AN: Hello all! I just wanted to give you a heads up that next week there won't be an update. I'm sorry to have to break my schedule! :( I'll be on vacation so I won't have my computer on me. I will though have my ipad so if anyone has questions or concerns I'll definitely be able to answer you. :) In the mean time I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you so much for all your support, woot!
Chapter 8
The Coming Fall
The sun has long since set over the camp nestled in the valley of Mackville. And despite the darkness now descended upon the encampment the celebrations carry on without hindrance. The men cannot contain their elation at returning victorious – nay, they cannot contain their relief that they have returned at all. The camp is positively alight with merrymaking. Voices are full of pride and triumph, and bellies full of food and drink. Bottles upon bottles of beer, bourdon, and cheap whiskey line the ground, drained and forgotten. Fires roar high and proud into the night sky above. "Let them see our smoke!" is the cry shouted into the surrounding trees.
Brittany can't help but feel separated from the joy of her fellow soldiers, unable to be swept into the merriment like so many. She feels more in tune with the men who seek solace in their tents. Those who suffered loss today, whose wounds are still fresh and hearts still clenched with grief. She whispers a prayer for the horses and Finn as she scuttles past a group of soldiers dancing.
She wishes to sleep her troubles away, god knows she hasn't had much rest the past few nights. But she's been deftly avoiding heading back to her tent. After escorting Santana back to her quarters so that the doctor could get the rest that she'll need for the coming morn, Brittany has taken to wandering the camp. It was hard to say goodnight to the doctor, given how wonderful Brittany had slept with Santana by her side. But the stubborn woman was adamant she be left alone tonight and even placed a soft kiss upon Brittany's cheek to reassure the courier before disappearing inside her dark tent.
It's Santana's parting words that cause Brittany now to steer clear of her own quarters.
"Tomorrow, meet me for breakfast. I'll help you with that letter, all right?"
The letter…
She knows that when she returns to her small tent, the ill-fated words of her father are all that awaits her. Last night she tried so hard to put her thoughts to paper, to pen words of hope back home to him. And yet for every stoke she made she'd recall just why she was writing in the first place and crumble the note before her tears could stain the page any further. She can't tell him to be brave, not when she herself feels so broken.
This is how Noah finds her; sitting on the fringe of a fire pit, tears blurring her eyes as she watches some of the boys drunkenly start a circle dance.
Bret looks about as miserable as he feels, Noah thinks. And misery does love company.
"'Em graybacks didn' stan' nooo chance agains-us!" Noah boasts, speech slurred as he takes a giant swig of his beer and allows himself to fall to his knees beside her. Brittany grabs him before he topples over face-first to the dirt below, steadying him beside her.
"Careful Noah," she tells him, mindful of keeping her voice low. She eyes his drink. "How much you have tonight?"
Noah's face scrunches as he tries to reason the amount. But he feels it arbitrary, giving a laugh instead as he downs the rest in a single swoop. He tosses his empty mug aside, wobbling a bit where he sits as he turns to Brittany and asks through a crooked smirk, "Where's your high-falu'in honey at?"
Brittany allows a small smile, knowing he means Santana. "Sleeping," she tells him.
A light blush spreads across her cheeks as she thinks of the woman. The kiss they shared is seared in the front of her mind. It only lasted but a moment, a soft pressure of lips. And yet in that touch she could feel Santana melting against her. Yielding. Accepting. Without a doubt she knows now that the doctor feels the same for her. It's one of the only thoughts currently bringing her any comfort; a lingering flutter of happiness that settles warmly in her heart.
She's torn from her memory when Noah claps her hard on the back, laughing again as he slurs out, "Bully for you Bret! Don' know how you got tha' one! Top rail she is… and those breas—"
"Noah!" Brittany admonishes, face beet red. "Don't talk of San like that."
He shrugs, a brazen smile plastered across his lips. "San, eh?" He chuckles. "You two gettin' sparkin'. I could see it wif my own two eyes!"
"You only have two," Brittany points out, amused as he leans drunkenly against her side. She pushes him back upright, forcing her giggles into as masculine a sound as she can muster while he hiccups. "You're sloshed, go to bed," Brittany tells him, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. He sways but rights himself. The laugh she anticipates never rumbles out from his throat. He grows incredibly still beside her, eyes glazed as he focuses to the fire. "Noah?" Brittany ventures, cautious as she lays a hand over his suddenly tense shoulders.
"I'm not sleepin', no," he mutters, voice thick with unshed tears.
Brittany scoots closer, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Are there snakes in your bed too?"
Noah's expression scrunches again, this time with utter confusion. He swipes his sleeve below his nose, sniffling loudly as he tells her, "No… just—" his words catch painfully in his throat. And softer yet he continues, "He was better 'an any brother…"
Finn. Of course he doesn't want to sleep, Brittany thinks sadly. Not when she knows they shared a tent.
Though, she laments, she has no words of comfort to impart upon him. If she could be herself she'd wrap him in a hug, tell him that one day things won't feel so hopeless. But even now she holds back, merely giving his shoulder a soothing rub. There's nothing she could ever say to him tonight that will fill the void that Finn's death has left inside him.
Just like there was nothing her father could do or say to replace the hurt left inside her by her mother's death.
Sometimes you just have to be empty for a while.
She sits by Noah, giving him a solid presence. They stay that way for a period, Brittany simply holding Noah upright as he finally allows his tears to fall. Together they watch the men stumble in their steps, their dance far less graceful after a night with bottles tipped to their mouths.
"Thank you," Noah mutters quietly after some time. His eyes turn up to Brittany's, tears still evident in his glassy gaze, but the despair they once held has subdued. He manages a shaky smile. "I make shoddy company t'night."
"No," Brittany tells him with a soft smile. "You make great company."
"Ya shouldn't be anyone's company tonight!" a voice exclaims out from just to their side. Brittany bristles at the sound. Of course Scott Cooper would find her now. She pays him no mind as he stumbles over, a limp to his step and bloodied bandages wrapped over his left ear. She feels a bit of pity for him at the loss, but it's quickly pushed aside when he opens his mouth once more. He spits out a dark stain of chewing tobacco atop her knee, snarling as he continues, "It should have been you on that line, damned coward."
"'Ey now!" Noah hollers, trying to muster strength to his wobbly legs. Brittany shakes her head at him, holding him down as she turns her gaze up to Cooper.
"I earned my place," she tells him evenly. "Same as you."
He has nothing to say in response, knowing full well the truth to the words. His face burns red with embarrassment; teeth working hard against his tobacco. What he wouldn't give to wipe the look of conviction from Bret Pierce's face. To send what he feels would be a rather deserving punch into the nose of the poorest excuse for a man, let alone a courier, he's ever seen. He holds his tongue though when Noah drunkenly demands,
"So quit your jawing and get already!" Noah throws out his arm at Cooper. He looks in confusion at his empty hand until he realizes he hadn't exactly launched anything at Cooper aside from air. Where'd my mug get to?
Cooper lets out a grunt, rolling his eyes at Noah before taking his leave. He knows better than to attempt another fight with the man, even given his drunken disposition. Brittany eyes Cooper as he retreats. She always had an inkling that he was simply envious of her position but it's only now she realizes just how spot on her assumptions were. Couriers were protected from the field of battle, safe from being sent into a fight. Of course there were men who wished to be in her place instead. They'd be a fool not to. But he's right, she thinks with a sigh. She is a coward. She would never have been able to stand on that line beside the other men. To hold up a rifle, awaiting orders to fire whilst a hundred some Southerners blazed toward you. Brittany's entirely sure she would have died of panic before the first shot was even fired.
Or fled.
A right coward you are.
She looks over to Noah, whose eyes are bleary and glaring unsteadily at Cooper. He stood on that line, she thinks. Without a second thought she gives him a tight hug. He seems surprised by the embrace, mind still buzzing with alcohol even as Bret pulls away, giving his shoulder a rather strong, awkward, pat.
But before he can even ask why Bret was so suddenly compelled to affection, the quick, uneven patter of feet behind them distracts him.
"Bret, there you are, boy," Burt says as he comes across the pair. Brittany notices there's a certain weariness to his stance today but she feels the same could be said for a lot of the men in camp. She is quick to jump to her feet upon sight of the note clasped in Burt's hand. A shock of prickles roll down her legs, blood rushing to fill her sleeping feet. It leaves her feeling jittery-legged as she steps forward matching the anxiety she feels now pooling low in her gut.
Again? Already?
"Tonight?" she asks, trying to muster as much confidence into her tone as he hands her the letter.
But Burt sees through the pretense. He truly does hate having to send Bret out so soon. He gives a deep sigh, "I'm afraid it's urgent. Lexington again."
"But Peidmont—"
Burt smiles softly. "I know you'd be worried for him so I've arranged for you to use Bennett's mare."
"Lulu," Brittany recalls. "I like her. She has pretty spots."
"Well, she's all set for you by my quarters," Burt says, indicating over his shoulder with a jab of his thumb. But his eyes are trained upon Bret's, trying to gauge whether he's truly all right to be heading out again so soon. It is clear his charge was tired, and he fears sending him out without a full proper night's rest. But orders are orders, and the General had asked for Pierce specifically. He watches as Bret gives a nod and then turns down to the soldier upon the ground.
"You'll be all right, Noah?" Brittany asks as she squats back down beside the slightly swaying man.
"Course," Noah says, giving her a grin. And with a wink adds, "I'll watch over 'er for ya."
"Don't upset her," she chuckles, standing once more. She feels all right leaving him by himself. Especially now with him in much better spirits. With a quick farewell Brittany walks away with Burt, the two heading down the row in silence back toward Burt's quarters. That is until from the corner of Brittany's eyes she catches sight of Santana's darkened tent. She stops suddenly in her tracks.
"Mister Hummel, is it all right if…?" she begin to ask but Burt is already smiling, eyes also focused to the doctor's tent as he gives her a nod.
"Don't stall now," he tells her with a chuckle. "I don't want to have to come in there to pry you away."
Brittany feels herself blushing, even as she breathes out thanks and takes off toward Santana's tent. She'd left once without saying a proper goodbye and thinks she'd rather a leg be taken than to ever do so again.
Inside the Lopez tent Santana is finding it impossible to sleep and for once it has nothing to do with the loud snores of her father. It's been hours, she thinks, since her parting with Brittany. Hours spent lying in a range of fidgeting positions upon her cot, mind reeling and thoughts unable to pause long enough for sleep to take her. She'd asked to be left alone tonight because she needs this time to sort out everything that has occurred between the courier and her. She can't concentrate with Brittany near, let alone attempt to rationalize all that entails. All she knows is that she failed, spectacularly, in doing the one thing she'd been so adamant at discontinuing.
And what is keeping her awake now, what is causing her stomach to churn and chest to tighten is that she's not entirely opposed to the failure.
She can't stop replaying their evening by the fire inside her head. At this point she feels it superfluous to even try stopping the images.
It's not that she really minds the thoughts of Brittany. If anything, they distract her from the jarring sounds her father makes in his sleep. The woman is beautiful. Santana can't deny that fact. And somehow the courier manages to remain so even with soot smudged across her cheeks and eyes puffy from earlier tears. No, Santana doesn't mind admiring Brittany. What she does mind, what truly bothers her, is the feelings that those thoughts stir within her.
Attraction in itself is an observation, something intangible. She can excuse a wandering eye, appreciate a pleasing form. It was human nature to be curious. But the sensations that her attraction to the courier rouse within her feel far too real and far too substantial. Enough to keep her tossing and turning instead of getting the sleep she so desperately craves.
Or that other thing you crave…
Santana groans and rolls to her stomach, burying her face deep into her pillow. She very much craves returning to Brittany's tent and spending a full, undisturbed night wrapped in long arms on a lumpy bedroll. Perhaps with some minor touching of sorts… That thought, of course, leaves her feeling flustered and heated. And entirely exasperated with herself.
Because let us face some encumbering facts, she tells herself. You are a horrible, unhinged, coward of a human who crumbles like a god damned toddler the minute she touches you. Why? Because some cruel god has seen to it that you care for her and she loves you and for some reason you cannot stop yourself from allowing it!
She thinks this could all have been avoided if Bret was truly real. But the truth is Santana cares not one iota for the male form, a facet of herself she hadn't really bothered to acknowledge until recently. Not until a scatterbrained courier was left in her ward with a broken shoulder and a pocket full of unread letters from home. Would she have gone out her way to help Bret like she did Brittany?
Santana sighs inwardly for she knows she would not have. And while she can't quite accept that she cares for Brittany the way she should for a man, she's not as panicked over the verity as she was before. Brittany had seen to that a mere few hours prior with simple vindication and promising eyes. Santana surrendered to those words and the assurances they held. And now… she sighs, now that she is alone with her thoughts, her feelings seem impossible once again.
It's almost unfair, really, how atrociously her life has unraveled thus far. And now chance has deemed to make it worse. She's envious, almost, of her more sordid nurse aid. That woman holds no qualms about whose bed she shares and even delights in the retelling of her nights, much to her innocent counterpart's dismay. Santana always feigns disinterest when she prattles on, partly because she doesn't care and partly because she wishes she could see in men what her nurse does.
But no, life has seen to it that Santana sees in Brittany what her nurse sees in men.
She hates that she cannot control this want in herself. It makes her feel weak, being so enraptured by another person. Let alone a woman, and a good-hearted one at that.
There has to be some reason, some way to explain the unnatural affections born within her for the courier. She's always prided herself in her logic. It is the only unfailing thing about her. That and perhaps her figure when she's indulging the more vain of her thoughts. But she is used to seeing life in terms of simple medical mechanics, therefore every emotion and desire fell within the same rubrics. Chemical reactions could always be explained.
If Brittany loves her and she feels uncouthly warm because of it she cannot be blamed for the fact that her nerves have lost their damned minds.
She can't help having been born with malfunctioning bits. She is a lot like Captain Briggs in that sense, she thinks. He can't help having been born with a neural disorder, being just that much different… broken.
And while on that train of thought, Brittany's mind is certainly a thing of chemical chaos. She is, after all, in the habit of being easily confused. Was she born without properly firing synapses or has she fallen from Apple's back on one too many an occasion?
Does anything she says therefore have any credibility?
Who's to say she really meant love in the romantic sense? Thus far, Brittany has professed love for the following things in Santana's presence: Emily, Hendrick and horses… well, those were a given. But the rest? There was milk, warm milk, the color yellow (or of piss as Santana had pointed out, much to Brittany's opposition), all the oddly named animals upon her farm, ducks, swimming, dancing, large hats, swooshy dresses ("come again?"), storybooks, unicorns and the list carries on so endlessly Santana is starting to think perhaps love isn't quite the word Brittany had meant to use.
She's obviously confused.
A strong liking is perhaps what she'd meant. I strongly like you as I am, Santana says to herself, wincing upon realizing it just is not the same. There is a way to Brittany's speech, a stilling gravity to her tone that, even given the simple nature of her words, their meaning is unmistakable. Brittany loves her, undoubtedly, in the way a gentleman does a lady. And Santana knows Brittany's never spoken of milk, or ducks or anything the way she spoke to her of love.
Touches her as if it were a whisper. Kisses her like a lover.
There is no pretense, no disguise of her emotions. She wears everything as openly as the smile upon her lips.
Santana relents, I care for her, she loves me and—
Something small thuds against the tent wall to her side and she gives a muffled yelp in surprise. She quirks a brow and turns her head, watching as the fabric dents upon the impact of something from outside, a soft smack echoing into the night.
Her father carries on snoring.
"San?"
Her irritation is quick to abscond at the voice. A smile breaks across her face in its stead when she hears Brittany whispering for her again. Of course the camp courier would have impeccable timing. And despite Santana's tumultuous thoughts she truly is glad for this interruption. Brittany has the uncanny ability to put her at ease, something she is quite in need of at the present hour. Nevermind that she can't stop grinning like a fool as she slips from her bed as quietly as she's able. She pulls on her coat to ward off the chill of the night air that bites at her skin even now. As she buttons it swiftly she keeps her eyes trained upon her father. He sleeps on, snores rattling loudly as she finally slips barefooted out into the night.
She regrets not stealing a minute to at least have slipped on socks but her heart is in a bit of a frenzy and her senses have gone elsewhere. She scans the area around her tent for Brittany and is relieved to find it blessedly clear of any men.
That is save for one.
Bret Pierce stands just a few paces away, cap askew atop his head and another small rock held in his hands ready to be launched against the tent.
Brittany drops it guiltily when her eyes meet those of Santana's.
Santana can't help the way the corner of her mouth quirks in response to the blush rising to Brittany's cheeks. She makes her way over, mindful to keep her steps light. The last thing she wants is for her father to wake now, of all times, but she knows it's far from likely. His loud snores carry far beyond the tent. He won't be waking for a long while.
Once she's standing in front of Brittany she asks, tone laced with amusement, "It's a bit late to be calling after me, don't you think?"
Brittany loves seeing Santana so at ease with herself. She can't help giving a playful shrug and smiling as she tells her, "I actually don't know what time it is. I just really wanted to see you." Then softly adds, "and even with your hair in a muddle you still look really lovely."
Santana's smirk falters as her mouth parts at the confession and she suddenly finds it slightly harder to breathe. She's so very aware of how Brittany makes her feel. Of every precise and wondrous malfunction occurring within her. The synapses that fire in her brain spur a curious and telling reaction of want inside her. A darkening of her eyes, softening of a brow. Heat upon her cheeks spreading slowly down through her neck and chest. The flash of fear it all instills within her. It's so real. Substantial.
I care for her, she loves me and we can hide this.
She knows what she wishes to do. God knows her body is already inching forward in anticipation. But she holds herself still, a brief flicker of fear once more crossing her eyes. Brittany grows concerned upon noticing Santana's expression. She remains so as she watches Santana spare a glance to either side of them before she rolls up to her toes and brushes her lips briefly against Brittany's. The courier's concern vanishes with the kiss. Santana gives another yelp when Brittany's arms wrap around her back and she's lifted from her feet into a crushingly delightful hug, the lips beneath hers pulling into a grin.
Santana can't help but laugh as she pulls away, swatting at Brittany's good shoulder until her bare feet are once again resting upon the ground.
The smile upon Brittany's mouth is a tad too impish, her eyes shinning with far too much mirth.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Santana quips.
"Mmhmm," Brittany hums contentedly as she reaches up and pats down a more unruly section of Santana's hair. She is still smiling without a care otherwise, that is until a boisterous cheer is shouted through the camp and Brittany ultimately recalls why she's sought Santana out.
As the smile on the courier's face slips, expression growing solemn, Santana finds herself growing anxious. "Is something wrong?" she asks.
"No, not wrong," Brittany says, yet the heavy quality to her tone would denote otherwise. A deep crease forms over Santana's brow at the sound. Brittany sighs. "I have to go to Lexington again. I didn't want to leave without telling you. I know how you worried last time." Brittany tells her, spotting that same worry now upon Santana's face. She reaches up, letting the tips of her fingers drag softly along the knotted brow. Santana's features soften instantly at the light touch. Brittany threads her fingers through dark hair, tucking a piece neatly behind a small ear. It's hot to the touch and Brittany can't help but notice Santana's eyes have darkened again as well. They always do, she realizes, whenever she touches her like this.
Santana blinks quickly, willing herself to focus. "When will you be back?" she asks quietly.
Brittany leans forward, wrapping Santana in a tight hug. "As soon as I can be," she whispers.
Santana holds her closer, whispering against Brittany's neck, "Be safe, Britt."
"I always am," Brittany tells her, yet even the confidence in her voice does little to quell Santana's grip. Brittany giggles, squeezing Santana tighter. "Don't worry so."
Santana lets out a groan as she buries her face against Brittany's collar. "I'm afraid it's impossible to ask me not to worry for you."
"You can sleep in my tent again, if it helps any," Brittany offers as they release one another yet remain standing close. Brittany nods back toward the Lopez's tent. "Your Pa is a might loud."
Santana rolls her eyes with a chuckle. "I'll be all right here." She truthfully doesn't know how she would keep her worries in check surrounded by Brittany's things. It is best to stay away.
"But he's so loud San. How do you sleep?"
"He's usually not like this, it'll pass," Santana says with a few flicks of her wrist.
Brittany squints, thinking for a moment before saying, "my tent is quieter."
Santana's eyes gleam with playfulness. "You really want me in your bed again, don't you?"
"I do," Brittany tells her, bluntly. Truthfully. "I always want you there."
She's smiling down at Santana with that same easy grin she seems to reserve only for her. Even as Santana feels her heart pounding harder beneath her ribs, the last of her cautions are being thrown to the wind. Because, really, there is something incredibly wrong with Brittany Pierce. Something so wonderfully wrong that makes it all the more right. For when the woman you adore is more worried whether you'll get a good night's sleep than what could befall her on the long journey she's about to take there can't be any other explanation.
And it's much to Brittany's surprise that she finds Santana's lips upon her own, this time with far more intensity. She stumbles back at the force, arms quick to rise up and wrap about Santana's back, their bodies pressed fully against one another. Brittany wishes she could appease the anxiety she feels in Santana's kiss. It's a desperate kind of touch she feels in the doctor's fingers upon her jaw and she swears Santana just raked her teeth across her bottom lip. Brittany's legs feel ready to give out entirely and before they fully can she breaks away from the kiss, breathless even as Santana pulls her face close once more and nuzzles her nose against a heated cheek.
"Please be safe, Brittany," Santana whispers. It's a plea more than a request.
Brittany wishes she wouldn't worry so; it only makes leaving her all the harder.
So as Santana pulls away Brittany smiles broadly, nose crinkling cutely, and promises her, "For you, always."
"Not going to check on me first?"
Santana looks up from the sleeping soldier she's readjusting the sling on. She's surprised to find Sam sitting up in his cot a few men away, arm still snuggly wrapped in the fresh bandages she fitted on his stub of an arm herself this dawn as he slept. She was pleased then to see he was healing well, no sign of infection, no excessive bruising. Though now he should be resting still, she thinks, and certainly not scratching at his bandages.
"Don't do that," she snaps at him, voice hushed so as to not wake the other patients. Sam immediately lowers his hand but in doing so his bandaged arm knocks lightly against his side. He hisses painfully, wincing as his legs curl involuntarily up along the cot.
Santana makes her way to his side quickly. "Careful," she warns, worried for the sutures that could break. He gives her a charmed smile and it's a bit lopsided she notes; lazy. She lets out chuckle. "Someone gave you a bit of morphine I see."
"It's wearing off now but yes," Sam replies, crooked grin widening. "Might I have you to thank for that?"
"I had the nurse administer some an hour ago. You were stirring in your sleep," she tells him, fingering the thin material of his blanket. Her stomach groans loudly. Sam smothers his amusement with a pursing of his lips as Santana feels her face warm, embarrassed. She hadn't the time this morning to eat, nor does she desire food; her stomach is still in a knot of concern for Brittany. Though, thankfully, she's nowhere near the level of distress she felt the last time Brittany was sent out on the same journey. She hopes the courier stops to rest, mindful of the exhaustion weighing the woman down the last time she returned from such an arduous ride.
"Well then, thank you, Miss Santana," Sam says kindly, effectively snapping her from her thoughts. She gives him a small smile as they fall into companionable silence and she checks over his arm. They both know it's unnecessary but Sam appreciates her concern. While she works he watches from between the open tent entrance as some of the men nearby drive shovels deep into the soil. He can see Noah among them, his shirtsleeves rolled up high along his dirtied forearms. The air is crisp, winter approaching fast, yet Noah swipes at his forehead, brushing away the thick perspiration collecting over his brow. Sam can't help but note the strain in his friend's eyes.
He wonders how long Noah's been up this morning, digging graves for those who passed during the night.
"Did you sleep well?" Santana asks. She raises her brows as she stares over at Sam. He brushes some of his hair from where it falls over his eyes and gives a few nods of his head. "Pain tolerable? Having any itchiness, soreness or problems of the like?"
"No, doctor," he smirks. "I'm fit as the fiddle I can no longer play."
Santana rolls her eyes and shoves his knee playfully. "You're far to chipper for a musician who's just been rendered mute."
"I like to think of it otherwise," he says, voice no longer tinged with amusement but instead a sort of numbed acceptance. "Finn risked his life so I could be here now. I may have lost one arm but I still breathe. I'll get to see my little brother and sister again, my parents. I have everything still," and with a lightness she's surprised to hear he adds, "and I've been told harmonicas are gettin' quite popular. Always did want to give 'em a try."
"They'll be sending you home, you know," Santana tells him with a soft smile. "You'll be with them soon, playing your new harmonica for them."
He laughs. It's a deep, relieved sound masking the quiver in his voice as he says, "I'm happy for it, believe me Miss Santana."
"You can just call me Santana, you know," she muses. "You have seen me a might wallpapered."
"You? Wallpapered that night?" Sam winks and brushes the comment off with a wave of his hand. "Nah, you just keep your liquor far better than any of us can."
"I think of all the boys here I am going to miss you most," she says then feels her cheeks warm realizing she hadn't meant to say so aloud.
Sam leans closer, a large mischievous smile upon his equally large lips as he whispers, "we both know that's not true."
"I don't—"
"Now don't you go denying it either," he chuckles. "You and Bret? You two are like a saw to bone."
Santana's top lip curls upward, eyes squinted in disbelief. "That's a horrible analogy, Sam."
"I'm not one for fancy words," Sam says with a laugh. "Just making light of my situation, that's all."
"You also tell horrible jokes. I mean, quite literally, the worst."
"And yet you say you'd miss me most."
"Very well," Santana groans, laughing when his pout doesn't wane. "I will miss you second to most. Happy now?"
"So long as you promise to write me every so often I very much shall. Whilst I adore my family and cannot wait to be with them again I will very much be thinking of you all and prayin' for the best."
"I'll write, I promise. Where's home?"
"Marysville. And how 'bout you? Where does a nice gal like you call home?"
Santana gives a chuckle at his teasing tone but finds herself smiling, an honest-to-god, truly warm grin as she answers, "Lima. My home's in Lima."
Brittany makes it back late the next day, having stopped to rest the previous night at the telegram owner's home. The old man insisted she spend the night, knowing full well the orders she was returning with weren't as tantamount as the battle orders she'd run out with a mere few days prior. Brittany was grateful for a bed, but did terribly miss her bedroll as she lay down to sleep. Her tent might have been far more uncomfortable and nowhere near as warm but it held the promise of being shared with a lovely woman. There could never be a comparison. She was glad for the rest though, especially as it afforded Lulu some time to sleep as well.
As she approaches the camp now she feels nowhere near as exhausted as she was from the previous journey. This time she sports a mighty large grin upon her face when she spots Santana standing beside Burt near the camp entrance. She's happy they've taken to one another; they're her two favorite people in the regiment.
"Safe trip?" Burt asks as she guides Lulu to a stop beside them. He takes hold of her reins and softly runs his hand along the horse's long nose. Lulu gives a quiet snort in appreciation as Brittany hops down.
"Like always," she replies, her answer more for Santana's ears than his. She watches as the doctor's eyes rove across her body, dark brow knotted in concentration. Brittany lets out a chuckle. "I thought I told you not to worry so."
Santana's silent examination concludes as her gaze locks upon Brittany's. With a challenging smirk she tells her, "and I do believe I told you that was impossible."
Burt can't help but stand back, watching the exchange before him with a grin. After a moment, though, he feels the need to pursue the matter of Bret's trip. "Word from Lexington?" he asks.
Brittany never breaks her gaze as she fishes the telegram from her pocket and holds it out for him. He plucks it from her fingers with a laugh, giving her a solid pat on the back.
"I'll just leave you two to it then," Burt says, knowing full well they aren't paying him the least bit of attention. He smiles nonetheless as Bret nods, clearly distracted, eyes still very much focused upon the dark pair before him.
"Have you eaten?" Brittany asks after his steps no longer meet her ears. Santana's smile softens and she shakes her head. "Would you like to, with me?"
Santana bridges the few steps separating them, wanting very much for those long arms to wrap tightly about her frame. But she's ever mindful of the eyes that could be watching and instead she reaches up, dusting some dirt from Brittany's shoulder. "Of course," she answers with a smile.
They eat at the table just outside the medical tent. Brittany sits on the tabletop leaned back on her elbows, flicking crumbs of her stale bread into Santana's lap whenever the doctor's eyes begin to dart to their surroundings. She giggles every time Santana pretends to be affronted by the mess. Santana always brushes them aside, rolling her eyes even as her lips betray her with a small, amused grin. She, naturally, finds it all deplorably charming.
They talk of their days spent apart, interrupted every so often by a nurse in need of Santana's hand. The doctor rises from her spot on the bench, brushing off more crumbs from her dress with yet another roll of her eyes. She always returns with a bit of sadness upon her face, and Brittany leans toward her, whispering of how proud of her she is. Santana blushes, sitting once more and focusing upon her meal. It's all she can do to keep herself from kissing Brittany as she wishes whenever the courier compliments her in such a fulfilling way. The urges to do so are both exhilarating and frightening still. She sips nervously at her stew as Brittany slips from the tabletop and onto the bench beside her.
"San is this..." Brittany begins to ask, voice trailing off as she stares squarely into Santana's exposed eyes. She's been trying to gauge the doctor's feelings for the majority of their supper. Even after everything she told her that night behind Burt's tent Santana still seems torn. "Are you all right with us?"
Santana's eyes squint with confusion. "What do you mean Britt? I'm not upset with you about the crumbs if that's what—"
"No, I know you're not angry with me. You're smiling now more than ever and I love seeing you like this," Brittany tells her with a soft grin. It widens as she notices a light blush spread across Santana's cheeks. She does care for me, she thinks. Her gaze settles down to their hands resting on the tabletop. She slides her hand forward, brushing her fingertips across Santana's pinky. When Santana flinches, retracting her hand, Brittany pulls away with a sigh. "Why are you still scared?"
"Someone could see," Santana explains, tone heated.
Brittany plops her chin down into her upturned palm. "And now you're upset with me."
Santana groans. "Brittany this is..." she pauses, her eyes briefly meeting Brittany's own. The courier is staring at her, confused and admonished. Santana never meant to make her feel so troubled. She feels a stab of guilt knowing she is to blame. Brittany's done no wrong, again, she thinks to herself with a sigh. She keeps her voice low as she leans forward and whispers, "I care for you, please don't ever question that but this is so different and new and... I don't know how to do this. Do you understand?"
"It's not surgery, San," Brittany chuckles. "You just let yourself feel. It's very easy. You were doing so well earlier."
But Santana shakes her head. "I'm trying so hard to hide what I feel for you, Brittany."
And simply Brittany answers her, "don't."
Santana's head snaps up at the response. "If someone were to see us, like that—"
"Noah knows," Brittany tells her.
Santana's stomach plummets, heart quick to stall. "What?" she explodes, breathless as she stares incredulously over at Brittany. A few passing soldiers find their attention drawn over at the outburst. Santana can feel every pair of eyes firmly planted upon her body. They can see, she thinks. They can see right through her. Her worry does nothing to quell the overwhelming fear burning inside her. It's exacerbated, suffocating her. She pulls her hands to her lap, digging her fingers deep into her apron as she hisses out through clenched teeth, "You told him! Brittany, how could—"
"I didn't say anything," Brittany interrupts, upset at Santana's anger and frankly growing tired of the doctor's temper. "I'm not stupid."
Santana closes her eyes as Brittany's harsh tone washes over her. "I never said you were," she tells her quietly. "You're not stupid Brittany, but no one can know about us. No one."
"Not even Burt?"
"Brittany!" Santana exclaims in a rushed whisper.
"I don't like secrets, San," Brittany admits. "It's hard enough remembering to be Bret."
"You love me, right?" Santana ventures and at Brittany's confident nod she continues, "Then we need to keep this hidden."
"Like Lucy?" Brittany asks. "I don't want to hide under a rock whenever I want to kiss you."
"No," Santana shakes her head, her frustrations ebbing in light of Brittany's innocuous misperception. Of course she'd make that connection, Santana thinks with a small smile. "Not that literally. We just can't be together out here."
"They see us now."
"They see Bret talking with me."
"I'm never Bret with you."
And that is the problem, Santana reminds herself solemnly. "I need you to be," she tells Brittany, hoping her gaze conveys the utmost significance of her words even if her voice wavered in apprehension. "When it's not just us, I need you to be him. Please Brittany. Please understand."
"I do," Brittany says softly, yet with despondence. She never wants to hide what she feels for Santana. It's something special and wonderful and she really doesn't have the expansive vocabulary of the doctor to fill her thoughts with more verbose depiction. All she knows is that Santana is a dance; the most difficult, dizzying, satisfyingly addictive dance she's ever fallen into. One she never wishes to quit from. She wants everyone to know how in love with this dance she's fallen. But she can also see how terrified Santana is of the same fate. How much the woman does care for her, wants to be with her…. But not here, not where the men can see and boys like Scott Cooper could have more reason to pester, or worse hurt, her further. Brittany knows she can handle the likes of the Scott Coopers in camp. She promised to never let anyone hurt the two of them.
And Brittany Pierce never breaks a promise.
"I love you Santana and I don't want you to be afraid to love me," Brittany tells her as she slides back along the bench. The distance pains her but she knows it's for the best. Quietly and with her voice lowered to Bret's register she promises, "I'll hide with you."
No sooner do they finish their meal that the order carried within Brittany's telegram is spread throughout the camp. The regiment is being sent south, straight down into confederate territory.
Everyone is to be packed for departure by morn in a day's time.
They see to it that their dishes are left with the cook, each silent as the order encircles their every thought. The once celebratory atmosphere of the camp has been quieted with the news. Many a soldier is out and about in search of spare pen and paper. A silent need to relay a message home. What many are now considering could very well be the last one they write. No one wishes to leave.
Let alone dare venture below northern territory lines.
And even despite the uncertainty now stirring nervously in the gut of the women there is one matter needing to be resolved.
Santana turns to Brittany, "Shall I help you with that letter?"
They settle down beside a small fire near Brittany's tent. The rest of the men mill about center of camp, readying for the departure. Brittany and Santana are alone, nothing stirring about them aside from the sounds of the fire crackling and the insects chirping in the forest.
The letter is crinkled, Brittany's tears long since dried upon the paper. Santana can't help but recall that night and how she found the blonde. She remembers thinking she'd give anything just to see a smile cross those quivering lips. She does not wish to pull that sorrow back out of Brittany, which she knows is a very likely possibility given what she's agreed to help her with. There is no way to make her forget what she'd read, to imagine Emily in any other way than feverish upon a bed. Dying. A shudder rolls down Santana's spine at the thought. And even as worry mars her features she finds herself leaning against Brittany, relishing in the calm warmth the woman provides.
She smothers the wrinkles out from the page, eyes flittering across the writing below. She's grown accustomed to Hendrick's hand but something about the way his pen flowed across the page stirs unease within her. Halfway through his writing grows looser, the strokes quicker, messier. She can't imagine what he must have been feeling, knowing he was writing words that would surely leave his eldest broken-hearted. She huddles closer to Brittany, their arms linking at the elbow as she begins to read to herself.
Lima, Ohio Sept. 16th 1862
Dear Son,
I hope this letter finds you well. We all still miss you terribly back home. I've been tending to your duties, readying for the fall harvest. I pray you stay warm and keep well during these coming months. There was a chill here just yesterday; Apple didn't much like having to be taken on his rounds that morn. I reckon you must have felt it down south though maybe not as strong. Please, don't forget your gloves.
I am afraid I must say what need be said despite the pain it brings me to do so. Emily is not well. Dr. Nelson has stopped by a few times when he can but he says there is little to be done. We can't believe him. I can see Emily fighting this everyday and I know she will keep doing so. She misses you so much. Her fever may be high but so is her hope. Fret not son. We love you.
Keep safe and warm and well,
Pa
Santana lays the letter down upon her lap, exhaling a long breath.
"Is it as I read?" Brittany asks, voice quieted, full of unbridled anxiety. Santana finds Brittany's hand, the courier's fingers toying nervously with a frayed section of her slacks atop her left calf. Without so much as a thought Santana reaches over, fitting her hand easily around Brittany's right. She gives her a small smile before slipping her journal face down into Brittany's lap.
"Her fever has risen," Santana says, mindful of keeping her own worry from leaking into her voice. Brittany's eyes widen as she sucks in a sharp gasp. Santana gives the suddenly still hand within her own a reassuring squeeze. "He says she's fighting, Britt. She's not going to let this stop her from seeing you again."
Brittany shakes her head, casting her gaze down. "He never said that."
"He did, would you like me to read it to you?"
"That's all right. I trust you, remember?" she says through a small grin. Santana is glad for it. She was so afraid of upsetting Brittany again. But again Brittany sighs as she rests the side of her head against Santana's shoulder. "I'm still not a very good reader but I was worried when his hand was shaking. Did you see that? His loops weren't nice anymore."
"He cares for both of you, Brittany. Of course he'd be afraid to have to tell you what's happened."
"I don't know why she's so sick, San," Brittany whimpers, her hand fidgeting some against Santana's. "Emily's never been t-this ill…"
Swallowing down the lump lodged in her throat, Santana closes her eyes before telling her, "This is only based on what your father has said and I could be wrong but—"
Brittany's hand tightens with her own, Santana's words halted by the desperate touch.
She sighs. "I believe she has tuberculosis. I've known now for a while and I… I didn't know how to tell you."
Brittany remains still and alarmingly quiet by Santana's side. Santana can no longer hear the blonde's soft breaths, nor feel Brittany's fingers digging into her skin.
She turns her head, concern creasing her brow. She's only able to see the brim of Brittany's worn cap. "Brittany?" she calls softly.
"That's the one you die from, isn't it?" is spoken so quietly Santana's sure if she wasn't so near to Brittany she would never have heard it. And what more, never felt the burn now tearing through her heart at Brittany's hopeless tone.
Santana releases Brittany's hand, arms quick to wrap around the courier's back instead. Brittany's cap slides further up her forehead as she presses her face into Santana's neck. Hot tears slick against Santana's skin as she holds Brittany close. She swallows thickly. "I'm doing all I can to help her," she whispers.
"I k-know," Brittany chokes out, pulling away to finally look at Santana. "I just want her to get better."
Santana knows nothing short of an absolute miracle will see to it that Emily survives. But she hopes for one anyway with all of what she imagines her calloused heart is able. If there is one person in this horrid world who deserves to overcome tuberculosis it is Emily Pierce. And Santana feels selfish; for she knows a part of her wishes for the youngest Pierce's health merely for the benefit of Brittany's well-being. She can't imagine seeing the light in those blue eyes dim, for all the love in that selfless heart to break. Emily's death would destroy all that Santana's come to care for in Brittany, and that is what she fears losing most.
She can see it starting now, the suffocating sadness threatening to drown Brittany right here, right before her. She can see it in the way Brittany's tears collect in her eyes, the courier doing all she can to keep them from falling again. The way she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth to keep the quivers from showing. The way she fights the hurt spreading in her heart as her hands cling to Santana for support.
Santana cannot tell her the truth.
"She will get better," she lies smoothly; a pang of guilt floods her chest as Brittany shakily smiles, believing in the false words. Santana turns away, unable to hold Brittany's relieved gaze. "If you write to her," she says and hands Brittany the pen she's kept tucked into her coat pocket. "You write to her and tell her how much you love her and how you can't wait to get back home and take her to see those ducks."
"I don't think she cares much for ducks anymore, San," Brittany says with a soft giggle. She sniffles, thinking for a moment before smiling, "Boys though, she cares very much for them."
"Well, then tell her how much you're looking forward to chasing them away from her at the next dance," Santana smirks.
"She'd smile at that," Brittany says, eyes brightening. Santana feels less guilty; more assured that her fib was worth it to see that look back in those blue eyes. "Will you help me? With spelling?"
Santana nods of course, settling a piece of paper down atop the journal still resting in Brittany's lap. Together they spend the next hour writing the following letter home:
Mackville, Kentucky. Oct. 10th 1862
Dearest Pa and Emily,
I have prayed for the day I could write to you and send you a letter home like the ones you send me. Even before I asked Santana to read to me I carried your letters everyday close to my heart. I never forgot them. Santana has been helping me with my words she tells me I'm very good now but I don't think so. I had to ask her how to spell almost everything so far. She's a very good friend and some day soon I will bring her home and you can meet her and I'm sure you and Emily will love her too. I miss you all so very much and ask Ma everyday to watch over you. Emily I know you will get better. Santana is the best doctor and she has told me you won't ever give up. When I get home the first dance of the season I'm bringing you with me so you must get well. We'll dance all night and I'll make sure your card is filled with only the best of boys. And then Pa and I will watch and smile and wonder when you turned into such beautiful young lady. I love you both and hope to be with you soon. Please give Apple a hug for me and Tubbington a bath if you can Pa. I forgot to in July and he's probably really stinky now so I'm sorry.
Hoping to hear from you soon
With all my love to you both,
Bret Pierce
P.S. – Santana knows. She also says for you all to address the next letter like so that way the Express Carrier will post it quicker. We're being sent down to Tompkinsville tomorrow.
Company I, 106th Ohio Vet. Vol. Inft.
2nd Brigade 3rd Division 11th A. C.