AN: Hi all! So as you've noticed the rating has changed. Bloody things ahead! And eventually other such M rated warranting. ;) I want to thank all of you for reading, for the many many alerts and messages and general awesomeness you've shown me thus far. Thank you and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!
Chapter 7
We Cast the Same Shadow
Santana wakes late in the night, hyper-aware of her proximity to the peacefully slumbering courier. At some point in the night they'd huddled closer, an impossible feat in Santana's mind. And yet here she lays, surprised by how unbelievably tangled they have become. She's unsure of where her legs have vanished between Brittany's, and even more weary of what may stir within her were she to slide one free. Her body is already heated enough as is. In that same vein she's utterly suspicious of whose hand is resting so low over her stomach that it would be deemed indecent if not for her dress barring the way. Or, worse yet, the way in which she desires that hand to remain right where it is. She flexes the fingers on her right hand, a quick breath drawn between her lips when she feels Brittany's hand move ever so slightly across her waist to twine with a few of her own fingers. Unsurprisingly, directly where she dreaded and desired them resting most. And just as before, a rush of heat finds home in her belly beneath the touch. The sensation lingers, burning.
She's entirely cognizant of what the reaction means. Of the affections she's borne. Feelings she holds so deeply for Brittany, a woman.
They came upon her so swiftly Santana is still struggling to calm her heart, so sure Brittany will hear the strong beats as they thump loudly against the place that the blonde's head rests atop Santana's chest. Her silent pleas go unheard though, heart still hammering as Brittany continues, blessedly, sleeping half atop her. This moment terrifies Santana. She fears those blue eyes opening and staring up at her with the same promises they held a mere few hours prior. With feelings Santana's undoubtedly sure she isn't ready to face. Not yet, and certainly not in this horrid world.
The thought barely has time to settle when Brittany shifts beside her, warm body fitting so remarkably against her own. Santana feels the other woman's nose nuzzle further into the grove of her neck, a small hum of absolute contentedness slipping past Brittany's lips.
Santana cannot lie idly beside her any longer. Not when her mind yearns to pull her lost hand free and run fingers through the blonde hair tickling her cheek. When she wants nothing more than to hold Brittany closer and breathe in this moment before she inevitably ruins it. As ruin it she must because what she feels for Brittany is far too real and formidable.
She cannot afford to abandon her control again as she did last night. There is too much at stake, so much to be lost. Just thinking of the consequences has her feeling faint. What if they were caught? What would happen to her? To Brittany?
She chokes.
Carrying this... whatever this is that's developed between them, carrying it on is not an option.
With a bite of her bottom lip and breath deftly held she begins to detangle herself from the slumbering woman. It's slow; Brittany stirs a few times, nose scrunching as she blindly reaches for the warmth Santana provides. It takes all of Santana's willpower not to just cave into her desires and slip right down beside Brittany once again.
Outside, somewhere far in the distance, she can hear the telltale sounds of the army as they make their way back toward camp. Knowing she is needed elsewhere finally gives her the strength she needs to fully move from Brittany's bed. With a heavy heart she lets go of the courier's hand.
Which is, naturally, the very moment Brittany rouses from her sleep. Santana lets out a muttered curse at her luck. Bleary Brittany rolls to her back and squints up at Santana, who remains frozen beside her, eyes darting toward the tent entrance. A groggy, and Santana thinks endearing, smile blooms across Brittany's face as she looks up at her through sleep-laden eyes.
"Need to pee?" Brittany asks through a yawn, realizing it's still very much dark out and the deep blush over Santana's cheeks can only mean one thing.
Santana needed to relieve herself.
So when Santana shakes her head, unable to meet her eyes and a muttered "no" passes through quieted lips, Brittany snaps awake.
She sits up sharply, Santana recoiling back at the abrupt move. The unlikely reaction spurs a new fear inside Brittany. She worries what could have changed so fast, why Santana is up at such an hour if it isn't a mere matter of nature. What's happened?
"San," Brittany whispers, reaching a hand out toward the scared woman.
"I have to go," Santana tells her, voice strained as she moves to her knees. The tone only makes Brittany's concern increase tenfold. She lunges forward, grabbing Santana gently by the arm before she can crawl out the tent. Santana stiffens under the touch, gaze deliberately set to the end of the bedroll. "Please," Santana requests. Begs. "I must leave."
Brittany scoots up beside her, entirely bewildered and upset at Santana's insistence. She'd asked her to stay last night; it is not even morn yet. And the quiver in the other woman's voice… it's heartbreaking. What has she done?
"Did I do something?" Brittany asks quietly as she releases Santana's arm.
The question, so simple in nature, pains Santana to have to hear. Brittany's done nothing wrong of course, not in the least. She turns, lungs stilled as she meets Brittany's wounded eyes.
"Emily says I always steal all the blankets," Brittany whispers, wringing the bottom of her shirt in her lap. "If I did I'm sorry, I don't—"
"Stop," Santana interrupts, tearing her gaze away. "You've done nothing."
"Then why are you—"
"The men are returning," Santana tells her, unwilling to hear the rest of Brittany's doubt manifest to words. "You can hear them, they're not far now. I have to be there for them."
"Oh," Brittany nods, understanding yet not quite believing Santana's reasoning. She can hear the regiment; of that much she knows to be true. But the way Santana's said it, the way she tried to leave… Brittany still does not understand. Regardless, she leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Santana's cheek. It's hard to ignore the way Santana bristles and the shaky breath she exhales as Brittany pulls away. "Are you all right?"
It could be nerves, Brittany thinks, of why Santana is so suddenly withdrawn and yet entirely on edge all at once. But a part of her thinks otherwise. Santana has been preparing for the regiment's return for so long now. She was so meticulous in her work all day; so prideful in all she's arranged. And when Santana meets her gaze again, the brown eyes so obviously torn, Brittany feels she's missed something important. Something crucial changed while she slept.
And worse yet she can see Santana coiling further into herself, far faster than Brittany can hope to set things right. Whatever right may be now. But she must try.
"I'll… I'll see you tonight, yes?" Brittany ventures, so hopeful in her request. "I know you'll be busy with the soldiers and all but even the best must still eat. We could… have supper together?"
It takes Santana a moment to answer. She wishes not to bring more woe to the courier, cannot outright dim the light she's come to admire in those warm eyes. But this cannot go on. When she does find her voice her answer is noncommittal, cold and resigned. "Perhaps."
She leaves then before Brittany's eyes can pull her back in and she can fall into the other woman's arms as she wishes to. She bursts from the tent, the cold of the night air striking deep beneath her skin. A slap she feels is rightfully deserved. Her steps away start quick and it's not long till she's running. And sooner yet the tears she held back for so long begin to stain her cheeks.
The tent flap barely settles into place when Brittany sinks back to her heels, a sort of defeated numbness distorting her usual pert posture. She hasn't a clue what just transpired, nor how everything could crumble so quickly. Her thoughts of hours before spring to mind, an echo of her voice repeating dreadfully in her head 'nothing will be all right, not anymore.'
Her body screams with fatigue, pulling her back down to her bedroll. She slumps into the blankets, her hand sliding over the still warm spot where Santana had mere moments before been resting beside her.
Happily.
Or so she thought anyway.
Something's wrong, Brittany thinks to herself. San's scared again…
And as she succumbs to her exhaustion, anxiety pulling her swiftly into a restless sleep, she can't help but lament that even though they never saw battle, she feels as though she's somehow lost Santana anyway.
Santana has barely found the time to change her clothes when the first companies of men reenter the camp. She can hear them from inside her tent, their boisterous voices carrying loudly in the night air. A rush of relief fills her, making her dizzy when she realizes their voices carry with pride.
They return victorious.
Yet she knows despite the triumph there are still wounded to care for.
She doesn't quite feel herself; a veritable storm of emotions still whirls within her and leaves her hands trembling by her sides. Hoping to compose herself, she washes her face quickly in the basin and towels her skin dry. Her eyes land upon her reflection; a terrified girl she doesn't recognize stares wide-eyed back. She cannot walk into the medical tent like this, not still reeling from her night with Brittany and doubtful of her skills in the day ahead. She braces her hands against the table and leans toward the mirror. Her eyes narrow as she wills the woman staring back at her to change, to harden and pride herself.
Don't think of her, she tells herself. You will not shed another tear. You will go to your post, show him your worth. You're not afraid.
It's that woman who hurries from the tent and into the awaiting madness that has consumed the medical wards. She allows herself but a second of shock. One tick of a pocket watch to stand horrified by the ravaged men pouring in an endless stream into the tent. She barely has time to process it all. A leg hanging loosely from a gutted knee. A naked back riddled with shrapnel. A screaming man being carried past her, his neck and mouth spurting blood.
It splashes down atop her boot; his gurgled cough splattering more upon her apron.
She's in motion in an instant.
"Take him to surgery!" she exclaims, pointing toward the operating tables she's arranged just a few feet away. The soldiers carrying the dying man look up at her, expressions hollowed and grim. Confusion knots their brows. She hasn't the time. "For God's sake you damn buffoons, he'll die if you don't hurry!"
They quicken their pace at her command, thoughts of battle forgotten as they rush to get the man to the open table. She plunges into the chaos once they've gone from sight, directing field medics to supplies, assisting soldiers into cots, tending to as many of the more fatal injuries as she can. Her father bursts in moments later, coat bloodied and eyes blazing. His fierce gaze falters as he takes in the sight before him. It may be a mass of bodies and wails that could pierce any man's eardrum but there is order to it, a flow to the injured being ushered toward surgery, to the men he's patched in the battlefield now resting along cots in a wing that wasn't there a mere day prior. His eyes settle upon his daughter, standing amidst the chaos, staring at him with a calmness even he himself cannot muster.
She makes her way toward him, giving a nod of her head once she's within earshot. "Sir, your orders?" she asks, her body itching to dive back into her work.
Dr. Lopez notices a few of the surgeons he's been assigned from the field are staring at him expectantly. He falters for a moment, ears ringing before the noise of the tent seems to explode around him. He finds his focus upon his daughter's composed face. He may not need her, but he cannot deny she was right… the men do. "Surgery," he tells her gruffly. "Take a table. We need any hand that can be spared."
Santana is stunned by the command. Her father is ushered away quickly, shedding his coat upon the floor and rolling his shirtsleeves up as he disappears behind one of the curtains blocking an operating table from sight. There are four surgeons in total. Her father, two men who followed him from the battlefield to assist with the injured…
And she makes four.
Her father has included her in their ranks today.
To be given control, allowed her own operating table, is more than Santana could have dreamed. The elation beginning to course through her barely has time to register in her mind when one of the nurses approaches her, flustered and anxious as she awaits her next order. "Miss Santana? W-where do you need me?"
"Surgery," Santana breathes. She blinks, the commotion once more spurring her to motion as she turns to the nurse, grinning broadly. "Assist me in surgery."
Of the thousand some men in the regiment only a little over six hundred have returned. And of that six hundred, half of them now reside in and around the over-crowded medical tent. As she readies to perform yet another bullet extraction Santana can only imagine what the other regiments in the battle must have suffered in casualties. They'd returned victorious and yet the sheer number of wounded would assert otherwise.
If this is a victory I fret to see what a loss would entail, she thinks as she focuses on removing a few shells from the shoulder of the unconscious soldier. This is the forty-third man she's seen upon her table today. She also thinks she'll never tire of calling this her table. But when she works she pushes aside the novelty of it and focuses on the task at hand. Her forceps move swiftly as she plucks another musket round from within the soldier's large muscle. He is one of the luckier ones. Had he been downed by minie bullets he would have been as good as dead the moment his body hit the ground. She's seen the ugly damage wrought by minie's. An ironic name, she thinks now, given the irrevocable damage the gaping wounds cause. Ten have died upon her table already from those shots. The others were all carried out, one or sometimes two limbs short of when they arrived. There is no repair for mercilessly smashed bones. She's lost track of how many amputations she's preformed. The soldier she operates on now may never have the dexterity in his right arm as he once must have, but he'll be able to keep it. More than likely he'll be sent home. Most all the men in the tent would be returning to their wives, mothers, sisters and families soon…. that is if they live through the coming days. They are useless to the infantry injured, and even more so if they required continuous treatment.
Santana knows she is just here to ensure they live long enough to see a true hospital. But she feels it unnecessary for them to have to wait so long for proper care. Not when she's perfectly capable of seeing to it herself. As she extracts the last bullet a numb sense of disbelief washes over her. Some men beyond her table are still writhing in pain, their screams for loved ones now hoarse and broken after a day spent in agony. Delirium surely setting in for many. She wishes to ease their suffering but must remain at her post. A surgeon is invaluable and there are already too few, their time spread far too thin. She blocks out the cries of the wounded, readying the soldier below for sutures. Despite the horror of everything unfolding around her today she keeps her wits.
She is not afraid.
Yet on more than one occasion she's found her thoughts drifting toward Brittany, disturbingly so, especially when her hands are buried inside the body cavity of yet another poor causality of war. But she forces herself to snap to whenever inklings of the courier creep into her mind. She's thankful for her table. Her work affords her a distraction from any thoughts which might otherwise plague her.
As two medics carry out the now bullet-free and meticulously stitched up soldier one of the nurses brings another young man inside her curtained partition. Santana must purse her lips to keep from gasping when she lays eyes on her next patient.
"Seen better days," Sam says with a forced chuckle as the nurse helps him to sit upon her operating table. "The morphine is helping some though." His face is pale, eyes concealing the pain she knows he must be enduring still despite the inhibitor he's received. How long has he been waiting to see someone? She washes her hands quickly. As he settles on the table he cradles his left arm to his chest, blood soaked straight through the bandage wrapped haphazardly around his elbow. Santana can see the tips of his fingers, already a stark pale yellow in comparison with the rest of his lively pallor. Circulation is already lost.
She thinks perhaps she may be able to save his arm yet.
She gives him a confident smile. "Glad to see you made it through."
"Wish I could say the same for all of us," he says quietly, wincing as Santana gently takes his arm and begins to unwrap the bandages. Yet she stills in her work, gaze meeting Sam's as his tone registers in her head. He doesn't simply mean the regiment.
"Sam?" she asks, hesitant of his answer.
"The cannon round messed up my arm real good," he can't meet her eyes as he speaks. His lips thin as he chokes out, "F-Finn, he got me out of the w-way but—"
Santana swallows thickly, stilled by the admission. It was clear that Sam held Finn in high regard; the boys were obviously good, if not the best of, friends. She can't imagine what it must feel like, to lose someone so close… to see them die in such a violent way. A flash of her dream flickers in her mind's eye. Her heart runs cold as she slams her eyes shut against the visions. But she can't shake the image free; can't get those lifeless blue eyes to stop haunting her so.
"Apologies," Sam sniffles, rubbing at his nose with his good hand as he gives Santana a hopeful yet subdued smile. She's snapped from her troubling thoughts at his voice. "I must be holding you up with—"
"You're not," Santana tells him, shaking her head as she gets back to work. Her nurse is by her side, collecting the soiled bandages as she lays them to the table. Santana thinks she must say something, and so tells Sam, "I'm sorry though, about Finn. He seemed a good fellow."
"He was," Sam smiles, glad for the sentiments as Santana carefully unwraps his arm. As his bloodied and bruised skin is revealed he swallows down the bile rising in his throat at the sight and quickly looks away.
"It's not so bad," Santana teases, hoping to lighten his mood. Yet as the last of the sticky bandages are pulled aside she realizes it's quite bad indeed. Sam's elbow is entirely shattered, the joint irrevocably mangled as his bones pierce through his skin. She looks up at Sam, the expression upon her face conveying to him the news he's been dreading since arriving back at camp.
"Just take it," he tells her shakily.
She nods, no more words exchanged as the nurse hands her the sterilized saw. The handle is still warm and Santana can't help but think of the countless others today that have met the end of the serrated blades. Sam settles back down on the table, the nurse quick to administer a small amount of chloroform. They're already starting to run low and Santana knows she must be quicker in her work. The small dose will only keep him under for ten minutes at most. He'll be in pain after, but she hopes her skill with the blade may see to it he's given as much comfort in his recovery as can be deemed possible given the circumstances.
She hopes he knows that he's in good hands.
Santana sets her saw aside and flushes the wound clean with fresh water, her nurse already prepared to blot it dry with a new cloth. Santana wonders for a moment where best to mark her incision point. There will need to be enough skin to fold over once the arm is severed, and the mangled mess of Sam's elbow makes it all the harder. But the clock is ever ticking, and thus she plucks the scalpel from her kit and slices cleanly through an optimal point on Sam's lower bicep muscle.
She picks up the saw next.
They've run out of spare ties.
Sweat dots her nurses heavy brow as the woman grabs tight to Sam's bicep.
And Santana takes a calming breath before she brings the saw down.
The sounds of celebration carry in from outside the tent, bolstering the spirits of those trapped in their broken bodies within. They do little to mute the sounds of Sam's flesh and bone being torn asunder as her blade cuts through his upper arm. Santana tries not to focus on it, instead noting the clink the bottles beneath the table make every time she drives the saw forward. She's lost track of how many bottles of liquor are now piled beneath her operating table, stolen by her nurse aides from inebriated soldiers clumsily stumbling through the throng of wounded in hopes of giving their friends some cheer. The cheer, she doesn't mind. What she does is when the soldiers trip and foul up her perfectly constructed splints upon her calmly-resting patients. They aren't so clam after, and neither is she as she chases them out.
She thinks she'll sneak Sam a bottle though; if anything it'll definitely help him sleep better tonight.
She's just finished severing his arm above the elbow when one of the nurses pokes her head through the curtain and calls for Santana's attention.
She turns raising a brow in question as she deposits of the arm in the proffered bucket. She doesn't want to look at it. It will only remind her of what Sam's lost.
He was such a fine fiddler.
"You have a visitor," the nurse informs.
"I'll be out in a moment," Santana tells her, about to ready Sam for bone filing when one of the younger medics arrives, sewing kit in hand. He doesn't even bother asking for permission as he sets to smoothing down Sam's bone and thus shortly after suturing the wound in her place. Santana sputters, aghast at his intrusion but more so his speed. She opens her mouth to lash into him when she notices his skill with a needle is unmatched. He looks up at her, brow raised as she continues staring. "Carry on," she mutters for she realizes he's only here to help.
There are still so many in need of aid...
He gives a nod and an infuriatingly warm smile before turning back to his, dare she call it, impeccable work. She spins upon her heels and stalks up to the washbasin. She is not envious of that Asian bastard. Not one bit, she tells herself as she furiously scrubs free any remnants of Sam's blood that could linger upon her skin. As she dries her hands she peers back at the medic. She won't tell him so but she's pleased and thankful for his help. It is clear he is skilled and what more treating Sam with the utmost care. She can't help but feel it's almost as if he sensed she needed a moment away. She hasn't had a break since early this morn and feels well overdue for one now. With one last look to Sam she ducks out from the operating space.
She is unprepared for who waits for her.
Brittany stands, a few paces from the last of the men sitting outside the tent, her eyes saddened as they take in the pained faces of those before her. Santana can't help but think Brittany looks much like them. The courier's uniform is disheveled; a thick layer of dirt sticks to her knees and arms. The usual light in her eyes is dulled, expression exhausted. Yet when those haunting blue eyes land upon Santana, a hopeful glint springs to them, and a beautifully shy grin forms on her mouth.
It makes Santana's heart twist.
Brittany holds up two cups, a clear invitation to dine with her as she'd requested earlier.
Santana hadn't even realized it was nearing dark already.
Brittany watches as Santana approaches her, eyes unable to hold the other woman's gaze for long. Not when they hanker to wander across the doctor's frame, to assure herself that Santana's all right. She hasn't seen the other woman all day and has spent a great majority of her time fretting for her. She can't imagine what Santana must have endured in that tent, all day, working alongside her callous father. The bloodshed she had to witness. The countless lives in need of saving. There were so many hurt… still hurting even now. And yet despite it all, Santana walks toward her with a distinctive air of pride in her step. Brittany's relieved to see her holding up so well. She's sure she doesn't have half the strength to face what Santana must have today. She's proud of the doctor. Though worried. Santana's hair is in wiry disarray, haphazardly tied in a bun, and her once immaculate dress is smeared with blood.
It's far more blood than even she expected.
"San," Brittany gulps once the other woman stops a few paces in front of her. Her senses are bombarded with the metallic smell clinging to Santana's body. Blood of those she's helped, Brittany reasons even as her stomach grows queasy. She cringes despite herself, nose scrunching as she takes a step toward Santana, eyes still locked upon the bloody dress. She's beyond worried now. "You—"
"I've been quite busy," Santana interrupts. She keeps her voice as even as she can. The concern dripping from Brittany's tone is jarring. Unwelcome. She tucks some hair behind her ear and motions towards the cups in Brittany's hands. "I can't join you."
Brittany nods, understanding, yet her expression drops every so slightly. "That's all right, you have to help them," she says quietly, gaze meeting Santana's once more. She extends out a cup of soup to the doctor. A true doctor today, she thinks with a small smile. "This is for you. I put it in a cup, that way it's easier for you to eat. I thought you might be hungry…"
It's a sweet gesture, one even Santana feels herself softening over. "Thank you," she mutters, cheeks flushed as she reaches up to accept the meal. Her hand brushes against Brittany's as she wraps her fingers around the cup, that same striking feeling piercing her gut at the touch. Brittany is smiling as her eyes flicker up, locking upon briefly panicked brown.
You mustn't! Santana exclaims to herself.
She pulls away sharply, some of the soup spilling upon her gory apron as she backs away.
"Santana, I—" Brittany begins to apologize but is quickly silenced when she notices Dr. Lopez approaching them from over Santana's shoulder. She gives him a courteous nod as he stops before them, shrinking a bit under the intensity of his gaze. It is clear he does not think much of her and she doesn't want to give him more reason to dislike her. And especially any more reason to harm Santana.
Santana cannot move. She is sure her father has come out here to berate her for abandoning her post. A post he saw fit to grant her. How foolish it was to have come out here! She opens her mouth, apology already formed when he holds up a hand, silencing her words upon her tongue.
"We're done here," he says, voice layered with stress and a reproachful gaze directed at the courier. Brittany says nothing, her own eyes rooted to the ground. Dr. Lopez finds Bret disturbingly pathetic. And what more, not worth a second more of his time. He rolls his shoulders, spine cracking with relief as he focuses upon Santana. "God holds the rest in his care," he says with a glance back toward the tent. "See to it you are with them come morn. I'll need a count of those who passed during the night."
With that said he takes his leave, leaving the two women standing in silence once more. Santana doesn't know quite what to make of the encounter. In fact she doesn't know what's come over her father since he returned from the battle field. He is his usual bitter self, of that much remains the same, but of his overall intentions toward her... dare she think them supportive? Fatherly, even. Brittany shifts in front of her, readjusting the soot dusted cap atop her head. Santana is brought back to the present at the move. She knows come morning there will be more graves to dig and more injured to attend to. As she looks up at Brittany she thinks perhaps she can join her for one last meal.
It is the least she can give her.
Brittany deserves far more though, she thinks.
So Santana gives her a smile, one Brittany is pained to see doesn't reach her eyes, as she asks, "Where did you want to have supper?"
They eat in a tense silence near a fire behind Burt's tent, far from prying eyes. Santana's ears are still ringing with the noise of the medical ward as she sips the soup Brittany thoughtfully saw to fill into a cup instead of a bowl. It's cold, the blonde obviously having delayed before finding her. Santana wishes to think it was her own doing that kept Brittany waiting, and not as she fears, some other force. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't concerned for the dirt she spots beneath the courier's short nails. What has she been doing all day?
Santana clears her throat, uncomfortable in this new dynamic that has formed between them. "Did you sleep well?"
Brittany's eyes don't leave the fire as she replies, "I slept."
The words do little to ease Santana's mounting unease. "Did you have to run a telegram out?"
"No," Brittany answers, her voice low, heavy with an emotion Santana's never heard, as if the courier is bracing herself against something painful. She watches as Brittany swallows thickly, eyes shinning with unshed tears. "Mister Hummel and I, along with some of the other cavalry boys, were sent out to…" she trails off, taking a deep breath as she looks up, meeting Santana's troubled eyes. Brittany chokes at the look. "T-to dispense of the injured horses. After they were shot I spent my afternoon burning their bodies in fires. It was…" It is the single most unpleasant thing she feels she's ever had to do.
Something she'll never be able to forget.
And Santana knows this. Brittany loves those animals. When the blonde wasn't speaking at length of Emily she spoke at length of Apple. Piedmont, Ranger, Lulu. Good god, Santana thinks, she knows more horses in this camp than actual men. All thanks to Brittany. She can't imagine how traumatic it must have been for her to see them killed in such cold blood. And then to have to be the one to burn them? Santana's heart goes out to Brittany. Unlike the courier, she's had the training to prepare herself for what she underwent today. For the countless human bodies she's seen in tatters upon her operating table. Brittany though… Brittany's never had to witness such horror. Especially to creatures that bring her so much happiness.
"Britt…" Santana whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"I don't want to remember it," Brittany snaps, eyes once more focused upon the flames. She puts down her soup cup, her appetite gone.
Santana doesn't quite know what to say to her. She hates seeing Brittany so defeated and feels much as she did last night when she tried so hard to bring comfort to the heartbroken woman. She stops herself before she can set her soup down in order to reach out and embrace Brittany. Why did you agree to this supper? she asks herself. What mustn't she allow herself to feel anymore?
She still cannot stand to see Brittany so desolate though. She wishes to see Brittany more her effervescent self and feels a change of conversation is in need.
"I saw Sam," she says, pleased when Brittany's expression perks, hope once more resting in those warm blue eyes. "I had to remove his left arm but he'll be all right. Puckerman is barely scratched, of course," she adds with a chuckle.
"And Finn?" Brittany implores.
Santana quiets and gives a slight shake of her head.
Brittany stares at her for a moment, unblinking. She expected as much; really, she had. Knowing so doesn't hurt any less though. Nothing is all right. "I don't feel like we won," Brittany confesses.
"You're not alone," Santana tells her. And when the heavy silence returns Santana once again feels inclined to lighten Brittany's spirits. With a smile she turns to the saddened woman. "I do have some better news to share," she says, unable to keep the excitement from leaking into her voice. "I think my father may allow me to practice medicine with him back in Cincinnati."
"San, that's…" Brittany begins to say, a grin breaking across her face. "That's what you've always wanted!"
Santana's cheeks burn under Brittany's thrilled expression. The other woman is sincerely happy for her, despite all that's marred them today. She feels herself relaxing some, easily falling back into their harmony. "It was, but after today I think," no, I know, "I want my own practice."
And Brittany beams at Santana as only Santana thinks she can. It makes Santana feel far more proud than any sentiment her father could ever give her; than any operating table granted to her control. She doesn't even realize when her hand finds Brittany's, their fingers so easily linking together. Not until the smile on Brittany's face falls at the move, and blue eyes stare, clouded, down at their joined hands.
Santana tries to pull away, but Brittany holds tight. "What is this, Santana?"
Santana's eyes dart around them, fearful of any who could pass. She twists her wrist. "Brittany, stop."
Quieter still Brittany asks, "Why does it scare you?"
Santana bristles, temper rising. "Do you even know what this is? How unnat—"
"I love you," Brittany declares. "I know that much. What more is there to understand?"
Only three words resonate in Santana's head as she stares, wide-eyed and terrified back at Brittany. No one, not one soul upon this earth has ever uttered those three words to her. And for them to come from Brittany so easily, without the slightest hesitation… this, more than anything, scares Santana beyond belief. She wishes she found it so simple. That she could live in the rose-colored world Brittany inhabits. Where one is free from the stigmas of society and where she too could proudly admit how much she cares for the blonde. But that is not their world. And nor will it ever be.
Santana sits, frozen by the reality she now faces. A deep part of her clings to those three words. Clings to the world Brittany could promise her. Brittany loves her… but here, now…this cannot go on.
Santana's silence strikes Brittany hard. She can't read the expression upon the doctor's face. It's blank, utterly blank. The look frightens Brittany. To feel nothing at all? She never expected such a numb reaction. Reluctance, surely. Delight, a hope. But nothing? It's as if she's right back in that field, watching those horses burn all over again.
"You don't…" is uttered as nothing more than a dismayed whisper.
Santana feels like one of her patients, lying prone upon a table as a sharpened scalpel is driven straight through her heart.
She reacts without thought, shaking her head as she whispers quickly, "I do care for you."
Brittany is growing exasperated. And what more, frustratingly confused. "Then what's upsetting you?"
"I care for you as I should a man!" Santana exclaims in hushed impatience. She focuses back up to Brittany, willing for the other woman to understand her reasoning. "You must see how…how impossible it would be for us to carry on like this."
"I don't." Brittany blinks, uncomprehending. It isn't impossible, she thinks; they carried on just fine the night prior. She'll never forget their kiss or the soft smile upon Santana's lips as she drifted to sleep in her arms. That couldn't have been a lie. It was too real.
Santana buries her face in her hands as she lets out another loud groan. "You don't see because you refuse to think of the consequences!"
Brittany counters, "I don't because everyone thinks I'm a man."
Santana lets her hands fall back to her lap as she stares over at Brittany through narrowed eyes. "You're not Bret with me," she hisses.
"Is that what you're afraid of?" Brittany scoots closer, noting the flash of panic in Santana's eyes as she does. She stops short, leaning in as she whispers softly, "being with me because I'm a woman?"
Santana lets her eyes fall close as her chin drops. Brittany thinks she's never looked smaller. "Yes…" Santana admits, voice trembling. She glances up at Brittany, the courier moving closer still at the fright reflected back at her in the brown eyes. Santana can smell the dirt upon Brittany's clothes… the smoke of the fires. It calms her somehow, even with the horror that those pyres brought to Brittany. The other woman is close to her, so close. It would be so easy to lean into her. So simple to give in to what she wants. Remember why you're here, she wills to herself. Sitting straighter, she slides from Brittany, picking up her soup so as to keep her hands from trembling so. "It doesn't matter," she says, hoping her tone conveys her detachment. "We could never be together as women."
Brittany doesn't believe the façade Santana has so suddenly put on. Nor the way the doctor blows cautiously at her obviously cold soup. With a knowing smile she tells her, "You kissed me just fine as one."
Santana meets her bright gaze, unwavering. "Everyone thinks you're a man."
"But you don't," Brittany's brow crinkles as she mulls the response over. She feels Santana has sent her roundabout. "This is getting confusing."
Santana feels there is only one way to finally get her point across. Bluntly she asks, "Brittany, when this war is said and done, if you still feel for me as you claim you do now, what shall happen then?"
"Well, you can be a doctor anywhere right?" Brittany asks, expression thoughtful as a calm smile crosses her lips. She looks over at Santana, hopeful as she tells her, "I'd ask if you'd like to come home with me, to Lima."
Again Santana feels her heart sinking further into Brittany's reality.
"In Lima you're known as a woman," she emphasizes and then motions between them. "This is impossible."
"It's not," Brittany says, adamant. "I'd give up skirts and dresses for you. I spend most of my time on the farm in slacks anyway."
"Britt, you shouldn't have to pretend to be a man. That's the point!" Santana cries. But Brittany keeps staring at her with those hopeful eyes, wearing that easy smile and waiting, waiting so patiently for Santana to see what's sitting right in front of her. To see the very thing Santana is so much trying to turn away from. And Santana, with all her walls and all her pride is trying so desperately to let go of Brittany's hope. To let go of her wonderful reality even though she knows it's already firmly planted in her heart. It has been, she realizes, ever since they sat beside one another in front of that fire, Brittany smelling of fresh soap and Santana already weary of her closeness.
Santana doesn't even realize that she's started to cry, not until Brittany reaches forward, plucking the cup away from her, and gently takes hold of her shivering hands.
"We can't…" Santana whimpers, shaking her head despite tightening her hold on Brittany's hand. "If someone hurt you, if… We just…can't."
Brittany has moments of sublime clarity sometimes. They're rare and have thus far only come when she's been wrought with emotion to the point of paralysis. It's terrifying. She remembers when her mother died. When her father came to wake her and she'd clung to him, begging the tears in his eyes not to fall so. They didn't nor did her cries stop the words from leaving his mouth. Every detail of that moment is so burned to her memory that even now she can feel the scrape of the wood floor along her palms. Hear her father trying to temper his breathing, every forth breath sucked between his teeth with a stutter. His eyes were empty of all she'd come to love of him. She remembers staring over his shoulder as he held her, unable to focus and yet seeing so clearly that there were twelve panels of wallpaper along their hall. Something she'd never paid attention to before became so suddenly important.
Nothing would ever be the same.
She'd not wake the next day to jump into her mother's arms. Never see her smile. Never help her to milk the cows in the barn as they'd done just a mere few weeks prior. There would be nothing. Nothing and yet everything still lay before them. They would still carry on. She could see herself jumping into her parents' bed, only one lump sleeping beneath the quilt to stir. She could see herself, stealing into her father's drawer to pour over the only photograph remaining that captured her mother's smile. And she knew, tomorrow, she'd be sitting in the barn, an empty stool collecting dust somewhere behind her, as she milked the cows alone.
She hadn't had a moment like that since. The closest she came was last night, fearing so much for the broken words she could decipher from her father's letter. But then Santana had come, and with it her hope renewed. That hope so quickly dashed with her retreat this early morn. Brittany understands now what is plaguing Santana so.
And now, with that hurtful last word Santana uttered echoing so painfully in her head she can feel that same clarity taking hold of her mind.
Can't.
No! She wants to shout. She won't accept can't. Not when they've found one another; when they're here.
Oh, how absolutely vivid and sharp she can see everything before her at the thought! See warm brown eyes overcome with hesitation and defeat. Tan fingers tied so desperately to her own dirtied hand. A deep crease marring a soft brow. The crackle of the fire snapping in juxtaposition to the creaks of the log against Santana's nervous shifts. She does not want for Santana to fret, not over something as simple as love.
Their eyes meet. Brittany notices they aren't just brown, but something darker, deeper. She sees the world in those eyes.
And tomorrow she knows she'll see the same.
It is that simple.
So she takes both Santana's fidgeting hands and fits them with her own, allowing her palms to press solidly against the hesitancy she can feel trying to pull Santana back into herself.
She won't let her run away. Not again. She won't accept can't.
"Everyone may think me a man but I love you as I am," she tells her with hushed conviction. "And I ain't stopping. I won't let anyone hurt us. Not ever."
Santana draws a deep, shuddering breath into her lungs, pulling Brittany's words far inside her. Her eyes dart to her sides as she finds herself leaning forward and whispering, "Brittany, we ca—"
Brittany holds her hands tighter, blue eyes burning ardently into wavering brown. "I love you as I am."
Santana closes her eyes as her forehead comes to rest against Brittany's. She clings to the other woman's strength. "Britt…"
"I love you," Brittany repeats to her.
Santana whimpers when Brittany's lips meet her own.
And what more, she doesn't pull away.