Chapter 10
Indefinitely
By dawn the next morning what remains of the regiment falls into line along the nearby road. The few wagons to survive the battle are loaded to the brim with supplies, food and armories. As they are pulled down the road their wooden panels creak loudly in the still morning air. The soldiers are quiet, dreading venturing further into enemy lands. They walk hunched; haversacks packed tight with their tents and meager possessions.
Onward they march to Tompkinsville, a town a little under a 100 miles south. Typically a six day journey for most expected to be completed in just under four.
Brittany walks beside Piedmont, the horse's reins held loosely in her hands. Burt sits atop, eyes riveted to the armory wagon wheels ahead while his lips remain pursed in a thin line. Brittany wishes he didn't look so troubled, but she also knows his expression is reflected upon every man in this regiment. Everyone has been silent since beginning the campaign. Even the young flute player, usually so adamant about keeping spirits high, has kept his instrument tucked deep inside his jacket. No one wishes to hear music of cheer, not when they fear and mourn with every step farther they take.
"All right down there?" Burt asks quietly after some time. They've traveled at least a few miles, Brittany thinks.
She gives him a smile despite the cramp forming along her side. "Tops."
Brittany has always hated lying. It just means having to remember something false when the truth is so much easier to retain. She wishes she could tell Burt the truth. Tell him everything. He is the closest thing to a mentor – nay, a second father— that she has here in the company. Would he still care for her as he does now if he knew who she truly is? Does being a woman matter all that much? Seeing Santana so accepted by Michael and her nurses makes Brittany feel that perhaps it doesn't. And isn't Santana always boasting to her of how some women in New York were able to get a Sanity Commission started for the war? It'd confused Brittany at first, why they wanted to form a commission for saneness. But when she saw Jacob Ben Israel trying to piss on that poor medic she thought it was a pretty good idea after all.
And an idea from women no less! Bully for us, she thinks with a grin.
She also thinks Santana is wrong about people. The world is obviously changing for the better. After all, isn't that what this war is about? For everyone to be free? So that one day, she hopes very soon, her and Santana can be together and not have to hide behind tents or in the darkness anymore. Because even though Santana is beautiful no matter the time of day there is just something incredible about her beneath the sun. She doesn't disappear or blend into the shadows as she does in the night. Her eyes shine warmly in the light, sun kissing softly at her cheeks.
She's a vision.
Brittany wishes the doctor was closer. As it is Santana rides far ahead in the line with the other medical staff, too many soldiers marching between them for Brittany to even glimpse at the cart.
The armory wagon ahead of her jostles as it dips down into a rivet on the dirt road. It's been uneven for the last few hours, great sections of the path overgrown with grass and littered with rocks. It makes for slow travel and faster wear upon the wheels and axels of the wagons. Again the armory carriage jerks toward the left; this time the crates crash against the splintering back gate.
Brittany barely has time to move Piedmont out of the way as the iron clasp of the gate comes undone, the wood separator slamming downward on its hinges upon the release. Everything happens almost within the blink of an eye as half a dozen crates spill from out the back, breaking open as they collide with the ground and scattering their contents all along the dirt road.
The wagon driver, previously oblivious, stops upon a shout from a soldier.
No men pause, they simply carry forward in their march around the now-stalled wagon.
Burt eventually slips down from Piedmont, beat as he assesses the damage.
Brittany feels responsible for it all. Burt had charged her with securing those clasps. She swore she had seen to it they were well and set.
"Another mess, Eunuch?" Cooper asks as he passes, never once breaking his stride. The look of gratification upon his face says all Brittany needs to know.
"You did this!" she growls, lunging forward toward him.
She's stopped as Burt grabs her around the waist, hauling her back with a whispered, "Bret, no."
"I didn't forget, Mr. Hummel!" Brittany exclaims, hot tears piercing at her eyes as she glares at Cooper's retreating break. She shakes free of Burt's hold, turning from him as she takes deep breaths to calm the fury she wishes to unleash upon that damned Scott Cooper. Of course he'd stoop this low, she thinks. He cares not for anyone but himself! She wipes quickly at her nose as she tells Burt thickly, "I didn't. Not this."
A solid hand is placed against her back, soothing in its touch. The tension coiled in her shoulders wanes as she lets out a long breath. "I know," Burt tells her quietly.
The clatter of horse hooves meets their ears. Someone approaches fast in a brisk trot. No sooner do they come round from the wagon's side then they find Captain Hartman riding up, his brow resting low over his eyes as he takes in the chaos before him. "What's happened here?"
"Unsecured lock," Burt supplies, stepping forward. "It was my fault, Captain. I take full blame."
The Captain runs his hand across his bearded face, a low groan rumbling in his throat as he sighs, "Hummel…"
Brittany cannot stand idly by as Burt is put to the Captain's fire. Scott Cooper will not sully Burt's name. She steps up. "It wasn't him. I forgot to secure the wagon," she says, eyes cast respectfully to the ground. "I'm sorry, Captain."
Burt's head snaps toward her; she can feel his surprised gaze upon the side of her face. She looks farther away.
"I'm relieving you of your post Pierce. This is..." Captain Hartman trails off, frustrated as his eyes scan the hundreds of scattered rounds littering the road. His infantry's precious finite supply of ammunition now impossible to fully recollect. He can't believe the negligence of his courier. Pierce is always such a trustworthy private. Quite possibly one of the best couriers he feels he's ever been assigned. How wrong he'd been in his initial assessment, he thinks now. The boy can't even meet his eyes! With a grunt Captain Hartman turns his horse around and mutters down to Brittany, "Just clean this god damned mess up. When we get to Tompkinsville report to Beiste."
Brittany gives a curt nod, her head bowed low. She wishes not for Captain Hartman to see the disappointment now etched upon her face or for the concern upon Burt's deepen so. She accepts full responsibility for the disaster Scott Cooper has left at her feet. It may take her all afternoon but she'll see to it that everything is in order once more. Just so long as that bluffin' bastard isn't given her post she can breathe easy. He doesn't deserve it, and she refuses to allow his heartless hands to ever touch Piedmont's mane let alone take control of his reins. But the more she thinks on it the more she realizes that without a horse to his name Scott Cooper will remain a lowly foot soldier. None of the soldiers in the cavalry would ever loan use of their most prized companions to the man who'd sent their horses into a fright. The pressure that was boiling deep inside her just moments before ebbs upon the revelation.
Brittany thinks Cooper may have succeeded in stripping Bret Pierce of his title but he has failed to lower her spirits.
And god knows Santana will be thrilled to hear that she won't be sent out on errands any longer.
No more wrinkles will need to be smoothed out upon the doctor's brow. There will be no more nights spent miles apart.
Perhaps being a cook's assistant won't be all that bad.
Being demoted to the griddles is a humiliation no soldier ever wishes to face. Dog Robbers aren't kindly thought of and even less kindly mentioned. But Brittany doesn't much mind her relegation. Beiste is always courteous to her whenever she goes to fill her bowl during supper. Sometimes the large man gives her a bit more, laughing as he exclaims how skinny Bret is.
"Bret?" Burt ventures cautiously once the Captain takes back off toward the line again. He wishes not to disturb his charge any more than he probably already is. He'd promised to do something about Cooper but he hadn't imagined the boy messing things up again so soon. It's all my doing, Burt thinks. He still can't believe how easily Bret stood and took blame.
Brittany looks up at him and Burt is surprised to find Bret no worse for wear. Not an inkling of embarrassment can be found upon the poised face of the ex-courier. Bret gives him a small smile and a shrug before bending down to start collecting the discarded rounds.
"You are something else, Bret," Burt laughs as he drags out a crate and plops it on the floor beside Brittany. "Anyone here'd be cursing and hollering up a storm over this."
"Scott Cooper will get what's comin' to him," Brittany replies as she dumps a handful of rounds back into the hay-filled crate. "And I don't mind helping Beiste. I always did want to learn to cook."
Tompkinsville, October 15th, 1862
Come dusk, Brittany and Burt arrive in the small settlement of a town nestled against a quiet creek. The journey had been exceedingly difficult, especially given the wrecked condition of their armory wagon. For great swathes of time they lingered behind the regiment, slowly moving down the road, Brittany's feet blistering inside her weathered boots. She walked on, determined not to let the ache show nor accepting any of Burt's requests for her to ride upon Piedmont instead. She rested at night, bare feet propped up in the cool air whilst Burt tended to the wounds. Santana and the other medics were kept busy aiding men that had fallen ill during the march, the doctor unable to sneak away even for a moment to check upon Brittany. Brittany misses nights spent in Santana's company. She hopes now that they've arrived in Tompkinsville that things will return to the way they were once before.
The sun dips below the surrounding hills as they now make their way through the cluster of homes along the main road. Brittany can't help but notice the curtains drawn tightly over the windows and the grave stares of those sitting out on their front steps as they pass. She tries not to dwell on their outward scorn. They are but ten miles from the border of Tennessee and it is clear these folks don't think too highly of the northern army moving through their sleepy town.
One of the young boys sitting near his mother spits out at them before retreating inside his home.
His mother doesn't move to reprimand him and it's all the confirmation Brittany needs.
They aren't welcome. Not at all.
Colonel Wright must have wanted to avoid the sentiments of the locals. They find the camp pitched about five miles out from town.
Without further delay Brittany bids Burt and Piedmont a good evening before setting off on her new assignment. She finds Beiste easily enough. The man already has quite the line formed up at his griddle, even given the fact there are at least two other cooks in the infantry. Brittany isn't too sure where the others are though, the cooks seemed to keep their distance from one another for some reason or other. She suspects it's because Beiste is known to get quite rowdy at times.
Nevertheless, Brittany tugs down low on her cap as she approaches.
"Bret!" Beiste grins as he slops a great portion of stew into a bowl. Much more than he gave the previous man, a fact the soldier looks mighty shafted over. But Beiste cares not as he carries on, "Every time I see you it's like another bit of you has gone out to the wolves. You ain't nothing but bones and blue, boy! Gotta bulk you up, get some fat in them muscles."
Brittany accepts the bowl but in turn hands it to the next man in line.
Beiste turns to Brittany, an eyebrow quirked high along his forward. "What was that for?"
"Um, I was told to report to you," Brittany offers, fingering one of the buttons on her coat. She hasn't any idea why she's grown so timid all of the sudden, let alone around someone she's usually so at ease with. But this is yet another person for whom she must remember to maintain her demeanor. Another she mustn't forget to be Bret for. She'd almost slipped that night with the boys but dancing always catches her off guard. It is easy to be Bret for a few brief moments, after which she can merely walk away and keep to herself. But to carry on as Bret through the entirety of supper? And with someone as talkative and observant as Beiste? Brittany's dreading the coming hours. She's so very tired of all this lying.
"Well, I'm happy for the company," Beiste tells her as he fills another bowl full of stew and hands it off to the next lad in line. Brittany accepts an empty, dirtied bowl from another soldier and stacks it along the ground with the used bowls from the night. Beiste gives a heavy sigh. "But I ain't so happy for whatever reason it is that has brought you here. You're such a good boy, Bret. What chance struck you down leavin' ya lookin' about as useful as buttons on a dishrag?"
Brittany doesn't really understand what Beiste just said. The cook always speaks in a tongue only seldom few appear to understand. Whenever she and Santana collected their meals they made it a point never to dawdle too long. What is it Santana always said? "God forbid he try and ask of our day. It'd probably involve at least twelve obscure references to hens and by the time we're able to answer our stew will have turned to ice and I will have died twice over in my grave."
But Brittany knows the tone of disappointment well enough to know Beiste is very much disappointed with her. She keeps her head bent low as she replies, "I forgot something is all."
"Could you hand me a few of them there forks, son?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ma'am, Bret. I'm no sir," Beiste chuckles. It sounds like the laughter of a gentleman and thus only confuses Brittany further.
"But, you're in slacks and your hair is so…manlike," Brittany decides. Yes, Beiste is very manlike indeed. All burly shoulders, tall stature and deep voice. She squints up at the so-called woman, wondering, "Are you pretending to be a man?" But Beiste just gives another laugh, sucking in her gut to reveal two large and very obvious female breasts atop her chest. Brittany feels horrible for having assumed, blushing fiercely as she says, "I'm sorry you just look like one is all and—"
Beiste waves off her apologies with a goodhearted smile. "No offense taken, Bret. You're not the first to confuse me for a man. I'm afraid it's just the luck of the cards I was dealt. Built like a lumberer yet with the workins and wants of a woman. But Cooter don't mind none and I clean up real nice. He loves me just as I am. Married me and all!"
Brittany's eyes widen as she gapes up at Beiste. "You're married to Lieutenant Cooter?"
"Five years next month. When he got the news about enlistin' I followed right by his side. He didn't want me coming along of course but-You're welcome son," Beiste grins upon being thanked by a grateful soldier for his meal. She begins readying the next bowl Brittany hands her as she continues, "But no damned war is going to keep us apart! I ain't gonna sit at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for word from the lines," Beiste says, motioning out past the camp tents being erected along the fringe with her stew spoon. She turns back down to Brittany, giving a stir of her meal as she says, "Being a cook here keeps me busy, helpin' out you boys and lets me look after him."
"Then why ain't you using his name? Why Beiste?"
Beiste nods, understanding Bret's bewilderment. "You may call me Shannon and to be frank it's frowned on for soldiers to bring their wives along," she explains kindly. "We figured if I used my maiden name no one in records would think twice of us. Keep the quartermaster ignorant and you can bully well do as you please!"
"Bri-et!" Santana lets out a surprised gasp as she steps up to the griddle from her place in line. "What are you doing here? If this is about that cavalry horse that reeked of piss I can fully—"
Brittany shakes her head, "no. I'll explain later." She leans forward as she hands Santana a steaming bowl and whispers, "Did you know Beiste is a lady?"
Santana's eyes widen as her glaze flicks up to Shannon before locking upon Brittany's own.
Shannon chuckles. "I heard that Bret."
"Of course I know," Santana hurries out with a flippant nod of her head. "It's obvious."
"It's not," Brittany mouths.
Santana sputters, trying to quell a spell of giggles wishing to force their way out. Her cheeks burn red with embarrassment as she turns up to Shannon with a thin-lipped smile. "You'll have to excuse him, Miss Beiste."
"Mrs. Beiste," Shannon corrects.
Santana's lips thin even more as her eyes grow wider. Her gaze locks upon Brittany's, brows raising just a fraction as if conveying a silent, truly?
Brittany shrugs with a few nods in the affirmative.
Santana's grin broadens. "Lucky man," she says beneath her strained smile. "I'll be going now."
"Enjoy your supper!" Brittany calls after her.
"She's an odd one," Shannon says as her and Brittany fall back into their serving pattern. "None too sweet either."
"She is sweet," Brittany says. "Sort of like a…" she trails off as her eyes scan the assorted fruit and vegetables lining the crates beside the griddle. There aren't many; the majority almost rotten. A splash of orange catches her eye and she grins as her gaze lingers upon a particular favorite. "Like a pumpkin!" she beams. "You have to really dig into 'em before you can get to the good stuff. And she's real good inside, trust me."
"I believe ya, Bret," Shannon laughs, nudging her assistant in jest. "Now, how's about I get you started on another batch? The lads are hungry tonight! Come on boys! Get that molasses out from your britches and keep the line a movin'!"
It's well and late into the night by the time Brittany is able to start constructing her tent. It's slow work considering she was not involved in the assembling of her first. The men she'd shared the tent with prior had already seen to hoisting the canvas in place by the time she'd been assigned as their tent mate.
As she takes a step back to consider her work now, she feels a small bit of pride in having erected her very first shelter. Albeit one that looks entirely out of place beside the others, and missing a crucial support post she couldn't quite figure out the placement of. No matter, she thinks as she crawls inside, careful to avoid knocking the entrance post over. She'd done so once already and the entire tent had collapsed atop her.
The snickers of her neighbors were obvious in the quiet night air as she struggled free but again she paid them no heed. If only Noah were her tent neighbor instead she's sure he would have gladly lent a hand.
She settles down into her bedroll, spent from the day and wishing for sleep to take her swiftly into dreams. She'd had a pleasant dream the evening before; a dream of home and an afternoon spent lazing in the field with Santana and Emily by her side. Nine days till she gets my letter, Brittany thinks with a tired smile as her eyes fall closed.
They snap open not a few minutes later when Santana slips inside the tent, letting out a muffled curse as her forehead smacks against the low-hanging center post.
"Are you all right?" Brittany asks, sitting up in her bed.
Santana either doesn't hear or does not care for the concern as she launches quickly into hushed questions of her own, "What happened? Why were you with Beiste? And be honest with me Brittany, if this is really about that horse—"
Brittany reaches forward, brushing her fingers over the spot on Santana's forehead where a bruise is sure to form. The gesture stills the words upon the doctor's tongue. "It's not about Montgomery," she whispers, gaze moving down to dark eyes. "Are you really that worried for him? That's so pumpkin of you, San."
Santana's brow creases. "Pumpkin? What? Nevermind, unimportant," she waves Brittany's comments off with a flick of her wrist. She scoots forward on the ground until she's even with Brittany's side, her back hunched so as to fit in the small space. "I came here to ask what happened. You were hours late arriving and then helped Beiste serve supper. Since when have you been relegated to meal duty? Why?"
Santana is riled, of that much Brittany can plainly see. The doctor's dark eyes dart between her own, seeming to draw conclusions from whatever look it is Brittany is conveying. At the present Brittany just feels exhausted. And now that Santana has found her she wants nothing more than to curl into her side until morn. She feels the stress of the day once more upon her shoulders, eyes growing heavy as she answers simply, "Scott Cooper rigged up my wagon. All the ammo spilled out and Captain Hartman wasn't happy about it. He demoted me. Would you like to stay here tonight?"
Her question goes unanswered as Santana's eyes narrow and the doctor's jaw pops beneath her skin. "Scott Cooper caused this?" is all but hissed through clenched teeth.
"Yes, but San, it's all right," Brittany says, trying to quell the fire she can see brimming in black eyes. When her words do little to stop those eyes from darting toward the entrance Brittany reaches a hand forward, fitting her palm squarely over Santana's cheek. The fury in Santana's gaze falters at the touch. And when her eyes meet those of Brittany's it all but disappears with a stroke of the blonde's thumb along her cheek. "I like helping Shannon," Brittany tells her softly, smiling as Santana leans her head into her hand. "And just think, now you won't ever have to worry for me. I'll always be here with you."
It's precisely the assurance Santana needed to hear. And thus she is not in the least concerned when her body moves forward, a hand planted firmly on the ground as she closes the gap between them and captures Brittany's lips between her own. She can feel Brittany smiling into the kiss, the blonde's hand upon her cheek sliding back to tangle in dark hair instead. Brittany tugs her nearer, stomach a delightful flurry of sensations as she feels the tip of Santana's tongue along her top lip. The doctor is certainly full of pleasant surprises tonight. She grabs hold of Santana's dress front, pulling the doctor atop her as she deepens the kiss.
They fall down to the bedroll, lips slipping but for only a second until Santana pulls herself up and starts the kiss anew. She will never, not ever, tire of being so intimate with Brittany Pierce. She's never been lit so ablaze, felt quite so alive simply by kissing another. And as she tentatively runs her tongue once more over the top lip of the woman below her she can't help but think that the thudding of her heart has never felt so profound. Nor the want pooling fast in her gut as Brittany tilts more into the kiss, lips parting at her whimpered request.
Brittany presses harder upward, elbows digging into the bedroll for support. Santana is desperate in her touch as she meets the blonde's craving. They come crashing back to the bedroll again, yet this time Brittany lets out a pained hiss when her shoulder meets the spine of her journal. Santana breaks from the kiss, pulling up sharply, worried by the sound.
Brittany gives her a smile, breathless, her mind still reeling as she tucks some dark hair over Santana's shoulder and tells her, "I'm sorry. My shoulder's still a bit sore from the spill. I don't think leaving my journal around like this helped much." She chuckles, plucking it out from beneath her elbow.
Santana sees no humor in what just occurred, nor in the way her temper spikes dangerously high. Still hovering above Brittany she leans down and presses a lingering kiss to a warm forehead. "Wait here, Britt."
Brittany sits up fully as Santana moves toward the tent entrance. "Where are you going?"
Santana doesn't answer, already pushing determinedly past the tent flap on her way out. She hopes Brittany does not follow for she truly does not wish for her to witness what she's to do next. It doesn't take her long to find him; he's still up at this hour, surrounded by a few of his insipid comrades as they carry on a conversation around a dying fire.
"Cooper," she calls for him, forcing as genial a smile to her lips as she can currently muster. When he looks her way it nearly wavers, but she holds fast, grin widening as she asks, "Could I a word?"
He stands to his feet, taking his time as he brushes down his slacks and waves off the slurs of his friends. His arrogance is betrayed both in the way he strides toward her and the expression on his face. Once standing before her, far too close for her comfort, he smirks and asks her, "Come around finally?"
Santana resists the urge to smack the conceit from his face. She's sure he'd be unable to survive very long without his ego inflated to a size that rivals that of her fathers. No wonder they'd gotten on, she thinks now but shudders to imagine what else they could have discussed about her. She shakes the thoughts from her head, hair tumbling down to rest across her shoulders.
"I'm just worried for you," she tells him finally, voice low as she reaches up and gingerly touches the fresh bandaged wrapped over his ear. Cooper flinches and she pulls back, an expression of concern now etched upon her features. "How is it? It must hurt something fierce."
"It does, but I'm toughing through it," Cooper replies, confident once more.
"That's good to hear," Santana smiles. Cooper barely begins to return the gesture when that same hand she'd use to touch him so gently grabs hold of the side of his head, her thumb digging through the dressings over his damaged ear. He lets out a pained cry, spine bending forward quickly, trying to alleviate as much pain as possible. Santana pulls his head closer, her grip relentless as she growls out, "because if you ever pull another stunt on Bret I will not hesitate to even out your situation. You are the damned scum that festers beneath an orphaned shithouse and my patience with you has thinned to the point of combustion. Am I making myself clear?" she hisses out the last of her words and he nods vigorously. She releases him with a shove, her glare piercing straight through him as she wipes the blood staining her fingers off upon his lapels. She pats his chest afterward, grinning even as he struggles to regain his breath. "Wonderful. Have a pleasant night."
Santana returns to Brittany's tent shortly thereafter, pleased with herself.
Brittany is still sitting upon her bedroll when she enters, wearing the same look of confusion that was on her face when Santana left. "Where did you go?" she asks as Santana crawls toward her side.
"Nowhere of relevance," Santana smiles, hoping for a kiss in lieu of an interrogation.
"San," Brittany implores, halting Santana as she leans forward. She directs the doctor's gaze upon her own, frowning as Santana continues to hold her tongue on the matter. Brittany knows she's gone somewhere, done something that has to do with the cause of her shoulder ache. Eventually Santana relents beneath Brittany's scrutiny. Her shoulders fall whilst an audible sigh pushes past her lips.
"I confronted Cooper," Santana tells her. "Oh, don't look at me like that Britt, I didn't maim him." She keeps her mouth smartly shut in regards to the extent of the damage done.
Brittany sighs, regardless. Fighting fire with rocks never did anyone any good. It just leaves you with hot rocks, she thinks. Better cold rocks. They are easily forgotten when not paid any attention. "Just leave him be," she requests. "He'll get what's coming to him."
"Oh he will," Santana smiles. It's a bit wicked, Brittany notes. "I don't doubt that."
"I can handle things on my own," Brittany tells her, not wishing for Santana to interfere any longer. God forbid Scott Cooper try and foul up her surgery procedures next instead. She wills herself not to think of such horrid things. It's easy to do so with such a beautiful woman right before her, even with crinkles forming over the doctor's smooth brow. Brittany finds herself smiling softly as she tells Santana, "You worry far too much."
Santana gives her a crooked smirk. "I believe you already know what I will say to that."
She does, very much so. It's what has her saying, "I love you." And then asking again, "Will you stay tonight?"
Santana's mind was made up long ago and thus she answers by motioning for Brittany nudge over. Brittany happily complies, throwing the blankets around them both once Santana has settled. Brittany yearns to scoot nearer, perhaps drape an arm around Santana's waist. She could pull the doctor closer until a warm cheek rests against her shoulder as it had those many nights ago. But she also wishes not to recall why they'd clung so desperately to the other, instead choosing to remember just how wonderful it'd felt to have Santana tucked beside her.
She can hardly believe this is only the second time.
It's a fact that spins so dizzyingly in Santana's head she can hardly find the strength, let alone the will, to stop clutching at the bedroll as if she will simply drift away otherwise. There is no other reason for her to stay besides her simple desire to do so. And perhaps the bit of a pout Brittany put on as she'd asked. It had, naturally, been charmingly swaying. The pout is long gone now, the slight trace of a content smile just beginning to tug at the corner of Brittany's mouth.
They lay facing one another, the blankets cozily piled high on Santana's shoulders and strewn haphazardly over Brittany's side. Santana's hold upon the bedroll relaxes, nerves uncoiling. She's hyper-aware of the sensations that now fill the void left by her needless reservations. They prickle along her skin at first, a shiver of sorts that leaves her impossibly warm and exceedingly delighted. It's fairly close the feeling she gets after a few too many tips of good bourbon down her throat. Yet her feelings now are unencumbered by the haze of alcohol. They have formed all on their own, all due to a simple look.
Santana's dark eyes are intently focused upon the smiling pair before them, unable to turn away nor wishing to. She's attended to countless blue-eyed patients, from the deepest of cobalt to the sharp pierce of the nearly-grey. Beautiful shades all wasted upon the ugliest of characters. From a place of strict observation she doesn't find anything too remarkable about the color of Brittany's eyes. They're a dull blue only made darker, muddier, in the night enveloping the tent. They are easily looked over, and even more easily disregarded. Simple eyes for an equally simple soul, she thinks. And yet somehow brighter, more emotive, more full of life than all the others she's ever held the gaze of, or thinks she ever will. And now these extraordinary eyes gaze upon her own, filled with warm adoration and endless patience.
Santana feels utterly undeserving of being the focus of these eyes… but she also. selfishly, wishes it no other way.
Somewhere in the distance beyond the tent a fire crackles into the night, breaking each woman's concentration.
Brittany has so many things she wishes to tell Santana; how beautiful she finds the shy blush burning in the darker girl's cheeks. How she's longed for them to share a tent again. How itchy her socks have become and perhaps it would be best if Santana's feet were to warm her own instead. But there is the issue of her blisters to contend with and she wishes not for Santana to worry any further for her. So she remains reclined, a lazy smile upon her lips, one hand tucked beneath her scarf pillow as the other slowly searches across the bedroll for Santana's.
Santana burrows deeper into the blankets, curling her knees up a might as Brittany's fingers brush across her own.
"Chill?" Brittany asks, leaning herself down closer.
Santana shakes her head, giving her wrist a slight twist. Brittany's hand slips down along her palm, fitting against Santana's. Effortless, as always, Santana muses. She is reminded of what else she sought Brittany out tonight for. "I've need to tell you of something," she says, tone somber.
Brittany's eyes squint in question even as she gives a tug upon Santana's hand, pulling her closer.
"Michael knows," Santana whispers, her hold upon Brittany's hand tightening.
"Knows what?" Brittany asks quietly, snuggling down against Santana, worried for the hesitant tone upon the woman's voice.
Santana draws a deep breath before telling her, "That you're a woman."
Blue eyes widen quickly as Brittany rolls to her back. "Did you just go and tell him?"
"No, he approached me, at the fire before the march," Santana explains, resting her chin atop Brittany's shoulder. When Brittany remains laying beside her, eyes focused upon the canvas ceiling Santana reaches up, pressing her palm upon Brittany's jaw. Brittany turns her head, eyes locking upon Santana's. "He's not going to tell anyone, Britt," Santana says softly.
"I'm not fretting," Brittany says, a small smile crossing her lips. She rolls back to her side. "I'm happy someone else knows. I like him," she whispers, bridging the small space separating them to plant a reassuring kiss upon Santana's lips. As she pulls away she gives Santana's waist a playful poke. "And I know you like him too."
"He's all right," Santana relents after a moment, sniggering as Brittany continues poking at her side. "Must you kee-eep at this?"
"You're just as ticklish as Emily," Brittany notes, running a few of her fingers up Santana's torso. Santana squirms beneath the teasing touch, letting out a squeal that quickly dissolves into another burst of animated giggles. The sound is so unlike anything Brittany's ever heard pass from Santana's mouth. It's infectious and only spurs Brittany's grin all the wider.
"Cease!" Santana manages to breathe out between her laughter, swatting at Brittany's hands. "Someone will hear!"
"The only one who can hear us is Lucy," Brittany tells her as she finally relents and lies back down beside Santana.
"You brought…. the snake?"
"Well, I just couldn't leave her. It's too dangerous," Brittany replies as she wraps her arms around the appalled doctor and pulls her close once more. "Anyway, she can't even hear that well."
"How would you know?" Santana asks, amused before an answer strikes her and she gives an exasperated sigh. "Please don't tell me you asked her."
"I can't speak snake, San," Brittany says with a giggle. She sticks her tongue out, staring down at it before righting her face once more. With utmost seriousness she explains, "My tongue isn't long enough. Besides, snakes don't have ears. They have to feel instead."
"I dare not even ask where you learned this."
"Why not?" Brittany questions, upset by Santana's doubts. "I learned it myself," she begins proudly then smiles sheepishly. "Well, with Emily's help, of course. You see, sometimes in the summer it gets too hot in Lima to do much anything aside from melt. Emily and I would go down to the lake for a swim but the water would be too full of green muck. Pa hated it when we came home with it tangled in our hair, it'd take him hours to try and get it all out. And it smells something awful. Tubbington always tries to play with it and I think it's because it must reek of fish. He would probably eat it too if Pa gave him the chance."
Santana props her head up on her raised hand. "Brittany," she says as the other woman pauses to breathe. She chuckles. "What has this anything to do with snakes?"
"Oh!" Brittany finds her cheeks warming under Santana's amused expression. "Right, well, sometimes, when we don't want to swim because of the muck we lay in the shade of the trees," she explains, tracing the outline of a squat oak upon the back of Santana's hand. The touch is light, delicate. Santana finds herself both soothed and alight by it. Her eyes dart back up to Brittany's face. The blonde is still contentedly focused upon drawing shapes on Santana's hand as she continues, "If we stay still long enough the forest critters start coming back round to drink again. Deer mostly but they scare real easy. The bunnies too. But the snakes never much cared if we made any noise or not. They'd keep sittin' on their rocks and I imagine it's where they like to take a sun nap so I tried to be extra quiet at first, not wanting to wake 'em. But Emily can never be quiet for long. They'd only ever slither away if we walked too near. They could feel our steps, tap, tap, tap," Brittany says, walking the tip of her finger up Santana's arm. She grins as she meets the doctor's gaze. "Though in their bellies, since snakes don't have arms."
"Even with the muck and the heat and the stupid snakes," Santana tells her with a shaky smile. "I'd really like to see your lake."
If possible Brittany's eyes seem to brighten in the dark of the tent. "Spring is best, if you'd like, maybe, to come stay for a bit," she says, toying with the sleeve of Santana's dress. "I'd like it very much if you did."
Santana takes hold of Brittany's hand, lacing it with her own. "And if I wished to stay through summer?" she inquires.
Quietly, unable to contain the smile now spreading across her lips, Brittany answers, "I'd like that very much too."
Santana presses closer. "And winter?" she asks to which Brittany bites her bottom lip and nods. Then softer yet Santana asks, "Indefinitely?"
"You wouldn't be afraid?" Brittany whispers, voice fast filling with hope. "To come home, with me?"
"I would be, am," Santana admits. She is very much afraid; the familiar feeling stings in her chest now just thinking of such a future. Santana fears it will never cease to plague her so, even wrapped safely in Brittany's arms as she is now. It will always be there, sometimes hidden deep beneath her affections for the blonde, but waiting in the shadows of her heart nonetheless. Sure to be set off by an accusation. Or even the slightest of inquisitive stares.
A life to be spent in a constant state of apprehension.
All because she fell in love with Brittany Pierce.
The thought echoes in her mind, sentiments held within wrapping as thoroughly around her heart as Brittany's arms have her body. I love her, she thinks, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as the stinging in her chest intensifies. As it always will, indefinitely...
And as the hope that once burned so brightly in Brittany's eyes fades at her silence, Santana knows she cannot withhold her feelings from the woman any longer. "You must understand Brittany," she begins softly, ardent. "I've never felt… this way for anyone. It terrifies me, every day, knowing I can't stop these feelings I hold for you. That because of them you could be at risk. And I can't—" Santana chokes, her voice suddenly thick with tears. Brittany looks crestfallen by the halt of her words and Santana feels her own heart twisting at the expression.
She reaches up quickly, cupping Brittany's jaw in the palms of her hands, and continues, voice hushed yet unwavering, "I can't bear the thought of losing you, not in any way... I-I love you, and... and I just want this damned war to be over so we can go to Lima because that's the only place I've ever considered home. Some farm in god knows where Ohio with Apple, and Tubbington, and Daisy, Louie—I know I'm forgetting so many—your Pa, Emily, and you Brittany. My home is with you."
Brittany is stilled by the admission, her mouth parted, air no longer coursing through her lungs. She hadn't expected such an impassioned confession to be spurred from her question. To be honest, she had rightly set herself up for quite the opposite. Santana always buries her emotions. She tucks them deep inside her where Brittany knows the fear keeps them as guarded as the watchmen do their encampment. Yet even the best of protections are still with their flaws, cracks allowing that which they keep to escape. Brittany has never been more proud of Santana than she is in this moment. Because this Santana, this vulnerable and unguarded and devoted Santana, has finally broken through her own walls.
Brittany cannot stop the grin now working across her face, nor the crinkles she can feel creasing the corners of her eyes. She thinks it took Santana damn long enough to come round to what she's been telling her for ages now. But she won't say such aloud. Not when she'd rather be kissing her instead.
Santana is pulled flush against Brittany with a yank, the smallest of yelps escaping her throat before warm lips are pressed squarely over her own. She breathes out through her nose, relaxing as she smiles into the kiss Brittany has thrown her in. Their mouths are smashed together, Brittany much too thrilled to pay attention to what she is doing, and squeezing Santana close. Neither much cares and Brittany's lips remain entirely secured around Santana's upper one for a few seconds longer. Finally she lets up on her enthusiasm, lessening the pressure of the kiss in favor of kissing Santana thoroughly.
It is a move that Santana is more than willing to reciprocate, evidenced by the heat burning down through her torso as she moves atop Brittany, their kiss never ceasing in its intensity. What had started so innocently quickly grows physical. Brittany's hands once clutched into the dress at Santana's back slide down past the doctor's waist. She can feel Santana's muscles twitch beneath her fingers, a deep moan rumble from the doctor's throat.
"I love you," Brittany manages to breathe out as Santana brushes a line of kisses down her jaw. A gasp pushes past her lips when Santana fixes on a spot just below her ear. "Especially now," comes out as nothing more than a satisfied groan.
Hearing Brittany so roused, speaking in a voice that is somehow deeper than the one she uses for Bret, has Santana's heart thudding hard against her chest and her mind growing foggy with want. And yet despite the heat running through her veins it's those three words that have her clinging to Brittany, her nose nuzzling against the blonde's ear as she whispers shakily back, "I love you as well."
Their lips crash together once more, Brittany pushing herself up to her elbows. Yet after a few moments all their frenzy ebbs, the kiss slowing, smiles returning.
As they pull apart, breathless, gazes locked warmly upon the others, Brittany whispers, "I'm sorry our home for now is so poor."
Santana lets out a chuckle. "It's not so bad," she says pushing Brittany gently down to the bedroll before resting her cheek snugly against the woman's good shoulder. As Brittany draws the blankets back over them both Santana presses a soft kiss to Brittany's neck. "You make a great home, Britt."
"Next time I'm going to ask Noah to help me."
"He'll be as useful as Lucy."
"She made sure no boys bothered me."
"I still cannot believe you brought her."
"I still can't believe you said you love me. I'm never going to be able to sleep now, you know. I'm all tingly still, can you feel it?"
Santana's eyes fall closed as she nuzzles against Brittany's collar. The blonde's heart beats a loud rhythm against her ear, one Santana is sure mirrors her own. A content grin spreads across her lips as she tells her, "Yes, Britt. I can feel it."
November is fast upon the regiment. The men of the infantry have grown restless in the passing weeks. Every waking day has been filled with drills in preparation for a battle that never seems to come. The paths to their tents have been trodden so frequently the grass has ceased to grow. Horses have even memorized their route to pasture without need of hand or guide.
Tompkinsville has become home to many, despite the oft insensitive nature of the townspeople. They are easily ignored, too few in number to make much a nuisance.
And with no Postmaster to boot.
A month has gone by with no word from home. Every day Brittany wakes wishing she could just leap upon Piedmont and race back to Mackville in hopes that all the infantry's letters from home are simply pilling up at the Express Carrier's door, waiting to be read. She knows the man is lazy, and what more, the absence of mail these past few weeks only reinforces further in her mind how much of a coward so many carriers must be. She knows how dangerous the roads are but these men agreed to their work. They volunteered to deliver those letters through the harshest of lands.
But she cannot fault them for her frustrations. The minute the regiment crossed to southern lands was the minute they lost their ties to home. She only hopes one day soon a carrier will arrive. In the interim she busies herself with her work alongside Shannon and Burt.
Though, as of late, mostly Shannon.
Brittany is abhorrent at cooking, a fact Shannon has tried many a time to amend. At least a dozen men were holed in the medical tent, their stomachs an angry mess, whenever Shannon gave Brittany control of the griddle. Yet with the failure of one endeavor came success in another. With nothing to pass her time during the day and the horses well and tended to, Brittany took to lessons with Shannon in stitching. At first it was a simple button mend, something Brittany was in dire need of. By that week's end Bret Pierce could be found minding his time outside Burt's tent, sewing scarves for the coming winter.
They weren't particularly good scarves, many lopsided and threadbare. But none who received them would dare see the smile upon Bret's face fall at the gift. Burt's scarf is now more padding for his pillow; Michael's ten inches shorter than the rest and affixed to his medic apron as a rag. Noah's is proudly wrapped all four times about his neck, stuffy and itchy, and the three in Santana's care all neatly folded upon her shelves save for the one she wears loosely about her shoulders and tucked, hidden beneath her winter coat.
She's kept every note Brittany delivered along with the scarves.
To San,
May this keep you warm, even theoh you have a coat and gloves all ready. Im sorry its not your favrite colour. All Shannon has is blu. I love you.
B
Dear San,
I made you another as you said you really loved the last. Im sorry you now have 2 blue scarves so I made this one wider. I love you and canot wait for tonite.
B
Dearest San,
I apologize again for giving you another blue scarf. So this one I made thinner. Burt told me Kurt said thin scarves were in fashion now. I hope you look beautiful with this one. You always look beautiful though. I love you, indefinatly.
B
It takes all Santana's willpower not to seek Brittany out and kiss her senseless whenever she rereads them. But they have an agreement, one Santana finds harder and harder to abide by everyday. Brittany must remain Bret and the only allowances in her façade are when they are alone or with only Michael as company. The man is a godsend, Santana thinks at times, when Michael gives Brittany tips on being a man. And also in the medical tent when her days are long and frustrations high. He is ever calm by her side, rolling his eyes in good jest at her tirades but standing firm upon the lashings delivered to her by her father. She wants so badly to shout at him of his dependency whenever he feels need to belittle her. But she always holds her tongue, remembering her promise to Brittany.
Michael never speaks up either, but as Dr. Lopez takes his leave, he always tells Santana how better a doctor she is for, "he has lost all sight of humanity whereas you have embraced compassion. Don't let his words strike you down. You are better than him, in all regards."
No matter how much she wills herself not to pay her father's callous words any thought they still pain her. She is so grateful for Michael's presence. The smile she manages to give him in thanks is always returned tenfold.
And once the sun sets and Brittany is free from her duties beside Shannon, Santana seeks the blonde out. They join Noah and Michael beside a fire, sometimes for a song but mostly for the company.
The small group has made it a ritual of sorts, something Noah considers the very best part of his day. He hates to leave them once the fire has died and the stars all shine brightly in the sky but sleep calls to him, the liquor in his belly warm and welcome. Yet even in his half-awake state he can always see Bret leading Santana back to her tent. Sometimes their arms are linked, other times nothing but their littlest fingers. He knows they think the dark hides them in its shadow but it's impossible to miss their connection.
Sometimes he thinks even Finn can see it way up in Heaven.
Brittany and Santana like to think they're careful when they're together, always mindful of the eyes that could be watching them. Brittany hates hiding, but understands where Santana's concern is born. Dr. Lopez has been watching them closely these past few weeks, his gaze none-too-accepting whenever he sees them walking through camp together. Santana is always quick to release their hands and distance herself whenever they draw near where he may be. But she always makes up for those moments at night, when she sneaks into Brittany's tent, long after the men of camp have fallen asleep, and rouses the woman from her dreams with the lightest of kisses trailed across her cheek.
Brittany has long-since stopped being surprised by the visits. She looks forward to their time alone, when they can share in each others thoughts, no matter how much her own seem to either amuse or puzzle the doctor. Santana always listens raptly, sometimes brushing her fingers through Brittany's hair. At some point one turns to the other, a look softening. Lips meet, touches growing bolder, kisses venturing further.
Brittany cannot wait till the war is over. Till she's back in Lima, by her sister's side with Santana standing on her other. It's that mental image that keeps her spirits high as she works throughout the day. Until she can be with Santana once more at night, wrap the doctor in her arms and kiss her until there's no breath left in her lungs.
Tompkinsville, November 17th, 1862
They're jostled awake by gunfire. Brittany snaps to first, springing up on her feet. Santana lets out a muffled cry as the tent support is knocked from its lone post and the beam, along with Brittany, come crashing down atop her.
"Don't move," Santana whispers, wrapping her arms tightly around Brittany, even as the blonde attempts to pull herself away. The sound of rifle fire grows louder. Screams pierce into the night. Brittany buries her face against Santana's neck, trembling as shots whiz overhead and the flares of fire glow bright against the downed tent.
When nothing save for the sounds of their heavy breaths fills the air Santana finally relaxes her hold on the quivering woman. A wide blue gaze locks upon her own, the fear held within sending a shock of chills to run down Santana's bruised spine. Brittany's pupils are pinprick sharp, even in the dark of the tent.
"It's over," Santana breathes out, hoping her soft assurance will quell the stilling look in those blue eyes. When Brittany remains on top of her, hands not soon to release their hold upon her dress, Santana reaches up, brushing the back of her fingers across Brittany's cheek. "Britt, we're all right."
The effect is instantaneous. Brittany's eyes flutter shut as she turns into the touch, exhaling deeply. She fills her lungs just as slowly, allowing her eyes to open once more and settle upon the woman beneath her. Santana thinks she preferred the sharpness of Brittany's gaze a mere few moments prior. Even though the look was stilling, she could understand the woman's fear… lessen her worries. Now those blue eyes have grown so dark, and so very unguarded. Santana doesn't know what to make of the haunted look, nor the way it seems to penetrate so thoroughly inside her. Brittany's whispered words do little to subdue her mounting apprehension.
"What of the men?"
They pull themselves free from the downed tent.
And no sooner are they standing that Brittany takes hold of Santana's hand at the sight of the bullet-ravaged bodies littering the ground.
Santana squeezes the hand tightening within her own. "Find Burt, stay with him," she instructs when the pained moans of a few of the men reach her ears. She hates to have to leave Brittany, but she cannot leave these men. Their time is already running short. She quickly bends to the downed tent, retrieving Brittany's cap. "I need to help as many of them as I can," she says, fixing it atop the shell-shocked woman's head. "Brittany," Santana turns Brittany's chin toward her gently.
With a few blinks of her eyes Brittany focuses. "Burt…" she recalls the doctor saying. As her mind grows sharp once more she nods. "I'll go to him. Please be careful, San."
Santana manages a strained smile, mind spinning a thousand thoughts as she tells her, "You as well."
The doctor gets straight to work, heading toward the nearest soldier. Santana's boots are strewn, forgotten, in Brittany's tent as the blonde digs her own out and quickly slips them on her feet. She takes off in a sprint toward the center of camp, relieved to find it unharmed. The soldiers are alert, many with rifles armed as Captain Hartman gives them their orders. Brittany doesn't bother to stop as she rushes past, only hearing the last end of his command.
Noah is among the men; the briefest of reassured smiles crossing his face when he sees her dash by. Where there is Bret, Santana is always close by. They'd survived the attack and to him, that is all that matters. He double-checks the rounds in his gun, locking his hammer in place as he heads out with his assigned group. The greybacks couldn't have gotten too far, the Captain told his men. And Noah is determined to down as many of those cowards as he can tonight.
Burt is calming a panicked Piedmont when Brittany arrives at his tent.
"Bret! Thank god!" Burt exclaims, relieved beyond measure to see his charge unscathed. He tries to pull Bret into a hug but Piedmont rears and he must give a yank on the horse's reins instead. "Easy now!"
"You have to say it softer," Brittany tells him as she steps up to the horse, mindful to stay within Piedmont's line of sight as she approaches slowly. "Easy now, Piedy," she whispers, slipping the reins from Burt's hand into her own. Piedmont snorts, jerking his head back. Brittany presses onward, hand extended, expression calm. The horse shakes his great mane, scuffing his front hoof along the dirt. "Easy," Brittany repeats as her hand presses against his neck and she strokes a soothing pattern up to his jaw.
Piedmont quiets, his nerves calmed as Brittany scratches a spot just below his ear that she knows he enjoys.
"I don't know how you do that," Burt tells her, astonished.
"Hummel," Captain Hartman calls as he hurries over, a familiar leaf of paper clutched in his hand. His gaze lands upon Brittany, eyes hardening before he lets out a heavy sigh. "I need this sent immediately."
"There's not a telegraph around for days," Burt tells him, worried for what this mission could mean for Bret. If it was even Bret the Captain was tasking with the errand. "Do you expect Bret to run this back through Lexington?"
"There's an illicit telegraph post in town," The Captain explains. "How else do you imagine they found us out?"
"Do you wish me to go?" Brittany asks, hesitant as she brings Piedmont forward.
Captain Hartman seems to struggle with his words for a moment before finally relenting with a nod and a resigned, "Yes. The cavalry barely has control over their steeds. Half of them ran off to shit knows where. Get this sent out quickly. Colonel Wright expects a reply in a few hours time."
A skirmish is what Brittany has found the slaughter has been called. It says so, just there, on the telegram she is being sent to deliver. For once Brittany's unfailing fidelity to the North wavers. This was no skirmish; how could the Colonel ever think to deem it such? Did he not care for the men who lay dying at her feet? For those now in Santana's care and sure not to survive through the night? How could he have sent them here, to this place full of those opposed to everything the union stands for right down to the very color of their coats…
This is a lie, she thinks as she hands the telegram over to the soldier now commanding the lone telegraph in town. She can see the owner, scowling from where he stands flanked and cuffed by two more union soldiers.
"You'll see your reaping day," he spits out at her as she meets his incensed gaze. "All you damned yanks!"
It's not long after they receive word back from Cleveland. The regiment is to join with the 39th Brigade; an encampment already positioned two days march south.
They are to spend the winter deep in the thick of Confederate Tennessee.