October 7th, 1862
The fight had broken out over water resources. Water. Water that has been flowing down the nearby river uninhibited, without fault, for centuries. It is preposterous, Santana thinks. Of what she's come to know from the gossip she's overheard the nurses' exchange, Major General Buell was already being pressured to take aggressive action and this only cemented his next move sooner. As of now he is still awaiting orders. Orders Santana is sure Brittany was sent to fetch. What word could she possibly need to deliver when everyone at this camp already knows that battle is imminent?
The terrified look she catches upon the men's faces as she passes says enough.
She also thinks her own expression must appear no different.
Brittany's been gone little over a day yet the despair upon Santana's face would seem as though she's been missing weeks. Her unchecked worries are nearly as preposterous as the water crisis, she thinks. Ill-timed, ill-advised and leaving her erroneously ill-tempered. She was almost consumed by a mild panic earlier just imagining all that could bechance Brittany at that very moment. The nurse on the receiving end of her viciously impatient words nearly dissolved into tears.
It was not a proud moment.
Afterward she tried not dwelling on thoughts of the courier. Still tries, even now. There is so little known about where she's gone and Santana hasn't the chance yet to inquire further. The medical tent has been a flurry of activity since the night previous. The certainty of battle has already driven many men straight into awaiting cots. Fatigue, stress, and bouts of debilitating nausea suddenly rampant. There is a thickness upon the air, a dreadful tension suffocating those in the camp. It's hard to ignore when she too feels it filling her lungs and threatening to render her inept. She is thankful for her pride though; it is physically impossible for it to let her fail. Even now it is as if her body has taken control of itself with her mind in such a frayed disarray of thoughts.
Her father keeps her working straight through meals, the injured soldiers requiring both their undivided attentions. She's averse to think what will happen when instead of a dozen it's near a hundred men who will lie in need of aid in this tent. They'd already lost four of the soldiers during the dawn hours; two more are nearing the brink now. Thankfully the rest are stable for the moment though their outlooks bleak. There is only so far medicine can go. Only so many hands to help. Their regiment has yet to be sent to battle and thus has yet to be assigned more medics.
They need aid.
Santana knows that is soon to change though. And again she must quell the anxiety pooling in her gut at the thought.
Major General Buell already came in to give the boys his regard, face sullen as he thanked them for their bravery. Santana didn't quite understand why they were being thanked for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she wasn't in a position to say anything. It was odd enough having such a decorated head stationed in their camp, let alone one who felt the need to interface with his men. She assumes he's been posted here for safety, of all the other camps in the surrounding hills theirs was by far the most secluded. Or was, anyway. Thoughts of the skirmish aside she worried for the injured men, for the facades of strength they put on as they shook their General's hand. The moment he left the groans and cries of their pain were swift to consume them, nurses working hastily to ease them into dreamless slumbers once more.
The tent is quiet now. Unnerving so.
Her dress and apron are smeared with the blood of the men everyone knows won't make it through another night. She feels it, sinking into her skin, embedded beneath her fingernails, begging to addressed. Washed away and forgotten.
Their graves are already being dug out back.
By late evening only two of them remain alive. The stench of death heavy in the air. A fate Brittany too could be facing soon...
Santana can stand it no more.
"I'll be right back," she says hurriedly to the nearest nurse before untying her apron and tossing it to an empty cot nearby. The nurse gives a nod, understanding as Santana rushes out the tent. She draws fresh air deep into her lungs once she's outside, chin turned up to the darkening sky. It's calming and her body unwinds as she slumps against the nearby table. She needs this, she thinks. To just escape for a moment and collect herself. She forces herself not to think, to simply breathe. Be. Once composed, she looks out across the quieted camp. A few soldiers pass, giving her respectful tips of their caps. She recognizes one as Sam. With a raise of her hand she gives him a halfhearted wave. As she does her eyes catch on the bandage still meticulously wrapped around her palm.
Her stomach twists.
She pushes away from the table almost instantly.
She needs to see Burt Hummel and takes off toward his tent at once.
If there is one person in this infantry whom knows where Brittany has been sent, it will be him. As she enters she finds him sitting at his worktable, his supper untouched and cooling upon the surface. A pang of hunger stirs in her gut at the sight. She can't recall the last time she's eaten. Yet it is a fleeting sensation, soon replaced with the biting anxiety of her goal when she looks back up at Burt. His attention is drawn down to a few newer etchings upon his table, eyes clouded with something she cannot place as he traces over Brittany's work.
"He's been sent to Lexington," Burt says, knowing full well who's just stepped into his tent. He looks up, giving her a welcoming smile, though she notes, one that does not quite reach his eyes, as he motions for her to take a seat.
Santana sits, nerves still on edge even as he tells her to relax. She can't relax, not until she knows, "When will Bret return?"
Burt regards her with a thoughtful gaze, taking in the lack of sleep evident in the redness creeping into the corners of her eyes. Observing with a frown the taut lines of stress crinkling her brow he sighs, weary, "another day, at the least."
"How could you let him go?" she questions, voice hardening with resentment. "You of all people should be looking out for him! And with the Southerners about? You've sent him to his grave!"
Burt looks tired, every bit the worried father as he tells her as calmly as he can, "You need not worry so for Bret, Miss Santana. He was chosen as our courier for a reason."
Santana lets out a snort, arms crossed defensively over her chest as she tells him, "He can barely read let alone be allowed to ride with his shoulder still healing. How can he be the best for the job?"
"He assured me his shoulder was fit. As for his job, he is the fastest upon a horse. Any horse," Burt adds when Santana looks like she's about to interrupt. "Have you any idea what an asset that is?"
Santana does not and thus shrugs, still upset as she mutters, "you seem to be the only one who thinks so."
"I assure you I am not," he tells her, adamant. "As for the boys who think otherwise, I believe it may be more to do with Bret's nature than his skills upon a horse."
Santana bristles. "Bret is perfectly fine just the way he is."
"We may think so, but as for them," he says, nodding toward the entrance. They look out the tent, across the way to where a few of the younger men pass, Scott Cooper among them.
Burt sighs, "I can see why they'd give him such a hard time, being so different from them. They do the same to my boy back home."
"They should show Bret the respect he deserves, regardless," she snarls and as an afterthought adds, "your son as well."
Burt grins. "On that we both agree."
She'd expected him to concur, and yet the fortitude behind his words surprises her nonetheless. Burt obviously cares a great deal for his son and in turn sees a great deal of his son in Brittany. She knows he cares for Bret and is doing the best he can to ensure his safety. What upsets her is that he doesn't seem to care when it matters most. "And so what if he's good with horses?" she berates him. "That still doesn't mean he should have been chosen. He could—"
Burt smiles softly, Santana's words faltering at the amused look. "Don't let your affections for him cloud your judgment," he says.
Santana blanches, stammering, "I've n-not—"
"He'll return soon, Miss Santana," Burt tells her with a knowing grin. "You may have been acquainted with him for this past week but rest assured that he's undertaken journeys far longer than this since enlisting."
"That was before everything went to hell."
"He's a smart boy, he'll keep safe."
Santana wishes she could believe him.
She heads back to the medical tent, hoping to immerse herself in work and thus forget all about the frustrating conversation she just shared with Burt. And what more, the gaping hole she feels Brittany's prolonged absence is drilling through her heart. It works for a while, but she loses focus fast. A flash of blonde hair here sends her heart hammering. The clomps of a horse there knots her stomach. She can barely concentrate by nightfall, something Dr. Lopez is quick to notice.
And even quicker to shame her for.
"What is wrong with you?" he demands, voice laced with disdain as Santana fumbles with the bandages in her hands, the once sterile wrappings falling to the soiled floor. He lets out a groan, shoving her aside as he picks the useless wraps up. "You need only put these away and yet even in this task your incompetence is astounding. It's as if you have lost all your mental facilities in the span of a few hours."
"I apologize, sir," Santana hurries out as she gathers fresh wrappings and hands them to her father in exchange for the others. He tosses them at her, uncaring as he dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
"Get out of here. You're too distraught and acting like some infatuated fiend over that stupid boy."
Santana replies instantly, heated, "Bret's not stupid."
"Out!"
She leaves without further protest.
Santana doesn't think she's acting at all infatuated. Worried, surely, but anyone would be over the sudden absence of their friend to an uncertain fate. And with a friend like Brittany she feels her concern is justified. Even in her bath, scrubbing the blood and grime from her body, she can't stop the argument raging in her head. It's maddening really, how fast she's come to accept Brittany into her life. However begrudgingly she may have acted over it at first Santana's glad for the other woman's presence now. And yes, sometimes Brittany leaves her feeling a bit flustered and perhaps a part of her is a might bit receptive to those occurrences but that still doesn't make her infatuated.
Intrigued, a given.
Curiously inclined, for certain.
But the more she thinks on it, the more she realizes she does care for Brittany. It's a word seldom used in her minds eye aside from the act with which she imparts medical practice upon a patient. Yet it fits here as well, right in line with her concern for the courier's whereabouts. She cares where Brittany has gone, cares to see her return safely.
Cares for her.
And what more, has never cared for anything let alone anyone the way she does her.
It's an entirely new and frightening revelation.
So it comes as no surprise to her when after her bath, dressed in her nightclothes with a long coat wrapped about her shoulders, that Santana finds herself just outside of Brittany's wedge tent. On the ground, just as she'd once said, lies a small rock. Lucy's home, Santana thinks with a wistful smile. Without thought she ducks down through the canvas flap, crouching in the low tent upon her knees. It's a small space, barely enough room for two let alone the four or five that would usually occupy the quarters. A small box sits in the far corner; a half filled oil lamp rests atop. Brittany's journal, the gift Santana had made for her, sits open on the surface. A few crudely written letters are jotted upon the page. Brittany's been practicing. Her chest tightens and she tears her gaze away, down to where the bedroll rests, unmade, blankets scattered near the foot. Santana swallows down the piercing sting that rises in her throat at the sight. Brittany didn't get the chance to sleep more than perhaps a few minutes before she was sent off. She remembers so vividly as the taller woman rushed into the medical tent that night. Her eyes were bright, as they always were, yet hardened as well and filled with a confidence even Santana is sure now must have been feigned.
Brittany couldn't have been so fearless. Not when she knew what she could be facing. What could befall her, alone, out there on the roads.
Santana finds it hard to breathe suddenly, trapped with a suffocating hopelessness inside the tiny tent. Brittany's tent. Brittany, who has been sent out in the dead of night on what Santana feels is a fool's errand. Brittany, who may not return.
Who may end up dying upon a cot like so many others today...
Her eyes fill with tears almost as quickly as the sob that catches in her throat. She crawls to Brittany's bed, sinking face-first into the small scarf Brittany has fashioned into a pillow. Her cries are muffled by the soft fabric, yet her tears only stream thicker as Brittany's distinctive scent overwhelms her. Grass and smoke from the fire they danced beside fills her senses. She sniffles, turning to her side as she furiously wipes the tears from her face at the memory. She curls into the blankets, hugging herself as she huddles deep into the bedroll.
She falls into a fitful sleep soon after, dreaming of dances she's afraid she'll never partake in again.
October 8th, 1862
Morning comes and with it the sounds of bustling outside the tent. It's a different kind of ruckus from the usually slow morning routine. Santana is quick to hurry out, fearful of the men she finds swinging their muskets over their shoulders, expressions grim as they hasten about. It doesn't take her long to realize their mobilizing for battle.
Her stomach drops.
She takes off quickly toward Burt's tent, knowing Brittany must have returned. The cool morning air bites at her nose and bare calves as she dashes across camp, ignoring the hollers of the more lurid soldiers. She's left her coat back in Brittany's tent, the chill air cutting straight through her nightdress.
Propriety be dammed.
She cares not.
She spots Brittany sitting atop Piedmont, face pallid as she speaks with Burt. He helps Brittany down, giving her a pat along her back and in return a pained smile spreads across her chapped lips. She's hurt, Santana thinks, heart wrenching in her chest. Almost if by chance Brittany looks up, gaze instantly locking upon Santana's. The pained smile on a pale face turns toward reassurance.
Santana sprints toward her, not stopping until their bodies collide and she envelopes Brittany into a desperate hug. She can feel Brittany chuckling, the sound wrapping snugly about her heart. It's all she can do to stop herself when she buries her face against Brittany's neck, holding her tight. "I'm so glad you're all right," she all but breathes. God, how's she's missed her.
Brittany says nothing, merely bringing her arms up to hold Santana near. One of them shudders; Santana is worried but unwilling to let go just yet. She pulls back when she feels Brittany shivering against her once more. The courier's face has drained of color, eyes the lightest blue Santana's ever seen them.
"Is it your shoulder?" Santana asks, releasing her grip on Brittany in favor of letting her hand rest lightly upon the taller woman's arms.
Brittany shakes her head and coughs, a deep gurgling sound pulled from her throat. She turns her head away, quick to bring her hands to her mouth. Santana's blood run colds at the sight of red liquid staining Brittany's fingers.
"Britt?" Santana moves closer, careful as she drapes an arm behind Brittany's back.
Brittany doubles over, another blood-filled cough ripped from her chest.
She gazes back up at Santana, lips smeared red and eyes pained. "San…"
"N-no," Santana breathes, reaching out toward Brittany as the taller woman falls to her knees upon the ground. Brittany's breaths are short, Santana's eyes widening in horror at the hole rendered through the back of Brittany's jacket. Blood quickly blooms across the fabric, staining the blue a deep purple. Panic seizes her. "No!" she screams, diving down to her own knees beside the fallen courier.
"He needs a doctor!" Burt is shouting but Santana can barely hear him past the blood rushing through her ears, pounding hard against her head.
She wills her mouth to work, to yell that she's here, she's a doctor, she can help.
Her hands barely brush against Brittany's coat when Puckerman grabs her round the waist and begins to drag her away. "No!" She thrashes against Puckerman's hold. Tears clouding her vision as she watches, helpless as Brittany collapses to the ground. "Brittany!"
A bugle blares loudly through the camp, ripping Santana from her nightmare. A cold sweat has broken out across her forehead. The blanket is damp as it clings to her clammy skin. She can't control her breaths, mind still reeling with the vision of Brittany lying motionless-dead before her. She slams her eyes shut, panting hard as she digs her fingers deep into the bedroll and wills the image away. "A dream," she tells herself, voice cracking and gruff. "It was nothing but a dream."
The bugle calls again, the sound causing Santana's heart to skip a beat. It's still dark outside; she's not sure of the time. She can hear the men in the tent beside her scurrying; the shouts of their Captain carrying down the row.
"File out men! War is upon our door!"
She thinks she must be dreaming, stuck in a nightmare she can't escape.
Not again, she begs, hugging her legs to her chest. She cannot watch Brittany die again.
"THIS IS NOT A DRILL! FALL IN!"
The order is screamed, soldiers frantically sprinting from their tents.
Santana lets out a gasp, throwing the blankets from her body as she hurries from the tent. She trips as she exits, head impacting hard against the pole in the entrance. It barely hurts as she scrambles to her feet. The implication of the order renders every nerve in her body on fire. Brittany must have returned with word from Lexington. It is the only reason she could think of why the army is being sent to fight.
Again she thinks of her dream but she forces herself not to dwell on the cruel workings of her subconscious. Brittany is all right, she repeats to herself.
A flood of relief rushes through her as the thought blessedly sinks in, nearly leaving her dizzy as she rushes down the row buttoning up her coat. She pushes terrified soldiers aside on her way. She has to see Brittany, has to make sure she's all right. Camp is a disarray of bodies and clanking metal as men hurry to gather the supplies they'll need for the coming battle. Faces are grim, many panicked, a few even on the brink of tears. A handful of the men part as she dashes past; others are not so lucky as she plows by, their shoulders knocked away and bruised. They holler expletives after her but she cares not.
She does care though when her father's hands wrap tightly about her arm, yanking her from the throng of men and pulling her away from her objective. She wrenches her grip free, about to lash into him with a choice set of words when she meets his severe and silencing gaze.
"You are to stay here, keep to the wounded," he instructs her. His eyes flicker over toward the infantry, to the men marching from the camp. A brief flash of trepidation crosses his eyes, lips pursed as he inhales sharply. But no sooner does it appear that it's gone, just like that, with a blink of his eyes. He focuses down upon Santana again, taking a calming breath before he speaks next, "I am to accompany Colonel Tafel to the field. I cannot have you botching things up so don't even begin to ask to follow me int—"
"Very well," Santana interrupts, surprising her father with her consent.
He squints at her for a moment, wondering why she isn't protesting him as she is wont to do. But her eyes are focused somewhere over his shoulder and he can't quite pin just who she's searching for. No matter, he's wasted enough time. The wagons shall roll out soon and he is needed elsewhere. He forces her attention back with a snap of his fingers. And once she's looking back at him he tells her, "prep for the worst."
She nods, final. No goodbyes are exchanged, no wishes of safety. He simply turns and hurries into the medic wagon as it makes its way out the camp behind the lines of men marching into the night.
As the last of the cannons are rolled out and the path clears, Santana spots Brittany, sitting hunched beneath a blanket on the ground outside Burt's tent. Her breath catches at the sight, fear quickly taking hold of her heart as she wills her legs into motion and runs toward the courier. Flashes of her dream stream through her mind: Brittany's smile, the blood upon her hands. Santana shakes them from her thoughts. But they've left a mark upon her. One that causes her to halt in her steps for even at a distance Santana can tell Brittany is pale, her skin stark beneath the glow of the warm lamp hung over Burt's entrance. The steaming cup held in her hands does little to bring color back to her cheeks.
Santana breaks into a full run.
Burt sees her before Brittany does. The sound of the army marching out may silence her steps but the dark figure rushing toward them is unmistakable. He squats down beside his charge, slipping a letter into Brittany's pocket before he gently takes the cup of warm milk from her hands, much to Brittany's confusion and obvious discontent.
She stares up at Burt, fingering the letter in her pocket as she clutches the blanket to her shoulders and quirks a brow in question. "What is it?"
"That is your mail," he explains nodding to her pocket. And then glancing over the top of her head he adds, "And someone has been worrying herself sick over you."
Brittany barely has the time to process what he could mean when two knees slap into the muddy ground beside her and a pair of strong arms wrap around her body. Brittany gives a yelp as that someone embraces her fiercely, nearing tackling her straight down to the ground. But she holds steady as that someone is quick to be placed as a familiar scent invades her senses and a welcome warmth pools in her gut. She leans into the body beside hers, eyes falling close as she hugs Santana back.
"You're all right," Santana murmurs against Brittany's neck, burying her face deep into the courier's collar. Brittany nods against Santana's head, inhaling deeply as she holds the trembling woman close. She has an idea of why Santana's showing her such open affection. It was clear the doctor has been worried for her. Brittany thinks she needn't be so upset. While the trip had been long and toilsome the roads were luckily clear. She's no worse for wear despite feeling a bit sore, chilled and in need of a very long nap.
Brittany pulls away first, frowning as she spots tears blurring the corners of Santana's eyes. She gives her a soft half-smile as she tucks some of Santana's mussed hair behind one of her ears. Her smile widens, blearily, when Santana's eyes flutter closed at her touch.
"My shoulder feels stiff and I'm a bit tuckered but all right," Brittany tells her, slowly sitting back, hands once more holding her blanket in place around her shoulders. Her gaze focuses beyond Burt's tent, to where she can see him tending to an exhausted Piedmont. "I'm worried for Piedy, I rode him through the past few nights to get here as soon as I could. He needs rest and—"
"Burt's got him," Santana interrupts, pulling Brittany's attention and gaze back upon her own. "I know you care about him but right now I'm more concerned about you."
"This is my job, Santana. You shouldn't worry so. It'll give you old lady lines," Brittany tells her softly, brushing her fingertips over the crinkle above Santana's brow. "I told you, I'm all right."
Santana grabs Brittany's hand before she can take hold of her blanket again. The wrinkles upon her forehead only crease deeper. "You're freezing to the touch," she says, rubbing Brittany's hand between her own.
"You're making that all better though," Brittany offers with a kind smile.
Santana blushes, stilling her strokes in favor of simply holding Brittany's hand. It's only now, with Brittany obviously uninjured and sitting before her, that Santana feels all the tension in her body ebb. She relaxes some in her posture, wrinkles upon her forehead disappearing. Yet the tension creeps back, this time of a different kind when Brittany dares the touch further, sliding her palm along Santana's until her fingers fall in place beside the doctor's and she laces their hands together.
Brittany watches, pleased, as the blush on Santana's cheeks darken, the ghost of a smile pulling at full lips.
"Don't worry for me," Brittany tells her, voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze flits toward the distant field. They can both hear the sounds of the army fading over the far hills. "Not when you should worry for them."
Santana squeezes Brittany's hand. "I'm terrified of what will ensue," she admits, a quiver spiking in her voice. Their eyes meet and whilst Brittany wishes to chase away the anguish she sees reflected back at her inside the brown, watery gaze… she knows she cannot. Not when her own so obviously mirror the doctors.
So she holds tight to Santana's hand and whispers all there is to be said, "We all are."
Burt watches them from a distance; apprehensive yet delighted at their coupling. He's not surprised, not in the least. What little he's been able to pry from Bret of his time spent with Santana there was always a wistful quality to his tone, accompanied by a telltale darkening of his eyes. Time is an ever-present, ominous vice during war. Not enough, speeding quickly, taken from even the best of men. Love needs time; it needs to breathe, to be given the chance to grow. Thrive. Needs solid ground, strong roots. It doesn't flourish in chaos. It needs attention, devotion. What Burt sees before him is something that defies all he's come to know of love. Because as Bret rests his head against Santana's and the doctor nestles closer he sees devotion in the touch. He sees love growing, right here before his very eyes.
He doesn't want it stripped from them, not when they've yet to realize the same.
They need time.
Time the world has seen fit to take from so many already.
And so many more come the first light of day.
Soon the regiment will converge with other union troops on its way to Perryville. Major General Buell will take command of a brigade of men. And come dawn time will seem to stand still as the sounds of battle filter down over the hillsides, the pained voices of some 8,000 men easily piercing through the chill autumn sky.
Brittany doesn't get the chance to read her letter. Once Santana is pulled back to her duties in the medical tent Burt sends her off to get a few hours' rest. He hates that he must wake Bret to help fold out more cots in the extension to the medical tent Santana's had him construct. But they need every extra hand they can muster. Brittany's tired but takes to the work with renewed vigor. Her shoulder aches and she rolls it a few times to loosen the stiffness the long ride has caused.
She catches Santana watching her from where she's attending to a patient.
Brittany gives her a smile, hoping it's enough to subdue the concern she sees in the brown eyes. She knows the last thing Santana needs is to be distracted right now, especially when the remaining men in the tent are in dire need of her aid. So when Santana gives her a small smile back and returns to her work, Brittany breathes a sigh of relief. To be honest she doesn't feel quite well; she can't seem to shake the chill that has seeped into her bones no matter the layers she's pulled on beneath her jacket.
Burt told her to take breaks whenever she needed and with dawn now upon them she thinks she very well may sit down for bit. She waves over to Burt, catching his attention as she points out the tent.
"Don't fret, Bret!" he calls to her. "Take the time you need."
She slinks out, yawning. The camp is vacant, silent save for the chirps of a few night critters heading toward their dens in the surrounding trees. It's odd, Brittany thinks as she takes a seat on the table outside the tent, feet propped up on the bench below. She's so used to seeing men milling about, chatting beside fires and shuffling off to drills. There is always noise, always the smell of a stew brewing, horses needing to be calmed. The stillness that settles around the camp now has her missing those undisturbed days. It couldn't last, she knows, the reality of war has been approaching for a while now.
She hugs her arms to her chest, wincing at the strain in her shoulder. She wishes she had a cup of warm milk about now. Her father always fixed her a glass on days like these. When all you want to do is sleep and fend off the cold in the air. She thinks back to earlier in the night, to the cup Burt had made for her. She'd barely enjoyed a few sips when he plucked it from her hands.
She smiles when she thinks of why though. Santana had surprised her. She hadn't taken the other woman for the affectionate type, let alone willing to indulge in the intimacy of a hug. Initiate it even. Brittany can vividly remember the way Santana held her tight; almost as if afraid she'd slip away otherwise. Sitting here now she swears she can still feel the memory of the doctors arms wrapped around her.
It warms her.
Brittany doesn't know how long she's been sitting out there when the sounds of the forest grow quiet and all that can be heard is the scrape of wood as Burt fixes up more cots.
Dawn creeps up over the hill, painting the sky a brilliant amber.
Ten miles away in Perryville she knows the battle has begun.
She whispers a silent prayer for the men, hugging herself closer.
"Found you," Santana says quietly, shaking Brittany from her thoughts.
Brittany can't help but smile upon hearing her voice, and when she turns toward the other woman it only grows wider. In Santana's hands is a steaming mug filled to the brim with fresh milk.
Santana's cheeks are tinged with a light blush as she holds the cup out to Brittany. "Burt told me you favored it warm like this," she says, still acting uncharacteristically timid. "I hope it's not too hot."
Brittany brings it to her lips, appreciative as she takes a cautious sip. It's undoubtedly too hot, the liquid nearly searing her throat as she swallows it down. But she covers her discomfort with a shake of her head and a thankful smile upon her lips. She pats the space beside her, inviting Santana to sit.
"I shouldn't," Santana tells her, eyes drifting back toward the tent. "There's still so much to be done."
"Of course," Brittany says, hoping her disappointment doesn't show upon her face. She understands though, Santana does need to return back to her work. Setting her cup down to cool, she reaches forward, taking one of Santana's hands with her own. The doctor startles at the sudden move, head whipping around to meet Brittany's gaze. "Thank you for the milk," Brittany tells her, smiling softly. "It was sweet of you."
Santana shifts upon her feet, the heat from Brittany's hand seeming to pour straight up her arm and then down past her belly. Her face still feels uncomfortably warm as she says, "You should get some rest."
"I know," Brittany sighs. "But like you said, there's still so much to do."
Santana squeezes Brittany's hand gently. "Don't worry, we have everything covered. Go sleep."
"But—"
"As the preeminent physician in this camp right now," Santana smirks, tugging Brittany down from her perch upon the table. Once on the ground Santana gives Brittany a gentle push toward her tent. "I order you to go rest."
"You'll wake me, if you need anything, right?" Brittany asks, still hesitant even with Santana chuckling and shoving at her back.
"Yes!" Santana tells her, shooing her away.
Brittany begins to retreat back to her tent, looking forward to the sleep her body has been craving. She halts though, giving a small yelp when she realizes she's forgotten something. Santana watches, a bit worried as Brittany jogs back up to her. For a fleeting moment she simultaneously fears and desires that Brittany has simply returned to give her a hug. It's a childish hope, Santana thinks, feeling exceptionally foolish when Brittany gives her a bashful grin as she collects her mug of milk instead.
"Almost forgot it," Brittany says, giving Santana a wink before she walks back off toward her tent once again.
Santana lets out a long self-loathing breath once Brittany is a great distance away. She's not quite sure what is going on inside her head today, let alone why she's reacting like such a … such a dandy around Brittany. It is embarrassing, and entirely unlike her. She thinks perhaps she's still running on a high from their earlier reunion but that was hours ago and she's, thankfully, ceased being as disoriented as she was then.
There's a nagging feeling, edging somewhere just at the edge of her conscious. She can't place it. She cares for Brittany, of that much she is sure. For god's sake, she wouldn't go around fetching warm milk for just anyone. Brittany is different. Different in the same way as she, both hoping to fit into a world neither quite belonged. And yet they'd found one another, despite it all.
To have finally found a friend, let alone one she trusts, she thinks she should feel happier. But it's hard to feel joy when death is so thick in the air and her thoughts need to be focused upon helping the wounded lying behind her rather than deciphering her feelings. More injured will arrive soon and she needs to be prepared. Needs to be strong and not the whimpering mess of a fool she feels she was when the ambush victims were brought in.
She refuses to be that woman again.
Steeling her nerves, she ducks back into the medical tent, intent upon proving to her father just how formidable a doctor she will one day be. Without him.
Night has fallen upon the empty camp by the time Santana has decided all that can be done had been. There are at least half a dozen some surgery stations, prepped and sterilized, ready for use once the army arrives. A hundred and five cots and bedrolls have been laid throughout the medical ward, enough space between each to allow her father and the medic's access to any patient if need be. Lamps are filled, blankets arranged, ventilation slits cut open at even intervals along the tent roof. It is better than any field hospital she thinks could currently be in operation. She'd even personally seen to it herself that there were enough bedpans to ensure dysentery would not spread.
The nurses praised her work as she checked over one of the wounded soldiers' sutures she'd redone that morning. She is flattered by their words, finally beginning to trust in their smiles. She kindly dismissed them once she was finished, telling them to return to their beds and to get as much sleep as they could before the regiment returned.
That was around late afternoon.
It is well past supper now. The stars are bright in the clear sky above. Come morning, or even sooner Santana thinks, hundreds of soldiers will come pouring back into the camp. Right now though, all she wants is to end her day beside Brittany. She misses their evenings spent in front of a fire, their lessons always dissolving into something she can't quite explain. Glimpses into Brittany's life, tidbits about who the strange and wonderful girl was beneath the façade of a man she put forth in the day. She's been looking forward to it.
She finds Brittany easily. The last tent in the last row. It stands slightly lopsided and is the only one currently aglow. Santana makes her way over, brushing down her dress as she walks. She's mindful to keep her distance from Lucy's rock, the last thing she wants is for the snake to make an appearance upon her boot. Before entering she gives a light knock against the support post running the length of the tent-top.
From within the sound of muffled sniffles meet her ears and Santana's once hopeful expression drops along with her stomach. She squats down, pushing aside the flap to peer inside. Brittany sits near the corner box, hair tumbling down past her shoulders, an old fountain pen in hand… crying softly. There are a few crumbled pieces of paper discarded beside her, a letter sitting unfolded upon the desk. Hendrick's familiar penmanship glistens in the light of the lamp's flame.
Santana fears the worst. She crouches down and crawls toward Brittany.
Brittany's head snaps over at the intrusion. She'd thought she heard a knock but brushed the sound aside, imagining it was simply Lucy heading out for the night. Her watery gaze finds Santana's, her tears only falling harder once she realizes how much she needs someone right now. Someone to tell her everything will be all right.
"Brittany?" Santana ventures, sitting upon her heels once she's reached the courier's side.
"I d-don't know what to w-write," Brittany stammers, her head bowed, hands trembling in her lap. "She's not w-well, San," she chokes out.
Santana leans forward, arms quick to embrace the broken woman before her. Brittany melts against into her. "It's okay," she whispers.
"I k-keep shaking when I try," Brittany whimpers. "H-her fever… San, s-she's dying."
"Shh," Santana soothes, scooting closer and pulling Brittany flush against her. She can feel Brittany's tears soaking through her blouse, dampening her skin beneath, and it only makes Santana hold her that much tighter.
Brittany clings to her, unable to voice all the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She can't imagine a life without Emily. She feels so helpless being so far from her, unable to hold her hand, to give her even that bit of love.
Her tears don't cease though and she's grateful, so grateful that Santana never lets go.
Santana feels herself crumbling in time with the sobs that wrack Brittany's body. She wishes there was more comfort she could give, more she could do to change the words of sorrow the letter has brought to the mess of a woman crying in her arms. But there is nothing she can give, nothing aside from the shoulder she's already willingly bequeathed. Santana's not good with emotions, and certainly has never been in such a position before. No one has ever turned to her for comfort. Yet the way Brittany clings to her, seeming to draw peace and strength from her presence, Santana believes perhaps she's not so hopeless when it comes to caring for another after all.
And especially since she cares so very much for Brittany Pierce.
Santana breathes deeply, holding Brittany's shuddering body closer. I'm here, she wills silently into her touch. She presses a soft kiss to Brittany's head, nuzzling her nose into blonde hair.
I care.
She can feel Brittany's ear brush against her chin and all it takes is slight tilt of her head before she settles another kiss to the tip.
"It's all right," she whispers, kissing Brittany's ear again.
Brittany's cries begin to quiet, her breaths instead growing ragged as Santana places a warm kiss to her cheek.
Shaking hands grip tighter to Santana's blouse front when those same lips brush against her jaw, lingering for a moment longer. The touch does little to calm Brittany's yearnings. And just as Santana moves to pull away Brittany turns, capturing the corner of Santana's lips between her own and quenching the want burning in her heart.
Something deep inside Santana snaps at the move, allows her to indulge in the simple press of Brittany's lips against her own. But all too soon she pulls back sharply with a gasp. The only thing she can think of to say tumbles from her mouth before she can halt the hurtful words, "Y-you're not a man."
Brittany stares at her for a moment, eyes stained with her drying tears, heartrending and still. Simply, she replies, "No, I'm not."
"Brittany… you—" Santana stammers, brow furrowed in a mess of conflicting emotions.
It's not confusing to Brittany. She knows what she wants and isn't afraid to voice her thoughts aloud as she tells Santana softly, "I'd very much like to kiss you again. And I won't miss this time."
Santana shakes her head quickly, shuffling back from Brittany until her back meets the entrance post with a loud thud. The tent shakes, leaning a bit more to the left at the impact. Santana can't stop the shivers that still roll down her arms, nor regain control of her rapidly beating heart. She doesn't know how Brittany can sit there, calm as the night air beyond while she unravels in a spectacular display of cowardice.
Brittany had expected a bit of shock, but the look of pure terror upon Santana's face breaks her heart. She never wished to bring her such pain. She turns her gaze to the ground, hurt as she mutters, "… forgive me."
Santana's features soften; her entire demeanor deflates at Brittany's unnecessary apology. She's done no wrong, Santana realizes. Brittany was brave enough to do the very thing she'd been so afraid to seek for herself. And this is how you treat her in return?
Brittany can't meet Santana's eyes, so unwilling to see the disgust and disappointment they must surely be full of. To be losing her sister and now Santana? How cruel, she thinks with a quiver of her lips. She keeps her gaze staunchly upon her knees, never once allowing them to venture up. Not even as the doctor crawls back toward her, not even as she feels a pair of small hands cup her face. For when she finally does let her gaze turn up by then it's too late. Santana's lips are upon her own, soft and warm. Hesitant in their touch but promising, willing. And even as Brittany's eyes remain wide open, Santana's are closed. After a second though Brittany's are soon to follow, fluttering shut as she melts into the kiss.
She's only ever shared this part of herself with two others. Though really, share is not quite the right word. The first she hadn't expected. A kiss stolen, nothing but a quick peck, from the mill boy when she was eight. He'd run off before she could even say anything. Oh how she remembers her mothers laugh when she'd told her and the way her father's face burned red with wrath. He'd ranted for days of the kiss after. Just like he did again years later when instead of the mill boy it was the farm hand he'd hired for the summer who stole a kiss from her whilst they filled bottles with fresh milk. Needless to say there was never another need for a farm hand after that day. Kissing it seemed was something to forever be a surprise for her, planted upon her from seemingly nowhere leaving her confused and feeling a bit robbed once it was over.
She's always wanted to see what it was like, to be the lips doing the stealing. To want someone enough to kiss them, even with the fear of their unreturned sentiments nagging in her head. It's taken her a long time but she is sure she's found that someone now. She's never met anyone she's wanted, not in the way she wants Santana. She stole a kiss from her knowing full well that her feelings may not be returned. But the dances, those dances spoke so much in their favor. She hadn't imagined it would hurt though, seeing Santana so upset after their kiss. For a brief moment she thought perhaps she should have asked permission before kissing her. Would Santana have said no?
Would they be kissing as they are now, without fear, had she not given into her desires?
Does it even matter anymore?
No, Brittany thinks and finds herself smiling into the kiss. This moment could not be more sublime. It's a slow, deliberate study that she decides to undertake. Every nuance and sensation Santana stirs within her immediately burned to her memory. Santana's hands are firm as they hold her in place, quite the contrary to the way her mouth tentatively slips to capture Brittany's bottom lip between her own. Of course Santana would never miss.
Santana can feel Brittany smiling against her lips, the courier pressing further against her, arms looping around her neck. She tries hard to keep the small whimper from escaping her lips but escape it does only spurring Brittany to kiss her all the more. She's had her share of confreres, those with which she's allowed to indulge her in a kiss. Usually after much drink and in a far corner of her parents social gatherings. There was no better way to infuriate her dear mother faster and surely set herself free from an evening spent in maddeningly dull company than to cross that line of decorum in relative sight. The boys were always such a bother afterward, calling after her and requesting invites to accompany her to church of all places. Such ignoramuses. She gave up on it all together by sixteen.
It simply wasn't worth the trouble.
If there was nothing to be gained from the act then it was simply to be forever thought impractical.
And not to mention a stupid waste of time and a surefire way to land herself with a bought of influenza.
There were so many impractical things in the world Santana has lost count of them all. Some though, are at the very forefront of her mind.
Having a friend used to be impractical, until she met Brittany. Dancing used to be impractical, until she danced with Brittany. And she sure as hell doesn't find kissing anywhere near impractical, now that she's kissing Brittany.
Breathing though, suddenly a very impractical function.
It's over with a sharp inhale from Santana who pulls them apart. Her dark eyes are clouded; pupils still wide, muddled with an emotion Brittany's never seen in them before. She thinks hers must look the same if the blush rising on Santana's cheeks is any indication. Santana can't quite believe what she's just done. She can still taste Brittany's lips upon her own, feel them tingling even now. She wants to kiss her again. The thought scares her, renders her absolutely petrified.
Brittany's brow crinkles with worry as the black in Santana's eyes squeeze pinpoint sharp and the doctor's chest rises and falls far faster than she's comfortable seeing it. That mild panic Santana tried so hard to keep at bay surfaces, crushingly so. She can't want to kiss Brittany again. Not Brittany. Not a woman. Not the only thing in this horrid world she cares for. She can't lose her, not like in her dream. Not in any way.
Brittany leans forward, resting her forehead against Santana's, willing for the other woman to calm once again, "You don't have to be scared anymore," she whispers brushing her lips against Santana's once more.
Santana lets out shaky breath, her warm exhale tickling Brittany's chin as she mutters, "I am…"
Brittany smiles anyway. "You're a wonderful kisser. I'd gather the best, actually."
Santana lets out a nervous chuckle. "You're not making this easy."
"It's always been easy," Brittany tells her. "You just like everything knotty."
Again Santana finds herself laughing softly, this time with ease, just as Brittany promised. She can't believe the simplicity with which Brittany speaks leaves her feeling so calm. She thinks the smile upon the blonde's lips helps. It's always so warm, relaxed.
"Stay tonight," Brittany requests.
Panic back. Santana shakes her head quickly, "I can't."
"I know you did while I was gone," Brittany says with a knowing smirk curling at the left corner of her mouth.
Santana pulls back, cheeks darkening. "How'd you—"
"My scarf, it smells like you," Brittany explains simply, her smile tender. "Stay again, please?"
The request is uncomplicated, Santana thinks. Then why am I making it so? She really has no answer, not one that could explain why she cannot stay. At least not one she deems worthy enough. There are the supposed rules of society to follow, but even Santana knows that's a farce of an excuse. They could be caught was another, yet it is unlikely given the circumstances. There is no one here to find them. The only thing keeping her from staying is herself. She doesn't know why she fears staying. She wanted to find Brittany, sought her out even. You kissed her! If she were to leave now, deny Brittany this simple request, the courier would surely be disappointed. She cannot leave her alone, not with that letter still sitting so close and the dried tears still evident upon her pale cheeks. And the truth is she wishes nothing more than to curl back into Brittany's bedroll, this time with the courier safe by her side.
Fears be damned.
They have but one night.
It's a subtle, shy nod that Santana gives her in answer.
With the lamp extinguished they settle down beside one another on the small bedroll, Brittany unable to wipe the smile from her lips, Santana unwilling to release Brittany's hand. They don't move, each too afraid to shatter the moment they find themselves in. But Brittany can see Santana's earlier fear sinking back into those dark eyes, and she so wishes for Santana to not be afraid. So she pulls Santana's hand closer, tucking it beneath her chin as she whispers, "we'll be all right."
And even when Santana nestles closer, head tucked beneath Brittany's chin instead, Brittany can't help but think she's just told a lie. Because despite this moment she can still see her father's letter sitting atop her box. She can still glimpse the tent across the row, empty now, from between the space in her flap.
She can still fear for what is to come the moment morning breaks across the horizon and the men return.
When this moment will end and nothing will be all right, not anymore.