AN: Hi all! Thank you so much for the vacation well wishes. It was awesome and I actually got some writing done so it was productive as well, huzzah! And also, last night, yeah, that was pretty awesome too. Thank you to who ever laid the universe for all the wonderfulness that was on my TV!
Big thanks to my super amazing beta Throppsicle for everything she's done and all the long hours spent making sense of my words! Seriously, you all should see the mess these chapters are before they go her way haha. Godsend! Anyway, back on schedule. Hope you enjoy. :)
Chapter 9
You, I and Them
Dawn has barely broken across the hills surrounding Mackville by the time both women find themselves buried in their day's work. They're not far from one another; a mere stone's throw away in fact, enough distance for them to share the briefest of warm glances as they carry out their preparations. Brittany assists Burt as he dismantles the armory tents while across the way Santana serves time perched on the table outside the medical tent. A journal rests in her lap, filled with the names of patients in need of new assignments.
The doctor frets whenever her eyes catch sight of another burdensome crate cradled in Brittany's arms. If she could cease working but for even a minute she would stalk right up to Burt and demand Brittany be freed from such a taxing post. For god's sake, dislocated shoulders, even ones upon the dexterously flexible like Brittany still need a great amount of time to fully heal.
Yet every time Santana finds a lull in the patients being led from the tent, Burt steps in, relieving Brittany of the heavy weight. He shoos her away with a laugh, usually followed by a quip about his own son's inability to grow muscles upon his bones. Seeing the smile that breaks across Brittany's face eases the doctor's qualms.
Santana engrosses herself in her delegation once more. Her father has given her explicit control over discharge proceedings, something he feels belittling of his newfound title of Major. Aside from the higher pay Dr. Lopez's new title has granted him, Santana thinks its most obvious effect has been on his ego. If possible it has expanded to the point of utter lunacy. She can see him now, standing among the other surgeons, his stature shorter than theirs but his chest puffed out proudly, the gold stitching of the stars beside his 'MS' strap a mockery upon his shoulders.
The sight makes her queasy.
Thankfully another wave of soldiers are led from the tent and she must return to accounting for them all.
It is hardening work; many of the patients beg to be given leave to return to their families. Their eyes bore into her own, pleading, some even going so far as to attempt bribery, others downright dissolving to tears as she instructs them to return to their companies. The nurses have long since stopped trying to cease the slow trickle of tears from their eyes as they witness the soldiers being returned to service. They survived battle once, their wounds testament to their duty... but the question weighing on all their minds; will they make it through the next?
Santana does not share in the sentiments of the nurses, nor does she allow herself to think further upon the thoughts plaguing the soldiers as they leave with her instructions. There are a hundred some men still on her list and if she were to think of them in any other way than a name upon her page she is sure she will not make it through the day, let alone another hour.
There are three categories to assign the men to: the walking wounded, the wounded requiring further care, and the wounded beyond help. Those able to march on are checked off her list and sent to pack, some even given a small amount of opium to help ease their pain for the coming journey. Those still in need of aid, bedridden or unable to march but otherwise conscious and agreeable are given notices of where they will be sent. A caravan is arriving shortly to ensure their safe travel to Lexington where a hospital was set up a few months prior to relieve camps of their wounded men.
These men are by and far the happiest. The ones missing limbs, rendered incapable of action but not of living. They are trying hard to conceal their joy from the rest of the soldiers once given their directions from Santana. They know they'll soon return home and see their families once again, their time in this army done.
Of those beyond help, the ones whose minds are so far gone, their bodies barely able to sustain a breath... they resemble nothing of the men they once were, let alone will ever be, they are to be sent to the hospital as well. But only once all the other wounded are seen to. It is, after all, no use to rush those already knocking upon death's door.
"I think you've forgotten one," someone mentions from just off to Santana's side. She looks up from her notes and plucks the pen she's been worrying from between her teeth. It's the Asian medic whom approaches her, a hand raised and pointing just over her shoulder.
Where, sure enough, stands one delirious soldier, head wrapped in bloody gauze, his slacks pulled down past his knees, pale behind on full display as he relieves himself upon a horse's hind leg.
If Brittany could see this she'd be none too pleased, Santana thinks as she gives a weary sigh.
"Could you fetch him back here?" she asks, turning back down to her list where she finds the missing soldier's name, squeezed near the bottom of the page. Jacob Ben Israel. Head trauma, shrapnel to the left temporal lobe. He'd probably confused the horse for a tree. It wasn't the strangest thing she's seen him misconstrue today. Her thoughts are better off not lingering upon the previous incidents. It is far too early in her day for such memories to resurface.
"I'll get him in a wagon," the medic tells her but instead of fetching the incapacitated soldier he remains standing beside her, staring down at her keenly. Santana raises a brow in question but more so in irritation. "I'm Michael Chang, by the way," he introduces himself with a tip of his bummer cap and a deep bow of his head.
The extent of the bow takes Santana aback. The customs of the Orientals are… peculiar to say the least. She's only ever met one other. Her father had attended to his foot, a railway hammer having smashed a good deal of his toes. The man bowed at least a dozen times as he hobbled out of the practice a few toes short of when he entered and with a thick cast wrapped around his foot.
"Did you see all that foolishness?" her father had asked once the rail worker left. "Thinks me the damned King of Britain he does."
Santana didn't want to mention there wasn't a king currently. Her father was still holding a small blade, after all. Truthfully, she was stunned speechless he'd even agreed to help the poor man. Her father never treated those unable to afford his services, let alone the dredges of society that she knows the man belonged. It only became apparent weeks later, when she'd overhead him with another physician of the area, just why her father had helped the man. Apparently it was in fashion as of late to extend a hand to those in need. To be a good neighbor in these trying and uncertain times. And what better way to boost his popularity in town than to extend his services to someone who would bring his practice much praise.
By the weeks end they were making at least a dozen visits to sickly housewives (or as Santana liked to think, wives prone to spells of dramatic faint.)
Her father never bothered treating another Asian afterward.
She's still wary of this Chang fellow. He hadn't hesitated to rush into her place yesterday when she left to join Brittany, and what more, she knows he was in the battlefield alongside her father. If there is one thing Santana Lopez is not, it is a fool. Given her father's recent actions, she wouldn't be surprised to find out he'd sent Chang to her table on purpose. It would be so like him, to belittle her through another's proficiency. And one her father probably holds in little to no regard at that. But of the other three medics Dr. Lopez returned with, Michael is the only one to have ever addressed her, let alone in a cordial way.
Her gaze narrows some in misgiving anyway as she finally introduces herself with a terse, "Santana Lopez." And again he gives her another bow of his head, this time accompanied by that same smile he gave her in the tent. It's all kindness, dripping with utmost friendly intentions. Santana does not appreciate it. "Do you require something of me?" she asks, a distinctive austerity to her impatient tone.
"Oh, no," he relents with a shake of his head. His grin, blessedly Santana thinks, turns sheepish. "I just want to apologize, for yesterday. You didn't seem too thrilled with my assistance."
"You did just insert yourself without so much as an explanation," she says dryly, eyes narrowing once more as she adds, "like some type of neurotically rude gore-monger."
Michael winces. "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you in any way, doctor. I am merely here to assist." He bows his head again, this time Santana is unable to resist the urge to roll her eyes at the gesture. But then Michael looks away, gaze landing upon Israel. "As I should be assisting with him about now before that horse gives him some more brain damage, huh?"
Santana gives him a tight-lipped smile in reply and says nothing further as she turns back down to her notes.
Michael knows when he's been dismissed. Especially crassly, as Santana's just done. He feels he's offended her in some way, though how he isn't sure. Admittedly it probably was not the best of ideas to have taken over the end of her procedure as he had, but he'd overheard a nurse informing the surgeon of a visitor and it seemed a fine gesture at the time to relieve the obviously fatigued doctor from a routine suture. It is clear she's still miffed over the ordeal and, if he's honest with himself, talking to her now hasn't helped much to assuage her already ill-formed judgments of him.
No matter, he thinks as he chases after Jacob. Santana Lopez may be a lot like her father, both obviously headstrong and immensely independent, but even the best of surgeons still requires a helping hand. He is determined to be the very best in that regard. Michael Chang is a forward-thinking man. And while he's still dismayed at being in a war he'd rather never have been a part of, he can't help but think how fortunate he's been to be assigned to this company. His wife, Tina, back home in Columbus will be ecstatic to know he'll been working alongside a female surgeon. Quite possibly one of the only female surgeons in all the army. And a damn good one at that.
Yes, Michael thinks as he finally manages to grab Jacob around the waist and the twiggy man vomits upon his boots, he is most fortunate to be here indeed.
Knowing her letter is on the way to Lima, even if it takes more than two weeks time for it to be received, brings Brittany solace as she works. Emily will soon be reading words penned from her own hand. Holding that little piece of Brittany close, a smile blooming across the face the courier misses everyday. Sometimes Brittany finds herself simply standing beside the crates filled with mortars, primers and fuses just thinking of her sister, recalling every detail of that face so vividly in her minds eye it's as if Emily were standing right there with her. When she blinks, Emily is gone, replaced instead by Parrot rifles and the lingering scent of bronze and gunpowder.
All her dreams of home and family are replaced with her reality of weapons meant to bring pain and death surest and quickest. She keeps herself from focusing too much upon the artillery Burt has charged her with collecting from within this armory tent. Every cannon round she handles adds another stinging reminder of the friend she lost.
She hopes Puck has been faring well. They haven't spoken since her return but she knows it's neither of their doings. Everyone has been put to work today. The camp is awash with noise; a chorus of hushed and nervous voices. I'll see him tonight, she thinks with a small smile. They're all to gather round a fire for one last evening together before the regiment is sent south. Sam could join too, of course, if he hasn't been sent to Lexington already. And then Puck will strike up a song upon a borrowed guitar, Santana's voice filling the air as Brittany leads her in a dance.
No, she corrects herself with a sigh. As Bret leads Santana in a dance. She's still upset over the request of the doctor but a promise made is always a promise kept. One day Santana won't be so afraid anymore, and until then, she'll be him. For her, she'll keep hidden. She'll keep her distance. She'll wait.
Brittany dives back into her work with renewed vigor, hoping to distract herself from further thoughts of the doctor. It doesn't help that every time she exits the tent she can feel Santana's eyes upon her, the gaze betraying every emotion the doctor is so adamant to keep concealed and hidden away. If only she could see herself, Brittany thinks, giving Santana a small grin before ducking back inside the armory tent. Perhaps then she'd see just how silly she's being.
"Bret?" Burt's voice carries in from outside the tent, and not a second later the top of his balding head appears as he peeks inside. "How's it coming along in here?"
"Um," Brittany hums as she turns, assessing the progress she's made thus far. "It's… coming, all right," she says, growing sheepish upon realizing she hadn't made much headway since he'd last asked.
Burt seems not to have noticed though, simply giving the tent flap a few slaps as he retreats, calling from over his shoulder, "I'll be right on over with a wagon for those crates!"
Brittany is relieved he hasn't pried further. Her work is slow moving but she has a system in place. One that, for once, doesn't confuse her. A small smile quirks at her lips as she thinks of the reason why. Or more aptly the who to whom she owes a great deal of thanks. Santana makes her so insufferably confused at times but on this matter, her feelings for the doctor are unshakable. The handwriting scrawled across the crates may be illegible to most, but Brittany can read her own penmanship just fine. She thinks she'll probably be the one unloading them once they're in Tompkinsville anyway so it makes no matter.
With a great heave she pries another crate down from atop the stack of ammunition and carefully sets it aside next to the others for transport. She plucks her piece of chalk from her pocket and scribbles atop the lid a large number two for the second armory tent. Below it she slowly spells out "canisters." Satisfied and feeling doubly proud of herself, Brittany begins to push the crate out the tent entrance to where she hopes Burt has brought round the wagon.
A scowl pulls at her lips when instead of a wagon she finds Scott Cooper. "Now this is a job more befitting of a lackey such as yourself," he says with a wry grin.
Brittany stands upright, wishing to cross her arms over her chest but not willing to give Cooper the satisfaction of seeing her so frustrated with his presence. He's obviously only come here to tease her once more. She's so sick of his pettiness. "What do you want?" she asks as she turns back down to her work, intent on ignoring him if he feels the need to continue on in his unfriendly manner. Her father has a saying about people like Scott Cooper. What is it he always says of bees? Or was it flies?
…Some type of bug, she can't really remember which. But he would say something like; you catch more of them with honey than cigars.
It still doesn't make much sense to her.
"I was told you've been charged with securing a few of the armory wagons," Cooper says and Brittany looks up to him, confused for a moment at the serious quality of his usually mocking tone. She straightens, dusting her chalk-coated hands off along her slacks as her attention is drawn toward Cooper. He pulls an issued ammunition pouch from out of his bag. A very small, insignificant sized pouch. "You see, I haven't the space in my haversack for these rounds and as per Dr. Lopez's orders I am to keep as much excess weight off my leg as possible."
Brittany wishes to scoff. The bag weighs as much as a few apples at most. It is hardly a burden. Though she doesn't for one second doubt Dr. Lopez's order. The last thing she feels she needs is for him to think any more ill of her than he already, evidently, does.
"Give it here," she tells him, extending a hand to collect the bag.
Scott Cooper tosses it her way and Brittany catches it without fail. He seems almost disappointed by her reflex as she turns back into the tent to find the appropriately marked crate to deposit the rounds within.
"You know we talked a bit about Santana, Dr. Lopez and I. Rest assured I only told him the best of things about you!" Cooper hollers from outside the tent, chuckling a bit when Brittany reappears with the same scowl upon her face that she first greeted him with. Cooper's smirk grows wider. "She's a fine lady. And even you must agree she deserves the best in a man. What say you, Eunuch?"
He is not worth it, Brittany repeats to herself as she pushes past him to collect more hay for filling crates. Cooper grabs her by the arm before she can even reach the pile, spinning her back round to face him.
"Where's your trite retort?" he taunts, throwing her arm aside. Brittany stumbles back, letting out a small hiss at the spike of pain that shoots through her shoulder. Cooper merely chuckles, "Not so tough today are you, without her or Puckerman by your side? I think I may even pay Miss Santana a visit, tell her just how useless—"
She advances on him, shoulder forgotten as she growls out, "If you do anything to her—"
"Calm your britches, Eunuch," Cooper says with a laugh, easily pushing Brittany back a few feet. His eyes dart down to her slacks before his amused gaze locks upon her own. "Though I doubt you've anything in there to calm."
Brittany tries her very best to stay composed, digging her fingers deep into the palms of her hands. She bites her tongue hard, willing the words she wishes to strike out with to remain mute. Fighting fire with rocks only leads to hot rocks, she reminds herself. Though she also believes Cooper deserves to sit upon a steaming bed of them. Ignore him, she commands herself; just get back to work and pay him no more mind.
Cooper though seems to not know when to quit. He trails after her as she reenters the tent.
"I know you're friendly with the girl," he tells her with his usual air of pomposity. "I just plan on being friendlier. Dr. Lopez gave me his consent, more than I know he's given you. What is it he called you again? Right, the intelligence-draining succubus fastened to Santana's side."
Brittany has stopped working entirely, staring at Cooper with a crooked grin. One that the man finds aggravatingly infuriating.
"Why are you smiling?" he demands.
Brittany's smile only grows as she tells him, "For once I'm not the one saying something dumb."
Cooper's lips thin to the point where Brittany believes he may have bitten them entirely off. His face turns that impossible shade of outraged red she's come to expect by this point. She finds it rather hilarious he could even think of winning Santana's favor. If possible, the doctor detests Scott Cooper more than she.
A fact she thinks Cooper is now just beginning to realize. As he turns to exit the tent he stumbles, purposely Brittany notes, into one of the taller stacks of crates. Gravity takes hold as he takes a step back, pleased as a few of the topmost crates come tumbling down. They crash to the floor before Brittany can ever hope to stop them, spilling their contents clear across the tent.
"Oh, damned pity," Cooper says, kicking a few of the minie ball rounds near his feet. Hundreds more lie strewn across the hardened ground. Brittany's eyes narrow with furious aggravation. "Clean this up, will you Pierce? There are balls everywhere!" Cooper feigns disgust, top lip curled as he exits the tent, his last words ringing loudly for all to hear, "Perhaps you'll find a pair to replace the ones missing along with your cock!"
Brittany grinds her teeth hard. She's sure her nails have pierced the skin of her palms by now. She cannot believe the utter… childishness that is Scott Cooper. How one man can act so stupid amidst a war is beyond her. It goes well beyond petty jealously at this point. She hopes he's found out soon for the horrible person he is. The cavalry boys already despise him; it's only a matter of time before the rest of the infantry are privy to his true nature. She holds no fears for his perceived notions toward Santana. Let him try and woo her, she thinks. It would be quite the spectacle, watching as Santana cuts him down to the filth that he truly is.
Burt enters then, shocked to find his charge standing smack in the middle of a clutter, glowering down at the minie rounds with a passion even he's surprised to see upon Bret's face. "What happened here, Bret?"
Brittany grumbles out a detestable, "Scott Cooper."
And that's all Burt needs to know as he gives a sigh and begins picking the rounds off the floor. "That boy deserves a good lickin'."
Brittany perks. "Noah Puckerman gave him a shiner once."
Burt lets out a boisterous laugh. "And that boy deserves a damned medal."
It takes the two of them a good portion of the morning to recover the precious ammunition. Burt promises to do something about Cooper all the while. Brittany is grateful for his company and even more so for his assurances. They give her piece of mind as they labor through the noon hours.
That is until a reprieve arrives in the shape of an overtly poised Santana Lopez. "Bret, Mr. Hummel," she begins, tucking a wayward section of her long hair behind an ear. Her eyes flicker over to Brittany who's intent upon keeping her promise, gaze rooted to the floor instead of upon the face she wishes to see. Santana focuses back to Burt, "I hope you two have been faring lightly in duties today."
When it becomes apparent that Bret isn't going to be forthcoming with words, Burt speaks up, "We're just fine, Miss Santana. Is there something we could get for you?"
"No, I just wanted to give this to Bret," Santana replies, retrieving a neatly-folded letter from her skirt pocket. Brittany accepts it, hesitating as she briefly meets Santana's eyes. "I've detailed some exercises for loosening your shoulder. These'll help ease any discomfort from all the heavy lifting I've seen you do today," the doctor explains with a look of contempt thrown Burt's way. She turns back to Brittany, the look gone and replaced with something she can't quite place. It's pointed, much the same way Emily sometimes stares at her when waiting for Brittany to grasp understanding. But it's also a might softer than Brittany has anticipated. Patient. Brittany only grows more baffled by the expression in the dark eyes. Why can't Santana just tell her? Why in a letter? Is it for further practice? Santana must have picked up on her faltering confidence last night, it is the only reason she can see why she's now being given this note.
Bret nods, stuffing the letter deep inside his coat pocket.
Burt stares over at him, eyes squinted in observation. Again Bret remains silent. Burt can feel the dynamic between his charge and the doctor has changed, though he can't pinpoint how. It worries him, to be honest, seeing the two acting so… distant. "That's mighty nice of you Miss Santana," he says after a moment, smiling over at the doctor.
"Yes, well, I should be going now. Work to be done and such," Santana says with a roll of her hand back toward the medical tent. She looks once more to Bret before telling him, "make sure you read that soon."
"I will," Bret answers quietly, eyes still intently rooted to the ground. "Thank you."
And with that Santana departs, steps hasty as she makes her way back into the medical tent.
Burt waits but a clock tick before the words he's been holding back tumble out in a rush. "What was that?"
"I think it was a beetle," Brittany replies, though she's not entirely sure what just rolled by her foot. It very well could have also been an errant minie round. She looks up from her feet to find Burt staring at her with an expression she's never seen cross his face; a mix of disappointment and utter puzzlement. It upsets her.
"No, what just transpired between you and Miss Santana?" he asks, his voice strained in a direct reflection of the emotions upon his face. "When did you two become so… reserved?"
Brittany squints up at him. "I don't understand."
Burt groans. "Just a few days ago you could barely keep your eyes off one another, now you two act like strangers! What happened?"
Brittany feels her face heating. She hates having to lie to Burt. With a heavy shrug of her shoulders she tells him, "Miss Santana's a friend, is all."
Burt stares at Bret for a moment, noting the nervous shift of the courier's feet upon the ground. Bret's weight bounces from one leg to the other, almost as if he's itching to relieve himself of his conversation. Since when is Bret uncomfortable around him? And especially over a topic such as Santana? And since when is it Miss Santana to boot? Have they really reverted to formalities? If anything Burt can hardly ever get Bret to keep quiet about the woman. One simple question about their lessons turns into an entire lesson for himself in all things Santana Lopez. Right down to the way her cheek apparently indents whenever she smiles genuinely. Bret adores that woman and Burt knows, without a shadow of doubt, that Santana feels the same in return. Something has happened between them and while he wishes to know, if only to help Bret through this muck they've made for themselves, he knows it's not his place. So with a nod, and what he hopes is a comforting grin he tells Bret, "If you say so. Just know my old ears are always ready whenever you need someone to listen."
As Burt returns to hauling crates from the tent Brittany feels a pang of regret at not being able to disclose the truth to him. She hates keeping things from Burt, but she's promised Santana she would. It makes her wonder why the doctor would bother giving her a letter when she knows they'll be seeing each other tonight. They'd promised Puck they'd keep him company. Santana could just show her the exercises then as Brittany is pretty sure she'll just become incredibly confused trying to decipher them in writing instead.
Perhaps Santana has drawn her pictures? Brittany enjoys seeing the doctor's attempts at rendering life. They are endearing in their dreadfulness.
Her curiosity gets the better of her, and with a quick excuse to Burt she jumps up into the half-filled wagon to read.
It's a lengthy paragraph that meets her eyes; the doctor was obviously in a rush as she penned it. Brittany smiles nonetheless as she slowly begins reading;
B,
To clarify these aren't exercise directions, but in case you were hoping for some I could show you a few tonight. I wanted to invite YOU to use our trough for a BATH this AFTERNOON. And just to clarify I don't think you smell. It's just who's to know when we'll all get the chance to bathe again? I'd rather not think too much on the circumstances that could lead to such an unfortunate fate as already I find myself dreading leaving this pathetic patch of land we've come to consider home. The south will be unkind and the bugs will be sure to eat us all alive but that is neither here nor there. Excuse my tangent. The matter is if you'd like a BATH PLEASE HELP YOURSELF. My father will be with patients all day. I'll be in my tent soon.
-S
Brittany finds her grin widening as she rereads the note. Even in print the doctor sounds flustered, her writing growing looser, words rambling. It's adorable, Brittany thinks, of how poor Santana is at hiding her affections. Santana didn't have to bother emphasizing anything; Brittany understood it all, albeit with some struggle over the more lengthy words. She can't help feeling a bit touched that Santana intentionally went against her strict rules of grammar in order to ensure her words were, quite literally, loud and clear.
Brittany can imagine the cringe upon Santana's face as she scrawled those capitals. It only has her smiling more.
Brittany folds up the note and neatly tucks it into her pocket. She hops down from the wagon and calls out for Burt. "Mr. Hummel?" With a raise of his brows he turns to her and she asks, unable to contain her delight, "Could you help me with something?"
"Jacob Ben Israel should have a disorder named after him," Michael Chang announces with a tired chuckle as he makes his way inside the portion of the medical tent that remains standing. A few soldiers lift a bit of canvas for him to pass beneath where opposite Santana is currently collecting the last of her supplies. She looks up as he leans against the nearest support post. His once immaculately-parted hair is a mess atop his head, a few pieces stuck along his sweaty forehead, and he smells distinctly of vomit. He smiles nonetheless as he tells her, "no frets, he's well on his way to Lexington by now."
Santana pays the smile no mind as she focuses upon her task, hoping he does not move closer as she asks, "and the others?"
"All accounted for and awaiting the next caravan which should be here early tonight," he tells her, pushing off the post with a roll of his shoulder. Santana catches the fluid movement from the corner of her eye, thinking for a moment how very much like Brittany the action was. "Would you like me to oversee it?"
"If you could," Santana tells him. And because he remains standing, hovering just beside her yet again she emphasizes, "Thank you."
The dismissal of which goes well over Michael's head. "Is there anything else you require?"
Santana drops her kit atop the stacked cots with a none-too-disguised groan of impatience. "Are you always this insufferably accommodating?"
But Michael only gives her a grin in reply and adds after Santana raises an eyebrow, "My wife thinks the same at times."
Santana's eyes are naturally drawn to his left hand where, sure enough, a simple and exceedingly thin brass band is snugly fit around his ring finger. "So it seems you are married."
"With two sons and another child on the way," he says proudly. "We're hoping this one is a daughter."
"How is it you were drafted?" Santana asks, now curious why a man with such a young family and no other means of support could ever have been chosen.
The answer becomes clear as Michael's once genial expression hardens. He speaks through a tightened jaw as he says, "I wasn't drafted. I volunteered."
Santana's eyes widen at the admission. "You've a growing family at home and yet you volunteered?" she asks, incredulous. "Perhaps we should be naming a medical disorder after you instead. What is wrong with you? Are you truly so stu—"
"You may think me stupid but I assure you my decision was anything but," he interrupts. His words are sharp but his tone is compassionate. He understands her anger. In fact he is also rather surprised and pleased by it. So it seems the doctor has a heart after all, he thinks. He takes a step closer toward her, his voice soft as he asks, "Have you seen the men on the front lines? Do you know who they throw into battle first?"
"God willing, men the likes of Scott Cooper," she mutters as she bends to collect her kit.
"The men of color, the immigrants. Men like me," he intones gravely. When he has Santana's full attention he notes the unease with which the doctor holds her kit close to her chest. "The minute I could sign up for this war I did and I requested, smartly, to be trained as a medic," he continues, tone quieted. "Why risk waiting for the draft when it's common knowledge who gets chosen? We're much the same, you and I. We're not like them. We must continually prove our worth to ever be considered even marginally competent. I wasn't about to sit around waiting for a white man to hand me my death warrant. I've taken my fate into my own hands, Miss Santana. Just as you have."
He doesn't give a bow of his head, or even a simple nod as he turns to take his leave.
Santana can't quite believe all the fortitude behind his words. They echo inside her head, reminding her of all the ill-formed and ignorant judgments she's construed of him. She hadn't given him much thought when they met, but it is clear now the man is keen. Incredibly so. She doesn't imagine she would ever have had the foresight to make such a monumental decision.
She who only tagged along with her father out of spite.
Shame is never an emotion that much strikes her. But she feels it now as she stares over at Michael Chang. She's reminded of how graceful his movements were, how much like Brittany she'd thought him then. And how very alike she thinks them now. Unselfish, good people are a rarity in this world. Santana doesn't feel she deserves to know let alone stand beside any of them. Not her, not with all her ill-tempers and hesitance… her insecurities and ever more fragile heart.
Her father taught her at a young age that the strong always pity the weak. She'd always thought herself like him. Aspired to it at one point even. They were the strong ones, the ones with the power, the ones far and above all others. To think the dying patients upon her table have shown more strength of character in their last seconds than she has her whole life makes her… well, it makes her feel entirely pathetic. Weak. But she recognizes this within her now. And she knows after her father's display this morn that he has yet to realize the same within himself. She doesn't think he ever will.
She pities him.
In the months to come, she realizes there will be times when she and her father will clash and she will need an ally on her side once the dust settles. A reminder to stand strong.
"Michael?" she calls for him and the medic turns, surprised yet grinning upon placing the soft tone of her voice. "Would you care to join a few of us in drink tonight?"
Santana makes her way back to her tent with an unfamiliar, but welcome, lightness in her step. The other men in camp seem to drag their feet upon the ground but she cannot help feeling as though, despite their imminent departure, she has achieved some measure of goodness today. There is also the matter that her tent should currently be occupied by a bathing Brittany and that in itself is incentive enough for her pace to quicken.
She ducks inside her tent hastily; a look spared over her shoulder to ensure her father is nowhere in sight. She lets the tent flap fall back down, looping a string over one of the clasps. He'll know to keep away.
"Good afternoon, San," Brittany greets her, very much still in the middle of her bath. The courier grins cheekily. "You're late."
"Apologies," she says her cheeks flushing as her eyes meet the bright blue of Brittany's. "I was caught up with one of the new medics, Michael. You'll meet him tonight," she explains, a small smile pulling at her lips as she spots a rather crafty looking mound of soapsuds floating upon the bath water. "I see you're enjoying your bath."
"I am, thank you," Brittany tells her as she turns in the trough and crosses her arms on the edge. A few soapsuds roll off her fingers, landing with a soft plop on the ground not far below. Brittany flicks the rest from her hands, smirking as she repeats, "Who is to know when we'll get the chance to bathe again?"
Santana grins wide as she plops down to the floor beside the trough and folds her hands deep into her lap. There's a thick layer of foam spread across the surface of the water, keeping Brittany's body well and hidden. Santana is grateful for the soap, so sure she wouldn't be able to keep her gaze above Brittany's neck otherwise. As it is, she must contain her urge to reach up and brush some wet sections of the courier's hair back over her bare shoulder. Instead she feels her face warming again, mouth dry as she whispers a simple, "Hello."
Brittany rests her chin on her arms and flicks a clump of bubbles toward the blushing doctor. She giggles as a few tickle Santana's nose. "Hello to you too."
Santana relaxes some as she wipes the soap from her nose. "How long have you been in there?"
Brittany raises her hands from where they dangle over the edge, inspecting her wrinkled fingers. "A long while," she replies, satisfied with her response. "The water feels nice. Mr. Hummel helped warm it for me."
"You didn't overexert yourself today, did you? Your shoulder is still healing you know."
"No, Dr. San, I did not overexert myself," Brittany says with a chuckle and roll of her eyes. It's a move Santana isn't used to seeing cross the couriers face. In fact, it is more in line with her own expressions. Perhaps they have been spending enough time together to be picking up on each other's mannerisms. Santana's not as frightened by this as she feels she should be. Brittany pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she sits back in her bath, her arms once more submerged in the water.
"Something strange did happen," she says, tone puzzled. "You know Montgomery? The horse we had outside the armory tent? When I went to fix him up to our wagon, he smelled an awful lot like piss."
"Horses piss," Santana says with a shrug, knowing full well the reason for Montgomery's stench. She waves Brittany's concern off. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
"But he hadn't peed. It was so odd..." Brittany trails off as she sinks lower into the trough, brow furrowed in thought. She looks up at Santana, curious. "You think he may have rolled in some? Like a dog?"
Santana blinks. "Sounds… reasonable."
"Hmm," Brittany hums before dunking her head under the water and emerging with a gasp. "There was something else that happened today."
Santana does not like the frown marring Brittany's face, nor the way the courier's eyes have considerably darkened. "Britt, what was it?"
"Scott Cooper came by," Brittany sighs, once more returning to the edge of the trough where instead of resting her arms atop the edge she lets them dangle down, swaying against the side. "I don't remember exactly what he said, it wasn't very nice. He's such a blowhard, but he had talked with your Pa… about you."
Santana scoots closer. "Do you think you can remember for me, what he said?"
"Your Pa gave him permission to…spark you," Brittany recalls, grimacing.
"Spark me? Brittany, this isn't eighteen-twenty; you can just say court or even pursue," Santana says between a laugh. She grows serious though upon realizing, "this seems more like entrapment though, if you ask me."
Brittany reaches forward, brushing the tips of her wet fingers against the back of Santana's hand. "I don't want him trying to entrap you."
"As if he could," Santana snorts, allowing herself to indulge in the way Brittany plays lightly with her fingers, threading a few between her own before slipping free once again. Santana smiles softly before turning her gaze up to Brittany's and telling her, "I don't know what I cannot believe more, that Scott Cooper thinks he has a chance or that my father actually showed an interest in my life."
"Your Pa hates me."
"My Pa is the pustular wart rooted upon Satan's putrid ass."
Brittany slips back into her bath, her nose crinkled with disgust. "That's grubby, San," she says. "I'm going to have nightmares."
"Look, just… what I mean to say is don't worry about them," Santana implores, bridging the small gap separating her from the trough. She rests her hands upon the edge, leaning forward a bit over the water. Brittany is running her hands through her hair, untangling the last of the knots, face still scrunched with visions of warts passing before her eyes. When she feels one of Santana's hands upon her shoulder her eyes sharpen, gaze locking upon the doctor's. Santana smiles, though it's accompanied with a tired sigh. "Let it be. They're both bastards."
Brittany lets out a sigh as well. "I just didn't like the way he talked about you," she grumbles.
"Defending my honor already, huh?" Santana smirks, giving Brittany's shoulder a gentle shove as she stands to her feet.
"I love you, Santana. Of course I would," Brittany tells her as if it's the most apparent thing in this world. She giggles some as Santana sputters, the doctor's cheeks turning that endearing shade of red she's come to adore so. She very much wishes to press a kiss to one of them. Nay, both. As Santana suddenly busies herself with packing the many journals and books along her shelves, Brittany thinks she's well and clean enough. Without so much as a warning she steps out from the trough.
Santana can hear the splash and splatter of water as it meets the ground. Her heart gives a giant lurch in response. Her hands fumble upon the spines of her books as she keeps her back deftly turned. Even as Brittany comes to stand beside her, smelling fresh of soap and close enough that their shoulders brush, leaving Santana's sleeves a smidgen damp.
"I forgot to lay one out," Brittany says, smiling far too wryly for Santana's taste as she bends to collect a towel from where they're stacked on the bottom shelf.
Santana darts away – nay, leaps, Brittany thinks – over toward her father's night table when she stands upright again.
Brittany simply watches, amused as Santana stumbles into the small stand, the cigar box atop knocked to the floor in her haste to recover.
"Goodness, San," Brittany giggles, wrapping the towel securely around her body. "It's as if you think me Lucy."
But Santana doesn't quite hear her, not with her eyes rooted upon the contents that have spilled out from her father's box. "I believe my father has developed a dependency for opiates," she says as she collects a few empty opium vials from where they rest on the floor, surrounded by others and an empty syringe. She doesn't know whether to be surprised or if this was to be expected. It would certainly explain her father's… calmer disposition as of late.
"Well, he is a doctor," Brittany tells her, fixing up the buttons on her shirt. Santana spares a glance over her shoulder, pleased to find the courier at least half-dressed. She can't help but smile upon seeing that Brittany must have slipped on her socks first, mismatched and all. "Even the smallest of opinions is still important."
"Opinions?" Santana repeats, standing and meeting Brittany's gaze. "What do you mean?"
"Opiates right?" Brittany asks, slipping on her slacks next. She leaves them unfastened, hanging loosely from her hips as she gestures with her hands and says, "I thought that was just some fancy doctor way of saying opinion. Like when you say you need your teneculum but you just call it a tenny."
Santana blushes. She hadn't realized Brittany has overheard her with patients. "You… remembered that?"
Brittany shrugs, grinning. "I thought it was a darling nickname."
"It's just quicker to say it that way than to waste time—" she stops herself short, eyes narrowing at the look of amusement upon Brittany's face. "I don't have to justify my monikers to you."
"Do you have one?" Brittany asks, excited, bounding over and buttoning her slacks as she does. "Usually I think they make people look like big dopes but I think you'd look real smart with a monocle. And really attractive."
"No Britt, I don't have a monocle," Santana tells her with a confused shake of her head. This conversation has quickly derailed and she wishes to bring it back upon the focus. "How long have you been in that trough again? I think you've soap needing to be cleaned from your clogged ears."
"My ears are plenty fine," Brittany quips, coming to help collect the spilled items on the floor. She pauses when instead of cigars she finds supplies that should be contained within a surgeon's kit. "Why does he have them here?"
"I don't know but if he's using the infantry's supplies I must say something," Santana says as she collects the mess and places it back inside the cigar box.
"How do you know he's using them?"
"Why else would they be here, concealed like this?" Santana retorts, yet there is a softness to her tone. She doesn't wish to make Brittany feel as if her questions are unwelcome. The truth is she's just as puzzled over their appearance as the courier is of their purpose. "I must confront him."
"And have him hurt you again?" Brittany whispers, worried. She shakes her head, grabbing the box from Santana's hands and placing it atop Dr. Lopez's night table. "No. Just let him be. Just like you told me to let Cooper be."
"Brittany, this is different. Cooper's just a stupid boy. What my father is doing is unprincipled. He took an oath!" Santana exclaims then proceeds to recite; "'I will prescribe treatment to the best of my ability and judgment for the good of sick, and never for a harmful or illicit purpose.'"
"He's not a good man, San. You know that."
"But what if he's ill?"
"Then he's treating himself," Brittany shrugs, pulling Santana away from her father's side of the tent. "Don't think more on him."
"I share a tent with him Brittany. It concerns me," Santana wrenches her arm free, moving back toward the cigar box. "What could he have need of this much opium for?"
"I don't know," Brittany groans, frustrated with the doctor's stubbornness. She lunges forward, grabbing hold of Santana's arm again and pulling her away. "Maybe it's for those whores he sleeps with? Please stop fussing. If he finds out you're poking around his things and he gets mad and hurts you again—"
Santana relents, Brittany's fear finally putting a stop to her insistence. "He won't. You're right. I'm done. I won't pry."
"Promise me you won't say anything to him," Brittany asks of her as Santana turns toward the courier.
"Brittany," Santana purses her lips.
"Promise me, Santana."
It takes a moment longer than Brittany likes but eventually Santana leans into her embrace and whispers, "I promise."
The pleasantries of the evening fire are short and carried out upon a tense air. The other soldiers aren't afraid to hide their displeasure, sending a great deal of broken bottles and heated glares toward the small group. No one wishes to have their spirits raised, not when come morn they are headed south. So the group keeps reserved in their time together, never allowing their voices to carry too far beyond their fire.
Sam is only able to stay for a few minutes until he is ushered away for the last caravan. He's unable to keep the sorrowful grin from slipping from his lips. He'll miss his friends dearly, but is thrilled to be returning home.
They promise to write. Santana gives him the longest hug.
Michael is welcomed, Brittany quickly taking to him as they find a common appreciation in dance. Santana can see a change in the way Michael looks at Bret after the first quarter hour together. His eye is critical as if he's figured it all out without the slightest bit of prying. Of course he would have, she thinks when they end a dance and Michael almost bows to Bret as he would to his wife.
So Santana expects it when Michael pulls her aside while Brittany is filling Noah's mug and asks, "You do realize Bret is a woman?"
Santana nods, knowing this moment would have come eventually but grateful it has with Michael. "Brittany," she tells him simply.
He says nothing; merely sitting beside her as Noah drunkenly starts up another song. Bret falls into graceful steps in time to the tune, Brittany's movement's every-bit the man she feigns to be. Santana watches her, unable to draw the usual pleasure she does whenever she watches Brittany dance. Tonight is different. Tonight she watches Bret.
Michael's prolonged silence continues through the evening, even as he remains sitting beside her. It says more to her than any promise ever could. And when his gaze meets hers, understanding and resolute, Santana knows she can trust him to keep Brittany's secret.
But her sleep is fretful that night anyway, even with her father out for the night with yet another prostitute.