White Shadows

by Good Afternoon

AU. 1862, the North has started the draft. Santana follows her father to war, intent on proving her worth as a doctor. Brittany enlists in place of her father, intent on keeping her family safe. In this broken land, they find a home in each other.

12. Tell all the truth but tell it slant

AN: Super thanks to my beta, Throppsicle, for turning this behemoth chapter around so fast! Seriously, best beta ever. If you guys are into Wicked her fic is awesome. :) Hope you all enjoy the new chapter and in case anyone is wondering the title is from the Emily Dickinson's poem of the same name. I'm so transparent haha.

Chapter 12

Tell all the truth but tell it slant

Brittany wakes early the next morning, far before the first rays of dawn light can stretch above the horizon. Not even a glimmer of the moon is visible behind the thick cover of rainclouds still hanging low in the sky. Somewhere, far in the distance, she can hear the muted rumble of thunder. Drills will be awful today, she thinks, peeking her head out from her tent. It's a frigid morn, cold enough for even the softest of her breaths to cloud before her lips. Brittany amends her thought; drills will be more than awful in such inclement weather. They will be hell. Far worse than yesterday when at least three in their company fell to the ground, unable to carry on, lungs spent and fever setting into their blood. It's not their fault, she knows, that they succumbed so terribly fast.

There is a great deal which their hardship can be attributed to. The stress of training, the cutting of rations… the recent bout of flux leaving many wary of bathing, let alone drinking, from the river. But of all those reasons there is still a more pressing concern which cannot be overlooked.

Only half the men in the encampment had been provided with winter coats.

Brittany hopes more arrive very soon. Burt has told her the rest of the shipment is still weeks away aboard a train somewhere far north. She doesn't think she can bear to see any more men suffer through the coming winter without them. She also counts herself very lucky to have such a good friend in Noah Puckerman. He forfeited his coat to her the moment they learned Bret wasn't to acquire one until the following caravan arrived. At that point there was no knowing when, or even if it would ever come. As he held the coat out to her that bitter afternoon he'd assured her he'd be just fine without. All those nights he'd spent dashing half-naked from the rooms of lonely – "yet oh so fine!" – town widows had toughened him to the cold.

She didn't quite believe him but accepted his offer graciously nonetheless.

He truly is the very best she could ever ask in a friend.

It is why she finds herself worrying for him as she laces her boots. The chill winds are sure to tear through his uniform jacket as they carry out their run today. Last night he'd assured her, for what felt the hundredth time, that he'd be fine. But she could see the way his jaw quivered as he spoke and the slight hunch of his shoulders as he kept his arms tucked close beside him. Even the warmth of their fire could do little to stave off the penetrating chill upon the night air.

She makes a note to herself to remember to give him her old jacket later, even if it is two sizes too small. Anything is better than nothing… and especially better than suffering.

Santana has enough patients flooding the field hospital these days to fret over. Brittany doesn't ever wish to see Noah among them. And as her thoughts turn toward the doctor she feels herself growing more alert, the sleep once hanging in her eyes now rubbed clear away as she stands to her feet.

Bundling herself warmly within the winter coat Brittany shakes the shivers from her arms and makes her way to the small cabin. Her sleep was fretful; dreams plagued with visions of wounded unicorns and troubled thoughts of Santana. The sole purpose for waking so early is to seek her out. Santana never joined them by their fire as she'd promised and as Brittany made her way back to her tent late last night she was surprised to find the glow of firelight pouring out through the cabin's small window.

Santana was obviously inside.

It pained her imagining just why it was she had kept to herself.

Had Santana not wanted to see her? Had her father stopped her? Had he hurt her?

No, Brittany willed herself as she walked past. Don't think such horrid things.

She hoped instead Santana had found her letter and that it provided her with some measure of comfort. She'd spent a great deal of time deciding where she should leave it. Atop the pillow was too risky; Dr. Lopez was sure to find it. The nightstand was equally out of the question. Santana's books are too many in number to be sure she'd pick the right one. Brittany settled with hiding it beneath the pillow, remembering how Santana likes to sleep at times with one hand tucked beneath her head.

She had to have found it.

And even if she hadn't, for Santana not to have joined them anyway, let alone slip into her tent as she was wont to do as of late, was immensely troubling. It was so unlike Santana to simply never show, especially after giving her word.

What happened?

Brittany is set upon answering that very question this morning.

Careful to keep her steps light as she approaches the lone cabin window Brittany leans forward, rolling up to her toes. She peeks inside; the room is dark and empty save for a lone figure sleeping soundly in the bed opposite. Brittany presses her nose against the glass pane and squints. Her eyes are slow to adjust to the darkness as she focuses upon the body. It's too large, sprawled in a way Santana's usual curled position would never allow. Faintly she can hear the telltale snores of Dr. Lopez.

Brittany pulls herself higher atop her toes, her breath fogging the glass. She swipes her hand across the window hastily, mindful to keep her lungs stilled.

And as she stares down at the neatly made bed, Santana nowhere to be found, the same worry from the night before strikes deep in her chest. What did he do to her?

Where is she now?

There is only ever one place Santana can be found at such an hour. And Brittany desperately hopes she is right as without hesitation she takes off for the field hospital.

Even at a distance Brittany can see the soft glow of a lamp as it shines against one of the tent walls. Someone is awake inside. Brittany urges herself forward faster, her eyes riveted to the light as it hovers for a moment before lowering to rest somewhere near the ground. Brittany feels a rush of relief flood through her veins at the movement.

There is no question in her mind that it is Santana holding that lamp.

Quickly and silently she ducks inside the tent flap, a smile upon her face as her suspicions are confirmed. Santana sits squatted down on the floor beside a slumbering patient, the dimmed lamp held high in her hand as the other searches beneath the man's cot. She doesn't seem to have noticed Brittany arrive, let alone that she's now making her way over. The inside of the field hospital is as dark as the night sky beyond save for a small radius of space surrounding the flickering lamp.

That is why Santana nearly drops the lamp in fright when Brittany asks her quietly, "Why are you up so early?"

"Brittany!" Santana hisses out, losing her balance as her free hand digs into the hardened dirt below for support. She breathes hard, eyes flittering over the face of the sleeping patient. When he remains dreaming she feels her nerves calming. "Dios mio," Santana whispers, turning her gaze up to Brittany. The wide smile falls at the look directed up toward her. It's jarringly unforgiving, stern. "You shouldn't be in here," Santana tells her, voice hardened yet quieted so as to not wake any of the men resting soundly around them.

"You didn't come last night," Brittany whispers, aggrieved as she watches Santana bend to her knees and reach back beneath the cot. "I was worried."

"I'm fine, clearly," Santana says with far more bite than she intended. She regrets the remark the moment it leaves her mouth. Brittany isn't to blame, she knows. And nor does she deserve your harsh tongue, Santana chastises herself. But she cannot help the bitterness contained in her words, not after last night. She can feel the cool metal of the bedpan beneath the cot press against the protective bandages wrapped around her fingers, a shudder rolling down her spine at the thought of its contents. Her father had charged her with ensuring each and every one was emptied and cleaned before his arrival at dawn. It is a degrading task, the first of many she is sure. And for Brittany to come find her at this hour and see her having to do such work? Wincing, and in a much gentler voice she tells Brittany, "You should go. You've drills soon."

"Not for an hour or so yet. I wanted to see you first," Brittany says softly, crouching down beside the doctor. And even though Santana refuses to meet her eyes she asks anyway, "Did you get my letter?"

Santana stills, struck by the absolute anxiety laced in Brittany's voice. Brittany is never uneasy. Not like this. She chances a glance toward the troubled woman and again finds herself rendered mute, this time by the sheer concern held within the blue eyes before her. Brittany scoots forward, wetting her lips as she reaches out and touches Santana's upper arm. It's but a simple brush of her fingers against the sleeve of Santana's coat and yet through the thick layer Santana swears she can feel the skin of her arm warm, pulse quickening beneath the tender touch.

Brittany moves closer, Santana's eyes falling closed as she lets out a shaky breath. Brittany slides her hand down Santana's sleeve, pulling her arm out from beneath the cot. She's mindful not to let her fingers move past Santana's wrist. The once sterile white bandages around Santana's hand are splattered with filth and Brittany's learned by now how easy it is for disease to spread. Instead she scratches lightly at the back of a dry wrist, hoping for those dark eyes to open once more. She can see each individual eyelash brushing against Santana's cheek and wishes to bridge the small gap separating them to press a kiss against the knotted brow. But she knows her place, knows this is not where such affections should be shown. Instead she holds loosely to Santana's wrist, ignoring the stench of the diseased lingering about them, and asks her softly, "What happened, San?"

"I'd rather not recall," is the muttered reply that meets her ears. Before Brittany can even think a response Santana looks up, eyes locking upon her own. There's something off in her gaze, a grave sadness usually not evident in the brown eyes. And there, just as the light catches it so, is a hint of bruising high upon her cheek. Santana can see Brittany's gaze darkening as her eyes focus upon the damage. She turns away sharply; lamp lowered quickly, her face once more shrouded in shadow. "Please go."

But Brittany is unwilling to leave and reaches forward to pull Santana back toward her when the doctor tries to resume her work. "Did he hurt you?" Brittany asks, her voice impossibly low. A growl almost, Santana thinks, pursing her lips as she keeps her head deftly turned away.

"I told you I'm fine," she tells her, shaking Brittany's hand off and standing quickly to her feet. Brittany shoots up beside her. "Go."

"He did, didn't he?" Brittany implores and this time the snarl is more than evident. Santana's never heard Brittany speak in such a way let alone ever heard a demand leave her tongue. Brittany is never inclined to anger, annoyance surely, but never outright fury. It unsettles something within Santana, goose bumps rising along her covered arms.

She is quick to push the warm feeling down, brushing Brittany's concern aside as easily as she shrugs the firm hand from her arm. "I spoke out of place. What's done is done."

"That's not right!"

"Shhh!" Santana hisses, eyes narrowing up into Brittany's own. "I can't have you waking my patients. Just go, Bret."

She can see something flash in Brittany's blue eyes, her teeth clench tightly, pale skin growing taught along her jaw. "Fine," Brittany forces out. "I'll leave. But I am coming back."

No! Santana's eyes widen, panic gripping at her heart. If he were to catch her here… Santana whirls upon her heels, Brittany already making headway toward the tent entrance. She spurs herself forward quickly catching up to Brittany before the rightfully angered woman can make it out of the tent. "You can't come back in here."

Brittany holds the flap of the tent open as she turns back to Santana. "I'm not scared of your Pa no more," she answers evenly.

Santana wants to reach out, grab Brittany and make her see reason but she cannot touch her. Not with the excrements of her patients so prevalent on the wraps of her only free hand. And even then she wishes not for Brittany to see the way her hand trembles so. Santana curls her fingers deep into her palm and keeps the dirty mess placed behind her back, the lamp still held high near her chest in her other. The oil inside wanes, the flame flickering in the last of its fuel. Brittany's hardened features glow sharp in the dying light. Her eyes shine down at Santana, the deep blue probing, angered and... disappointed, Santana laments. She can see the truth to Brittany's last words, right there, clear as the light of the flame and burning straight through her all the same.

This woman isn't at all scared of her father, not anymore.

Santana feels a swell of pride in her at the notion but she knows it's a foolish sentiment. She wishes more than anything for Brittany to still retain her terror for her father. She'd keep away then, she'd stay hidden… safe. It's for this reason that when Santana is finally able to find her voice that all she's able to whisper out thickly is a meek, "I am."

It is the truth. One Brittany can now place in the expression held within wide dark eyes. Frightened eyes. Brittany can feel the heat of her anger waning, the scowl upon her face dropping as she moves closer to Santana, wishing to take the pain from the woman standing so terrified before her.

"You've no idea…" Santana begins to say softly, eyes darting over her shoulders to ensure they're not heard. She looks back up at Brittany, the lamp extinguishing with a soft hiss as she lets out a ragged breath. "Please, just—" her words still then upon the feel of Brittany lightly running her fingertips over the bruise on her cheek. Santana sighs, eyes falling closed at the touch. "I'll tell you tonight," she whispers, gaze pleading as she stares back up at Brittany once more. "Just go now."

"Promise?" Brittany asks, pulling her hand away.

"I promise," Santana tells her, managing a small, albeit distressed smile. It grows sincere though, warm as she says, "And I did find your letter, thank you."

Brittany returns the grin. "I meant every word," she says with conviction and Santana swears her heart skips several beats at the blonde's tone. Brittany's brow furrows, expression turning sheepish as she admits, "But I really can't remember what I wrote."

"That's okay, Britt," Santana chuckles, the sound drawing but a fraction of unease away. "I just didn't want you to leave without knowing. It was the only good thing about my night."

Brittany grows serious once more. "You'll tell me why later, right?"

And Santana nods, for she cannot will the words to carry forth. Not when she knows they are a lie.

---

Santana is finishing her small bowl of cornmeal when Michael arrives to the field hospital. It's just a little after dawn, the wind picking up speed. Some loose strands of her hair whip into her face as she looks up toward Michael. The usual relaxed smile upon his face is wiped clear away in favor of thinned lips and a heavy set brow. He glances upward; a hallowed, almost haunted, look greeting her this chilly morn. Santana finds herself growing colder beneath his gaze, pushing her bowl aside as she stands to meet him.

"Michael," she begins to say, brushing the hair from her eyes aside. She holds any further words as she catches glimpse of Dr. Lopez approaching from just over Michael's shoulder. Michael turns at her silence, following her eyes until they land upon the detestable man. His scowl only deepens as Dr. Lopez comes to stand beside him, entirely ignoring his presence as he address Santana solely.

"I take it the bedpans have all been washed?" he inquires, too busy adjusting the cuff links of his surgeon coat to meet her gaze.

Santana's teeth grind as she replies in as respectful a tone as she can muster, "Yes, sir."

Dr. Lopez nods curtly, scratching at his wrist. "And the men?" he asks, finally sparing her a glance. "Have you seen to their soiled garments?"

Santana pales. It was the one task she'd not completed. "They sleep still," she tells him. "I will attend them once they wake."

A thick eyebrow rises high atop Dr. Lopez's forehead. "They're waking now."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lopez," Michael interjects finally. He wears a grin upon his face but it is neither apologetic nor cordial. "But that measure of care is typically a task assigned to the men on staff."

"And it is now a chore for her hands instead," Dr. Lopez says, pointed as he narrows his eyes up into Michael's unwavering glare. It seems the Chinaman is suffering a streak of stubbornness in the wake of his daughter's subdued nature. Nevertheless annoying, Dr. Lopez thinks with a click of his tongue up at the man. He motions lazily toward the tent. "Go make use of your time elsewhere. I'm sure there are linens in need of desoiling."

Michael squares his shoulders against the sting of Dr. Lopez's words. Santana notices his chest rising and falling faster.

"Michael," she whispers in warning. He instantly lets out a deep breath, begrudgingly relaxing in posture beside her. Santana looks up at her father once more, masking her fury at the amusement upon his face as she asks, "Do you require anything else of me this morning?"

Dr. Lopez thinks upon her question for a moment and Santana is surprised to find his expression turn thoughtful as he turns to her once more and asks, "How many more perished in the night?"

"Seven," Santana answers with a sigh. "All dysentery."

Dr. Lopez gives a nod, turning back toward the tent. "I'll see to it Major Keller is informed," he says and without another word disappears beneath the flap.

"Santana…" Michael says after the tent settles and the muffled sounds of the waking patients filter out toward them once more. Santana looks up at Michael, his astonished and befuddled gaze still directed at the last spot Dr. Lopez stood before departing. Gaping at the tent flap he asks, "What just happened?" He turns back to her, the confusion in his eyes quick to change to alarm. Especially as his gaze lingers upon the dark yellowing of the skin beneath her left eye. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing, don't concern yourself," she swats away his hand before it can even come near her face. She ignores the wounded look he throws her way, instead choosing to tell him, "Just stay far from him today, okay? It seems not even the whore he visited last night could unsour his mood."

She cannot, though, ignore Michael's next words. "I don't think that's where he was. I saw him last night in the church up near town."

This is certainly news to her ears.

Santana grabs hold of Michael's arm, quickly pulling the surprised man aside. Once she's sure her father's ears won't hear word of their exchange she asks in quick succession, "What? Are you positive? When?"

"A little before midnight I'd gather?" Michael says with an unsure shrug. Again that despondent expression flares in his eyes as he explains, "He was sitting in a pew and it seemed to me he'd been there for a quite a while."

Strange, Santana thinks. She knows her father is a religious man but to be devout enough to seek faith at such an hour? Even he isn't that proud a Christian. Which begged the question then, "Why were you there?"

Michael lets out a snort. "You know better than anyone the prejudices held against my kind. I'd never be allowed in there during day hours, let alone be given the peace to pray if I were to be seen. I needed my prayers heard, Santana," he tells her, voice growing ever more pained as he speaks on. Santana can see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He closes them tightly, whispering brokenly, "Tina, she… we-we've lost the child."

Santana swallows thickly, unsure just how to respond to such an admission. "Michael, I'm... I'm so sorry."

"I only wish I could be there for her," he confesses, quickly wiping the tears from his eyes before they can touch upon his cheeks. He gives Santana a wobbly smile as he tells her, "She was to be our first girl."

Santana reaches up, patting his arm in what she hopes is a friendly manner but in reality is simply awkward. "I'd understand if you wish not to be here today."

"And leave you to face the wrath of your father alone?" he asks her with far more strength in his tone. "Never."

Santana can't imagine what it must be like, to lose something so precious that unexpectedly. She knows the child had brought the family hope since Michael's enlistment. That baby was their one shinning beacon of happiness in their otherwise unfortunate circumstances. And now to have lost that, let alone the despair Michael must feel never having had the chance to see his daughter's face… to hold his wife close afterward as she cried….

She hugs him then, wrapping him tightly in her arms. The sudden embrace surprises Michael. Frozen in place, he remains still as Santana whispers needless apologies against his chest. After a moment though he finds a strange sense of peace in her desperate hold. Breathing deeply, he brings his own arms around her and holds her close. They aren't the arms he wishes were surrounding him, but they are strong nonetheless, earnest and full of the best of intentions. Intentions he knows belong to the warmest of hearts. She'd never admit to it, he knows, but this is the closest he thinks he'll ever get to having her acknowledge she cares for him. And he accepts it, whole-heartedly, more than grateful.

She's a good person, and an ever better friend, he thinks with a small smile. And he only wishes she believed the same in herself.

"Sorry," Santana says, sniffling as they part. She brushes the wet spot stained now against the lapels of his medic coat. "I don't know why… I just…"

"Giving me a hug is hardly cause for such a poor apology," he chuckles. And softer adds, "or such embarrassment."

"I'm not ashamed," Santana challenges, huffily crossing her arms over her chest. She motions toward him with a flick of her wrist. "I just don't go about… doing that and acting like this very often is all."

"Being a human being is nothing to be so shamed over," he smiles.

Santana rolls her eyes, laughing as she tells him, "you sound like Brittany."

"And despite what everyone thinks of her she's clearly a clever girl."

Santana finds herself smiling right along with him, ever so proud of the woman she's fallen for. She notices Michael's grin doesn't quite reach his eyes, nor does she think any will for quite some time. There is still a pain in his expression, one she knows he will carry with him in the coming months. But in this moment she swears to ensure he never feel the burden of such a loss alone. He has a friend in her, perhaps not the best and certainly not the most inclined to goodness, but a friend nonetheless.

And if he needs a hug she'll see to it she gives him the very best she can.

Brittany did teach her well, after all.

With a shake of her head she nods toward the tent, a silent question of whether they should carry on with their chores delivered in the gesture. Michel shrugs, sweeping his arm out for her to lead the way. They fall into step beside one another but before they can pass through the flap of the tent Santana pauses with her hand against the canvas entrance.

There is one other matter still scratching against her mind.

"Michael?" She asks as she turns to face him. "What was my father doing there last night?"

Michael can't help but chuckle at the question. "What else does one do in a church?" he snickers. "He was praying."

---

Brittany still doesn't know quite what to make of her conversation with Santana. Even now, a few hours later, as she runs with her company through the hillsides for their morning drills. The path is second nature to her by now, steps almost rehearsed as she pushes on through the trodden fields a few paces behind the taller soldier ahead. There's a thin layer of frost in the grass, causing many of the men to slip as they run. Brittany holds steady though, accustomed to such terrain. It was fairly common to wake some winter mornings to a layer of frost coating their farm back in Lima. Chores on those mornings were never so much fun, not when Apple would put up a protest at having to be led to an icy pasture.

Sometimes he could be a might stubborn handful.

A stubbornness she found much the same in the protests Santana put up today as Brittany tried to understand what happened between her and Dr. Lopez. Whatever it is left quite the mark upon Santana's cheek, the sight of which immediately sent Brittany's blood to boil. Even thinking of it now makes her steps fall upon the ground with more force, the chilled skin of her face heating with unchecked ire. She's never hated anymore in her life, not in the way she hates Santana's father. He hurt her, again. And what more, he's left Santana so shaken so as to not even voice her opinion in disdain, as she was always quick to do.

It pained Brittany to see Santana acting so... so fretful this morning. Santana never wavers once she's beneath the roof in the field hospital. That is where she excels, deftly tending to patients. Medicine is her element. He hasn't been able to take her skill away. Not her pride.

Something he's said to her has changed that… and as Brittany thinks more on it she worries for what he could have done to mar her so.

As her mind spins imaginative thoughts of Dr. Lopez's demise, a soldier a few men ahead of her in line finds his feet slipping out from beneath him. He collides to the ground with a hard thud, moaning loudly. Brittany comes to a stop beside him, about to extend her hand down when the face of the man turns up toward her. She has to resist the urge to let out a groan herself upon realizing it is none other than Scott Cooper sprawled on the ground below.

Nevertheless she extends her hand anyway, very much expecting him to bat it away as he typically does. She is more than surprised then when she feels his frigid fingers wrap about her wrist, gripping tight.

The surprise is evident on her face as she stares down at him, astonished.

"My ass is getting frostbite down here, Pierce," Cooper says after a moment. Brittany snaps from her stupor, quickly hauling Cooper to his feet. He winces as a few bones in his back crack at the sudden jerk. Once upon his feet he gives his legs a good shake, trying to dispel as must frost from his slacks as possible. Brittany is still staring at him in wonder as he quirks a brow her way. "I've not grown another head, stop gawking."

"I…" Brittany croaks.

Cooper rolls his eyes. "Many thanks for the hand but do try not thinking too hard on it." And with a smirk adds, "You already look as if you're reaching your deplorable mental capacity."

With a tip of his cap he falls back into an open place in the line, leaving Brittany still gapping after him.

"Come on, Bret!" Noah claps her over the shoulder as he runs past. Brittany snaps to, legs in motion in an instant as she rushes to catch up. She breezes past Noah, giving the wheezing man a quick smile in thanks. She catches up to Cooper quickly, squeezing herself into line beside him. A thousand and one questions seem to be screaming inside her head, not one able to coherently form. So when she asks him, "Why are you nice being so human at me now?" what she really means to say is, Why the sudden change?

Cooper glances at her from the corner of his eyes, his top lip curling in confusion and aversion. "Care to try that again, Bret?"

Bret, Brittany repeats in her head, stunned. He never calls me Bret. Between Santana's newfound fear of her father and Cooper's sudden humanity Brittany thinks perhaps she's woken to a reality that isn't quite existent. I must be dreaming, she thinks. This is all just a fantasy. She wills for something spectacular to appear, a rainbow in only shades of yellow and green, Apple in his grey socks, Emily healthy and well…anything to prove she's still only within her mind.

But the cold of the air is very real as it bites against her skin, the strain in her muscles burning ever so acutely within her legs.

There is no mistaking that this is reality.

What has happened to it then? Brittany wonders. She focuses upon where she is now and what she wishes to ask the strangely behaving man beside her. Keeping her pace beside Cooper, she asks, "Why are you being so… pleasant with me?"

"If you ask me another such idiotic question I'll be more than happy to be otherwise again," he sneers. Brittany presses her lips tightly together, breathing hard through her nose as she wills herself not to press her luck further. After a few moments though she must release her lips, inhaling deeply through her nose once more and exhaling from her mouth. Cooper spares her another glance, curious why Bret hasn't dropped back to his place in line yet. Only one such answer comes to mind, and thus he must inquire, "She told you, hasn't she?"

"Who?" Brittany asks.

"Santana," Cooper supplies with another sweeping roll of his eyes. "What other she is there?"

To which Brittany replies instantly, "Beiste."

"Do you remember… what I said?" Cooper asks, breathing harder as they jog up yet another hill. "About stupid… questions?"

"Idiotic ones, yes," Brittany tells him, her breathing far more controlled. "You never said nothing about stupid ones."

"Did Santana… tell you anything… or not?" he wheezes with a snap.

"About what?"

Cooper groans, growing exasperated with every passing second. He regrets ever accepting her help. "About the spectacle… I made of myself… at dinner."

Brittany sucks in a sharp breath. "You were invited?"

As the terrain flattens once more Cooper's breaths even. "Wish I'd never been."

Brittany cringes. "Did you use the wrong spoon?"

"What?" Cooper balks, staring incredulously at her. He shakes his head "No. And spoons, really?" Beneath his breath he mutters, "What does she see in you?"

"More than she sees in you," Brittany says, knowing full well whom he's speaking of. And she doesn't much appreciate the condescending tone of his winded voice.

"She made that clear as a bell," Cooper grumbles.

"Clear as rain," Brittany corrects him. "Bells are too thick."

Cooper looks over toward her again, top lip once more curled in detest. "I'm going to withhold what I wish to say because I very much value what little hearing I have left. Do know I still find you an absolute idiot."

"And you're still a horrible person," Brittany tells him before stepping from the line to join the far better company of her friend near the rear.

It's not long till the group arrives back at the camp, thoroughly exhausted, chilled and more than ready to partake in a late morning nap. Brittany watches some of the men shuffle off toward their tents, their chores for the day to be put on obvious hold in favor of the rest their bodies crave. Even Captain Hartman seems plagued with fatigue this morning, his shoulders hanging almost loosely from his frame, eyelids heavy over equally tired eyes. As he dismounts from his horse he stifles a yawn into the crook of his arm. Brittany thinks he could do with a nap as well.

They all could, really.

She knows there's a lot that they are being deprived of and more yet she can't even begin to understand. She's tried to, really, but there are just some things that will forever be beyond her grasp. She's lost track of the times Santana has made mention of the slew of wrongs in need of being righted in this camp. Most of them were spoken far too fast and full of words she's never heard uttered before. Important, smart words to be sure. Brittany was lost in Santana's voice as she spoke on, merely nodding along, pleased and relieved whenever Santana would stop for a while. She knows Santana sometimes just needs someone to listen, and even though she can't identify with anything, Brittany knows she will always try. Brittany cares for Santana's every long-winded thought and relishes in the fact she is only ever so open with her. Not even Michael is privy to those unfiltered views, all his questions in the like answered with a terse response.

"There is a great deal we need," Santana always tells him. "But unlikely we'll ever receive so don't bother wasting your breath over it."

Brittany smiles to herself whenever she hears Santana tell him. Knowing she is needed, even in that smallest of ways, makes her feel entirely dear to Santana. She knows it's petty of her to feel this way, but in those instances when Santana and Michael lapse into their own discussion and the dredges of inadequacy nibble upon the fragments of Brittany's mind. She sits in silence beside the doctors and reminds herself that even despite all her shortcomings Santana has chosen her. And it makes Brittany feel so warm inside, elated, for despite how unequal they are as a pair in terms of intellectual regards, they more than matched in all else.

And all else is all that matters to her.

Yet at the moment what matters most are the needs of the exhausted men. And while Brittany agrees that they do need more of… more of those things Santana mentioned, proper medicine being the only she can recall distinctly, they also need the essentials.

The basics, the simplest of human necessities she more than feels the loss of. There are three seemingly uncomplicated things that over the past few weeks have become so troublesome to acquire. She can't recall the last time she got a full, let alone good, night's rest. Nor the last time her belly was full. And though she appreciates Noah lending her his coat, there are still others in need of warm clothes.

It tires her just trying to think of a solution to one of these problems, let alone all of them.

Maybe if they bring crickets in it might help us sleep, she ponders as she shakes out her sore legs. And then Lucy could have a good meal too.

She wipes at the line of sweat that's collected beneath her cap. Her skin feels warm, body hot encased in the thick layer of her winter coat. Her heart has yet to cease its fast rhythm, her legs aching from the long run.

"Keep bouncing around up there and the Captain might think you ready for afternoon drills," Noah chuckles from his position collapsed on his behind in the grass beside her. His legs stretch out before him, hands resting solidly as support in the dirt behind his back. He pats the patch of grass beside him. "Come on, help me get these jitters out my legs."

Brittany plops down beside him with a nod, pushing up the excess sleeves of her coat until her hands meet the cool air. Noah slides his left leg toward her, allowing his body to fall back to ground with a soft thud. He lets out a contented hum, watching the storm clouds collect overhead as she kneads her fingers into the tender muscle of his calf.

"Better?" she asks, smirking, because she knows the noise he's just made is all the response she truly needs.

"The hands of God, Bret," he tells her, as he always does when she lessens the pull of his aching muscles so. "Hands. Of. God."

"So you say," she chuckles, ever mindful to keep her voice low. The quiet of the morning surrounds them, Noah occasionally humming along to a tune only he can seem to hear. As Brittany finishes up loosening the muscles of his other calf Noah sits up, propped along his elbows.

"How are things with you?" he asks, a curious sort of expression upon his face.

Brittany sits back atop her heels, shrugging as she replies, "All right."

"I was thinkin'," he begins to say, pushing himself up until his spine rests hunched, hands picking at the grass stains along his knees. "Some of the fellas are heading into town this evening, you know, to see what they can find."

Brittany stares at him blankly. "Did someone lose something?"

Noah rolls his eyes, shoving Bret's shoulder in jest. "Women, Bret. To find some fine women!" he bellows, a few passing soldiers holler in agreement. Noah grins up at them before turning back toward Bret and asking, "Would you like to come?"

"Oh," Brittany says, cheeks tinged with blush. "No, thank you. I'll just stay here."

Noah had expected such a response. It was predictable really, he thinks, given the way Bret cares for her. His carefree smile falls, eyes once shinning with cheer fill instead with concern. Concern Brittany finds herself confused to be met with. Noah leans closer and in a hushed voice asks, "Don't you think it's high time you looked elsewhere?"

Brittany doesn't need clarification, she more than understands whom he's speaking of. "I haven't lost Santana," she tells him.

Noah lets out a sigh. "But she treats you so poor Bret!"

"She treats me just fine," Brittany replies hotly before quickly adding. "Though we're friends, is all."

Noah's gaze narrows skeptically into her own. "Has she told you to say so?"

"She…" Brittany trails off, pursing her lips to keep any further lapses in her feelings from issuing forth. After a moment she settles upon telling him, "No, she hasn't. It's the truth."

Noah groans loudly. "I cannot believe you two!" He exclaims. "You're like teats on a boar pig!"

"That's impossible, Noah," Brittany tells him with utmost seriousness. "Teats are only on lady pigs."

He throws his arms skyward. "Exactly! Useless otherwise!" he says, hoping to whatever God above that Bret is suddenly struck with reason. He cares for Bret and Santana both. Those two have been his anchors since… since his life seemed to crumble before his very eyes in Mackville. Every night spent in their company by the fire reminds him he's not alone. That even though he's lost a dear friend, a brother almost, life carries on… the hurt lessens. It's why he hasn't given up hope in this war yet. Nor in what he knows has formed between his two friends. Watching the way Bret tries so hard not to melt at the sound of Santana's voice, even after the hundredth time of hearing that same damn song. If that isn't someone smitten in love Noah doesn't know what it ever could be.

He's been their biggest advocate; hell their only advocate, he thinks, ever since Finn's death and Sam's departure. He's alone amongst the ranks of the infantry without them. The only ounce of compassion ever showed to him since has been from the man sitting beside him now. And he'll be damned if Bret isn't shown the same respect by Santana.

"You know what I reckon?" he says finally, voice no longer tinged with resentment but instead mirth. "I think you both just need to be thrown into a tent and left alone. That'd set things right. You'd thank me after of course. Your cock probably hasn't seen a woman in ages."

Brittany remains tight lipped.

Noah's once amused gaze grows mystified by her silence. It takes him a moment but when the blush now burning brightly upon Bret's cheeks registers in his mind, Noah can do little more than sputter aghast as he exclaims, "Bret! I can't believe you! When was the last time?"

Brittany shrinks within her winter coat, hoping the heavy fabric simply swallows her whole. "Not… quite… ever?"

Noah blinks at her, agape. "You've never… Bret! Is this a bluff, or do you mean it for real play?"

"I've not," is the meek response.

"Well…" Noah trails off, leaning back along his arms once more. "This certainly explains a lot," he chuckles.

"Explains what?" Brittany asks, worried for the look she cannot place now upon his face. He can't have figured her out already. "I'm a perfectly normal man with a perfectly normal cock. I've a bulge and everything in my slacks, see?"

"Stop pointing at it so!" Noah hisses, swatting her arm aside. "I'm not questioning your manhood, Bret. I'm sure it works just fine. What I mean to say is do you know what to do with yourself?"

Brittany gives what she believes is a confident nod and just to be sure adds an extra confident, "Yes."

"I could nail that lie to a table, that's how obvious it is."

"I have an… older sister so I know what goes where," Brittany explains. She rolls her eyes at him, as if she hasn't figured that bit out by now.

"Dear God, Bret!" Noah gasps, appalled.

Sometimes Brittany feels her mouth doesn't exactly speak what's upon her mind. Blushing furiously she amends, "I didn't mean it like that! I've just… asked questions is all."

Noah lets out an audible breath in relief; his hands release their strident grip upon the grass. "You darn near killed me there, you know."

Brittany turns her gaze to the ground and mumbles sheepishly, "Sorry."

"So your sister explained things to you?" Noah asks, nudging her shoulder once more until she's looking back down at him. He smiles kindly at her, "That's mighty nice of her."

It would be, Brittany thinks, if it weren't a heaping lie. She so wishes to just tell him the truth. It would be so much easier if he knew. Michael already does and it would just make things better, equal actually, if Noah were to as well. Symmetry is always nice and you could never have a proper dance with only three. Her mouth begins to feel dry though as her thoughts play on. It wouldn't hurt no one, she tells herself. He's your friend.

I promised Santana I'd never tell…

He deserves the truth.

She licks her lips and speaks to him for once in her natural voice. "Actually…I-" but stops herself, throat tightening as she realizes there would be no taking back her words. What she speaks next will change everything. Nervously she ventures on, "Noah? If I tell you something, about me, will you keep it secret?"

Noah finds the change in Bret's voice stilling, the man obviously torn over whatever it is he wishes to say. It is always a bit humiliating for a man's pitch to change so suddenly in conversation. He remembers the same happening to him upon rare occasions as a much younger lad. Thus he does what he feels any good friend would, he pats Bret upon the shoulder, an encouraging smile upon his lips as he tells him, "Of course. We're good friends and all. Brothers I'd say, just like Sam and… and Finn." God, it's still so hard to say his name, he thinks, giving a roll of his shoulder to alleviate the pressure suddenly consuming his chest at the thought of his fallen friend.

"Really?" Brittany asks, hope once more filling her heart.

"Yeah, really," Noah replies.

Brittany relaxes some at his tone, sharing a soft smile as well as she admits quietly, "I've been wanting to tell someone else for a long while and," she pauses, swallowing thickly, heart pounding once more. She can feel her fingers digging deep into her thighs, face growing impossibly warm. She wants very much to tell him. "It just gets so hard to keep …to keep lying all the time."

Noah places a soothing hand atop her shoulder, his brow knotted with concern as Brittany bites her bottom lip in reaction. "Are you all right, Bret?"

Brittany closes her eyes. "My name's not Bret."

"Oh…" Noah says, not quite knowing what to make of that response. He cringes as a thought strikes him. "It's not something frilly is it? Like my cousin Bessie? Poor lad will never get a woman with a name like that."

Brittany feels a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth at his words. It's enough to give her the courage to meet his gaze as she tells him, very much herself, "My name's Brittany."

Noah claps her over the shoulder with a loud laugh. "Better than Bessie though, right?"

"I'm a lady, Noah," Brittany clarifies, fingering at the brim of her cap. She debates taking him aside and removing it entirely but holds fast, gaze flittering over the soldiers milling about nearby. She lowers her hand back to her lap, afraid to meet the eyes she knows are staring in stunned silence at her.

"Wha…?" Noah manages to breathe out. "Bret, you… all this time?"

Brittany nods, toying with the ends of her winter coat. "Brittany, please," she says quietly. "And yes, all this time."

Noah sits up, crossing his legs in front of him as he reaches out and stills Brittany's fidgeting hands. Her head snaps up, wide eyes locking upon Noah's own. "How come you never said nothing?" he asks her gently.

Brittany sucks in a large breath, feeling lightheaded at the reassurance held within Noah's eyes. And even though his hands are calloused, nowhere near the soft feel of Santana's, his touch is gentle. Reassuring. "I needed to keep safe, if the captain knew I'd—" she chokes upon her words, tears brimming in her eyes.

Noah squeezes her hand. "You'd be in a hell of a lot of hot water."

"You won't say anything, will you?" Brittany asks in a rush, heart racing faster than it does even as she runs through the hillside. He's my friend, she repeats like a mantra in her head. He's my friend, he won't hurt me.

Noah smiles sadly at her. "Why'd you tell me?"

"Because you're my friend," her answer comes naturally, voice strained with unbridled anxiety. "I didn't want to lie to you anymore."

Noah doesn't quite know what to make of her response. He feels as though he's still speaking with Bret, albeit a much more soft spoken Bret, but Bret nonetheless. This had to be a ruse; just a silly prank the boy wishes to pull over on him. But Noah also knows Bret… or Brittany rather, isn't one for such hurtful games. Bret doesn't lie… Noah only wishes to understand.

He knows what pains withholding this truth must have brought to the woman sitting so anxious before him. He can hear it plainly upon the quiver in her voice. And if what she speaks is the truth, then he will do her the decency of listening. If anything he owes Bret at least that.

"Bre…Brittany," he catches himself, giving an apologetic grin before growing serious once more and asking, "why would you ever want to be here?"

"You know my sister, Emily?" she asks him and upon his nod she continues, "She's very sick. San says she has consumption but I didn't know back then. I just knew when Pa got his letter that he'd leave us and I'd be left to care for her."

Tears fall in a thin stream down from her eyes, right over cheeks Noah feels as though he's seeing for the first time. They're fair, far fairer than any he's ever seen upon a man. The tinge of red within them now is becoming as can only ever be upon a woman. Their eyes meet, Brittany's tear-stained gaze holding his own with such raw emotion he must bite at his cheek to remind himself this is real. And as the taste of blood washes over his tongue he knows this is very much his waking world.

It is why he rubs his thumb atop her hand, hoping to soothe the hurt look within her gaze. Brittany wipes at her nose and he can't help but notice she does so the same way as Bret. Brittany is no different from him. Not at all, he thinks with a small smile. "Go on Brittany," he tells her softly, knowing she's not quite finished with her tale.

She nods, sniffling as she tells him, "Emily would have died if I stayed, Noah, I know it. I'm not smart like my Pa, or San or anyone. I wouldn't have known what to do…so I took his place here."

"I'm sorry I have no handkerchief to offer you right now," Noah says.

Brittany blinks, regaining her composure as she stares at him, confusion creasing her brow. "You're not… upset with me?"

Noah releases her hands, nudging her shoulder with his own as he asks, "Why would I be?"

Brittany is still surprised by his acceptance and thus finds herself saying, "For lying, for being… who I am."

"You're not the only woman in this army," he tells her, looking out past the tents surrounding them. "And you know better than anyone there must be others out there like you."

Brittany perks, leaning closer as she whispers, "Have you met some?"

"You're the first," Noah says with a shake of his head. And with a chuckle she's elated to hear he tells her, "I never would have guessed either, you've been doing a top rail job!"

Brittany smiles, toying once more with the corners of her coat. "Michael thinks otherwise, he keeps giving me tips."

"Michael knows?" Noah bellows before biting his tongue sharply and giving Brittany an apologetic look. It quickly turns curious when he realizes, "Wait… does Santana know?"

Brittany gives him a small nod, smiling as she says, "she does."

Noah's mind works furiously to place all he's come to know in his head. "She knows but you…you two still…"

Brittany can see him trying to place her relationship with Santana. Quickly she tells him, "There's noth—"

"Oh no!" Noah interrupts, silencing her with a piercing stare. "If I have to listen to one of you say that rehearsed line again I will shoot something. Preferably Cooper."

"But—"

"I'm not going to judge you any Brittany. Believe me, I've seen it all," he says with knowing chuckle and a wink. Noah has ventured into his fair share of brothels, seen the likes of things he's sure Brittany can't even begin to fathom. But even that is a lie compared to the real truth he's promised to hold secret in his heart. He knows of a family back home, two wonderful parents doing all they can to ensure their love is never found out. He never thought he'd ever meet anyone like them, let alone find the same in someone as young as Brittany. Maybe someday, he thinks, they could all meet. If she trusts him enough to speak her feelings now, that is. He turns back toward her, hoping to draw just a bit more truth from her with his next words. "So since you're all about speaking the truth this mornin' how's about the truth on that too. You've feelings for her, don't you?"

Brittany hesitates, gauging whether to be honest with him or not. He's your friend, echoes in her mind. He promised not to judge…

She gives him a slow nod.

"And she treats you right?" he asks, smiling. "None of this backhand she gives me or Michael?"

Her next nod is more certain. The tightness coiled in her muscles finally calming. "She cares for me very much."

"And you?" he inquires softly. "Do you care for her too?"

"I love her, Noah, more than anything."

Noah smirks. "I thought so."

"You don't have to look so smug about it," Brittany reprimands, flicking a few clumps of dirt to his lap.

"Oh, I do," he says, brushing the soil aside. He grins cheekily up at her. "Because now this means Miss Santana can't go around lyin' to my face any longer."

Brittany grabs hold of his arm, yanking him close as she whispers, "You can't tell her!"

"What? Why not?"

Brittany lets out a sigh, releasing her hold upon his arm as she explains, "I promised not to tell anyone."

"Well now it's between you, I and her… and Michael," Noah adds after a second. "I'm sure that brain's figured you two out by now, you're about as obvious as virgins in a whore house."

"I don't think he has," Brittany replies. If Michael knew he would have surely said something, she thinks. But more so she worries for what Noah just admitted. She thought they were being so careful…"And are we really?"

"You are. It's ridiculous at this point," Noah says with a laugh. "I still stand by what I said earlier. You both just need to be thrown into a tent and left alone," he repeats, standing to his feet and offering her his hand. Brittany allows him to pull her to her feet, the expression upon his face a might devious as he tells her in a hushed voice, "Though in place of a cock thanking me I reckon your fingers will be mighty grateful."

Noah expects a slap to follow, or even a bit of a glare. So he is more than surprised when instead he's enveloped in a hug. And, as if he needed it confirmed any more, the body pressed against his own is very much that of a woman. A thankful, elated woman, but a woman nonetheless. He can feel Brittany squeezing him tightly, strong arms causing a sputter of air to escape past his lips. She's still as strong as Bret, he thinks to himself as he returns the embrace.

She is Bret.

He hasn't lost his friend.

He's smiling as Brittany lets go, her blue eyes bright as they lock upon his own.

"Sorry," she tells him with a shy grin. "I've really just been wanting to do that for a long while now."

"All women want to hug me," Noah shrugs, a hint of arrogance leaking into his tone. "Never apologize for what nature intended."

Brittany laughs and Noah finds the sound far more befitting. "Santana would smack you for saying that."

"Well, it's a good thing you're the better half of that duo then isn't it?"

"I'm not the better one," Brittany tells him, grinning broadly. "She is."

"You have to say things like that," he says with a roll of his eyes as they make their way toward their chore stations. "You're in love with her,"

"I am," Brittany answers, feeling far freer than she has in weeks. A burden has been lifted square from her shoulders, the vice that had for so long felt clutched about her heart gone.

"You know how I said you both need to be thrown into a tent and left alone?"

"Yes?" Brittany supplies with a quirk of her brow.

"I'd like to recant that last bit," Noah says, his grin once more growing sly.

Brittany knows she is dim. Far slower than most but even she can read the expression upon his face. She shakes her head. "That won't ever happen."

"Brittany, I told you, I've seen it all," Noah tells her, insistent. "You two would be no different. Just let me—"

"No."

"I'll never breathe a—"

"No."

"You can't stop me."

"I can't, but Santana will."

"I can handle that high falutin' bag of hot air."

"She'll kill you."

"She won't hurt me."

"She made Cooper deaf in one ear."

"She did n—" he stops himself, thinking for a moment before amending, "No, I believe that. She did."

They laugh as they turn down a row heading toward the center of camp. Brittany can't help as her gaze lingers upon Cooper up ahead. He stands, hands shoved deep into his pockets as one of the doctors and Lieutenant Cooter speak with him. She lays a hand against Noah's arm, stilling the man in his steps beside her. She nods over toward Cooper and together they watch as the soldier's face pales considerably beneath the brim of his worn cap. A medic approaches, one Brittany has never seen before.

The young man moves to grab Coopers arm but Cooper quickly deflects, shoving the shorter man aside. Brittany doesn't understand what's happening. Not when the doctor lunges forward next and certainly not when Cooper lands a fist straight into the man's face.

"God danged, boy!" she can hear Lieutenant Cooter shouting as he pries Cooper from off the injured doctor. "I don't like this order any better 'an you! Don't mean you have to up and slug the poor doctor!"

"Unhand me!" Cooper shouts as the medic and doctor finally manage to pull Cooper's arms behind his back. "I'm not ill! I swear it!"

"Well," Noah says as they watch Cooper being led away. "Can't say he don't deserve it."

"But he's not ill…" Brittany mutters, confused.

"He's a bastard. That's sickness enough for me," Noah tells her. He pats her on the back and Brittany notices it's gentler than the usual touch he'd place upon Bret's. "I'll see you for supper then? That is God willing if this rain ever decides to fall."

Brittany nods, distracted as she continues to watch Cooper being forced down the path. Noah leaves her, shaking his head as he departs. He doesn't understand why Brittany looks so worried over Scott Cooper but than again he's made it a point to stop trying to decipher the inner workings of the female mind. If she wishes to stand there watching the poor bastard being led away then let her stand there in concern he will. He ain't spending one more second thinking about Cooper.

That man's done nothing to deserve it.

Brittany feels differently. If anything her encounter with Cooper this morning has proved that he's changed. Albeit, not entirely, but there was an effort on his part nonetheless. She trails after him, mindful to keep her distance. No one pays her any notice, the men she passes are too busy whispering amongst themselves, eyes very much rooted to the screaming man ahead. The rumors will be rampant come noon, she thinks as she comes to a stop beside the armory, riveted to the scene before her.

Dr. Lopez emerges from the field hospital, giving a nod as Cooper is displayed for him. The medic and doctor drag the now-slack and surrendered man inside, Cooper obviously having accepted whatever fate is soon to meet him. She continues watching as Dr. Lopez jots something quickly down inside the small journal in his hand. He raises his head after a moment, scanning the curious stares of the soldiers before him. His dark eyes narrow as they land upon her own; a shuddering chill pierces into her gut at the look.

She holds the glare, breathing deeply, refusing to show him even an ounce of her once vulnerable nature.

I am not afraid of you, she thinks to herself, feeling all her resentments toward him bubble deep within her. How could you hurt her?

Dr. Lopez doesn't know what to make of the spine it seems the Pierce boy has suddenly grown overnight. Nor does he care. He closes his journal with a snap and heads back inside the field hospital.

After a minute Brittany rushes over to the entrance, peeking inside the tent flap, pleased to find the adjoining room free of Dr. Lopez. She spots Michael close by and ducks her head inside, waving to catch his attention. He looks confused for a moment at her sudden appearance, but smiles and makes his way over.

"What can I do for you, Bret?"

Brittany leans closer and asks quietly in return, "Do you know what's happened to Cooper?"

Michael gives her a quick shrug, he'd seen Cooper brought in but thought nothing more upon the matter. Though gauging by the troubled look in Brittany's eyes he can assume she feels otherwise. It strikes him odd, why she'd ever show such concern for such a vile person. "Why do you care what happens to him?"

"He's not ill," she tells him, adamant. "I just saw him, not an hour ago."

Again Michael shrugs, "A lot can transpire in an hour."

Brittany never thought she'd live to see a day where Michael proved unhelpful. "Can you fetch Santana for me?" she asks, anxious.

"Of course," Michael tells her, still curious over Brittany's newfound predilection for Cooper but knowing if anyone where to be privy to his sudden ailment it would be Santana. "Just wait here."

As promised he brings Santana to her. Brittany must ignore the way Santana's eyes dart over her shoulder as she approaches, clearly wary of her father's whereabouts.

"I know you told me not to come," Brittany says quickly before Santana can even open her mouth to protest the same. "But I saw them bring Cooper in."

"He's being attended to," Santana tells her, her voice devoid of any inkling of emotion.

Hearing her sound so forcibly detached only serves to distress Brittany more. Something terrible has surely happened and what more Santana appears bent upon not disclosing. Brittany refuses to be left in the dark, let alone treated in such an indifferent manner. Bret be damned, she thinks and implores in her own voice, "And? You must know he's not sick."

Santana shifts nervously on her feet, eyes darting toward her sides. She cannot disclose the truth, not like this. Not here. They were to meet later, in the safety of Brittany's tent, where she not need fear the sharp ears of her father lurking nearby. And even then it was to be a simple conversation. A mention of an argument, the admittance that yes, she had been struck. But that there will be nothing to fear any longer. Brittany need not worry. Not ever. Not as she is now. She was never to have been privy to Coopers detention.

There is no lying about what she witnessed. "He's being sent away," Santana explains finally. She chances a glance back over her shoulder again, only minutely relieved to still find the space clear of Dr. Lopez. "Tomorrow, at the earliest."

"Home?" Brittany asks, confused. "Like Sam?" It didn't make much sense to her. If he is truly being sent away to recover, why not the rest of the men in the tent? They are clearly sicker.

Santana can see Brittany thinking hard upon the matter. Not wanting to waste any more time she tells her bluntly, "My father's had him committed."

Brittany squints, still not comprehending. "To what?"

"An asylum," Santana snaps. Brittany's eyes widen, shocked by both Santana's answer as well as her harsh tone. Santana waits not the few moments Brittany needs recollect her thoughts, instead choosing to push the stunned woman back outside the tent. "You need to go."

But Brittany holds her ground, a new barrage of questions springing to mind as she asks, neck craning over Santana's head in hopes of catching a glimpse of Cooper, "Why are they sending him away? Is it because of what he did to me?"

"No, look I'll explain later, just please, if my father sees you here—"

Brittany relents and takes a step back, Santana's words dying upon her tongue at the move. Their eyes meet just before the tent flap falls and shrouds Brittany from view. Santana can still feel her heart lurching painfully at the forlorn expression held in those blue eyes. Brittany is upset with her, offended and rightfully so. Santana casts her gaze down, catching sight of Brittany's boots just barely peeking in from beneath the mud-dusted tent fold. And despite their close proximity the thin material separating them feels as though it might as well be miles thick instead.

It's for the best, Santana tries to convince herself.

But even she knows that's nothing but a lie.

Santana watches the muted silhouette of the taller woman draw closer to the flap. "Can you meet me in Burt's in a half hour?" Brittany asks through the fabric.

"Brittany, you know I can't," Santana whispers.

Brittany presses her hand against the canvas, pleading, "Please, it's important."

Santana sighs, unable to deny her the simple request. "Half hour?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she answers softly.

"Don't let him make you so upset, San."

Santana spares one last glance over her shoulder before allowing her fingers to brush against the shadow of Brittany's palm on the tent. "I know, Britt."

"You're a good doctor," Brittany whispers, smiling as she feels Santana's fingers trace a small path down her hand.

But her grin falls, heart breaking ever so slightly as Santana's hushed and pained voice carries through the tent, "Please, go."

A half hour, Brittany tells herself as she backs away. In a half hour she'll make things right.

---

The soft patter of rain against Burt's tent nearly lulls Brittany to sleep. It'd been threatening to fall for days now, the sky continuously clouded with thick swatches of rolling grey. She feels her eyelids growing heavy as the rain trickles down, thunder echoing overhead. The temperature inside the tent drops a few more degrees, causing Brittany to huddle deeper within her coat.

I should have started that fire, she thinks to herself, casting a regretful glance toward Burt's oven.

It's been longer than a half hour, the time encroaching closer to a full sixty minutes. A full hour spent sitting inside Burt's tent, cold, waiting for Santana to show. By now she's worried for both Santana's whereabouts and Burt's. She knows he's gone out to the cavalry ranks to affix some new shoes upon a few of the older mares. He'd asked her to accompany him but Brittany feigned a sore shoulder in order to remain inside the tent. It was the only excuse Burt ever grew concerned over. She hated lying to him, especially when afterward he wished her well and even went out of his way to fetch her a warm cup of milk.

It rests on the table, untouched; Brittany is unable to drink knowing to do so would only be unfair to him.

She doesn't deserve that milk.

She doesn't deserve his kindness.

And she's starting to think she should go join him and not bother waiting any longer when the tent flap rustles ahead and Santana quickly ducks inside. She's a bit winded, a few sections of her loosely-tied bun undone and damply framing her face. She closes the tent flap behind her, holding the canvas tight in her hands. Brittany's irritation is quick to abscond upon sight of the disheveled doctor.

"San?" she asks, worried as she slips down from the stool, the pit of her stomach stirring uncomfortably as wild notions spring to mind. Santana's shoulders are damp, the bottom fringe of her dress drenched and splattered with mud. She must be freezing, Brittany thinks, noting the lack of a coat upon Santana's frame. Brittany instantly begins unbuttoning her own.

"No, don't. I'm fine," Santana says as she releases the tent, tucking a few of those wayward hairs behind her ears. They sprout up not a second later, seemingly unwilling to bend to her command. "There was a rather difficult patient after you left. I couldn't get away until now."

"That's all right," Brittany says, laying the coat over her wet shoulders anyway before gently taking a hold of Santana's hands. They're far colder than even she expected and with a tug Brittany pulls her near, drawing her further within the safety and relative warmth of Burt's work-tent. With every step closer they take toward the table, Brittany is thrilled to note the more relaxed Santana's expression grows. "Thank you for coming."

Santana gives her small smile, "I did promise."

"Do you want to sit?" Brittany asks, indicating toward the stool. But Santana gives her head a shake of her head. "Shall I start a fire? You're freezing and wet and it's cold and—"

"I won't be here long," Santana interjects before Brittany can ramble herself into a stupor. She leans her hip against the table, tracing one of Brittany's drawings atop as she asks, "You wanted to tell me something, remember?"

Brittany nods, nervous all of the sudden. She has an idea of how Santana will react to the news she's about to share. Badly, that is for sure. God knows she's had an hour to herself to simply imagine every given scenario that could unfold. None ended very well, her least favorite involving Santana's tenny shoved deep into her ear. The only solace brought to her now being that she doesn't see said instrument poking out from any of Santana's pockets.

She's going to hate me, Brittany laments. I promised never to tell…

"I told Noah," Brittany confesses, eyes darting between Santana's own, desperate to gauge the suddenly-blank expression upon the face before her. She swallows hard, venturing further, "I told him who I really am…and a-about us."

Santana still remains reclined against the table, eyes growing unfocused, air no longer dispelling from her lungs. Brittany reaches a hand toward the one gripping the tabletop so powerfully she's afraid Santana's nail beds will start to bleed soon.

"San, you're hurting yourself," Brittany whispers.

"Brittany," Santana says, breathless and Brittany cringes, recoiling her hand and never wishing to hear her name spoken again with such… such absolute spite. "How could you?" Santana cries out, furious.

"He's okay with us!" Brittany tells her, following Santana as she pushes away from the table and moves toward the entrance. She can't let her leave, not like this. Reaching for her arm Brittany manages to pull her back around. There are thick tears in her brown eyes, the sight of which causes Brittany's throat to swell. Santana swats her hands aside, shaking her head even as Brittany tells her, "Don't cry, he's happy for us."

"He's lying, Brittany!" Santana exclaims, every fear she once repressed with Michael now resurfacing tenfold upon Brittany's admission.

Brittany's expression falls, chest constricting painfully as she asks, "Why would you say that?"

"Because we can't trust anyone with this!" Santana hisses. "No one!"

"But we can trust our friends," Brittany tells her. "They love us, San."

Santana scoffs, letting out a forced laugh. "Do they?"

"I want to tell Burt too," Brittany says as thunder roars loudly overhead, the rain pouring hard against the tent. "He deserves to know the truth."

"And if he's not as happy with the truth as you claim Puckerman is, what then?" Santana demands, stepping forward until she can feel Brittany's staggered breaths upon her face. "What then, Brittany?"

"Burt could never hate me," Brittany confesses quietly, rattled. It's impossible, she tells herself.

Santana can see Brittany's thoughts playing out upon the pained expression on her face. She's never intended to tell her, but knows she must now. "Michael almost found us out a few days ago and you know what he told me?" she asks, her own voice sounding equally unbalanced. Scared. "That it's depraved. We're depraved."

Brittany's eyebrows crease, gaze disoriented. "What?"

"Wrong, Brittany!" Santana clarifies vehemently. "He said that what we have is wrong!"

Brittany shakes her head, backing away from Santana. "He'd never say that. He's our friend."

"He did! And I had to lie and tell him it was all some big misunderstanding just so I wouldn't have to see that—" Santana feels a sob try to force its way from her throat. She meets Brittany's despairing gaze, her own still burning with hopelessness. "That disgusted look in his eyes anymore."

Santana quickly wipes the tears from her cheeks, body fatigued as she slumps onto the stool.

"You didn't see it," she whimpers, clasping her hands in her lap. "He was so…" she can't even will her mind to think further upon it.

"He just doesn't understand," Brittany tells her softly, easily plucking Santana's hands from her lap and holding them tightly in her own. Santana sniffles, lifting her chin but a fraction to look up at Brittany. A hopeful yet small smile meets her, Brittany's blue eyes bright. "Maybe if Noah speaks with him—"

"No, you don't get it," Santana pries her hands free, standing once more. "Noah is the exception. To everyone else we're wrong."

"We're not wrong," Brittany says, resolute, eyes trained upon the fragmented ones before her. She reaches up, smoothing some damp hairs back from over Santana's forehead. "Do you really believe that?" she asks quietly.

"I…" Santana trails off, feeling so much warmth in Brittany's affectionate touch. She sighs, "I don't know anymore..."

"Santana, please, please look at me," Brittany pleads, scratching a few of her fingers gently behind Santana's ear. When Santana focuses upon her, she asks, "Do you really think we're wrong?"

"Brittany…" Santana breathes out, surrendering as she turns her head aside. She can feel Brittany press her forehead to her temple and she knows those blue eyes haven't closed.

Not when she feels more than hears Brittany whisper, "Because I think we're the most right there ever was." A kiss placed then to the corner of her jaw. "Or ever will be."

Santana breaks away. "There's so much going on you don't know about."

"Then tell me. Please," Brittany begs, not knowing what else she can possibly say. She feels as if she's losing Santana, for every second that passes yet another piece of her heart is gone with her. Her throat stings as fresh tears form in her eyes. "I can see something's hurting you and I don't know what to do anymore. I'm so confused, San. Please."

"I can't," Santana whispers, hating that she's the sole reason Brittany stands so broken before her.

But Brittany refuses to give up. "It's your Pa."

"Brittany, please."

"He's the one who did that to you, isn't he?" Brittany asks, gaze flittering over the bruise. It's darkened since this morning, the smallest hint of purple shows beneath Santana's skin. Brittany can feel her pulse racing again. "Santana, what did he do?"

"He struck me, obviously!" Santana answers, sick of dodging the question. Brittany's gaze hardens, fist clenching by her sides. Santana sighs. "As I said, I spoke out of turn."

"That's not a reason to strike anyone," Brittany growls. "Let alone your own blood."

Santana lets out a callous chuckle. "Disowning his name seemed to not matter much in that regard."

Brittany's anger is quick to fade. "Santana… have you truly?"

Santana quiets, nodding.

"Then why do you still share his cabin?"

"He's," Santana begins, pausing as she thinks the best way to explain it all to Brittany. The truth will be simplest, she knows. But she does not wish to bring more pain to the woman, not after everything she's had her endure these past weeks. Santana knows she's been a less than ideal friend, let alone a partner. Everything is always initiated on her own terms, her own time… when her needs are most roused. Brittany's never said a word once in opposition as Santana slipped into her tent at night, never expressed her own desires… Not even when Santana has forced her into keeping her distance and silence. Not even when, she realizes now, she has forced Brittany to keep her heart closed. She wants to apologize, tell her she misses seeing Brittany smile at her from across the breakfast table, misses catching the wink in her eye as she dashes past on errand.

She's not Bret with me, Santana reminds herself.

But she must be. Until they are home, she must.

"I'd rather share a tent with you," Santana tells her softly, Brittany giving her a smile that warms her heart in return. "But he's forced me to stay with him. You know how he ill he thinks of you."

"I hate him," Brittany grumbles.

"You're not alone."

"You could stay with Burt then, perhaps?" Brittany offers, the idea bringing a large smile to her face. "Then we can see each other and he'd be none the wiser! And I could tell Burt about us he'd—"

"No!" Santana interrupts, a panicked look flashing in her eyes. She calms though as Brittany stares down at her, upset by the outburst. "Just don't tell Burt, please Brittany. Let Noah be enough."

"I hate lying to him," Brittany tells her.

"Then for me," Santana pleads. "Will you please do it for me?"

Brittany feels like they are right back where they started again. Santana asking her to lie for her once more. Nothing's changed, she thinks with a stab of dejection in her gut. "I can't promise you nothing."

"God damn it all to hell, Brittany, it's anything!" Santana groans, exasperated. "Why can't you—"

"Just say it, Santana," Brittany snarls. "It's obviously all you think of me now."

Santana pales. "Britt, I didn't—"

"I think you should go," Brittany tells her, unable to meet her eyes, gaze firmly rooted to the stool instead. The stool doesn't disappoint her so.

Santana refuses to depart on such uncertain terms. Though she finds herself bitterly replying with, "You asked me here."

Brittany's eyes flash, narrowing into her own. "That was wrong of me."

Santana need not dwell upon the way her chest constricts at the words spat toward her. She more than deserves Brittany's anger. Welcomes it even. How many times had she been the one delivering similar sentiments? Only before they have been returned by Brittany's unfailing patience… her unwavering devotion. Santana lets the coat over her shoulders slip down her arms. She folds it neatly, laying it to rest atop the stool.

"You're right, you know," she says as she brushes some dirt from off the sleeve. She looks up at Brittany, the other woman's scowl still firmly in place, even despite the subtle softening of her eyes. "About us. We're not wrong," Santana tells her honestly. "The world may think it's wrong of me to love you but I do and I know in my heart it's right."

As she turns to leave Brittany reaches out, her hand wrapping firmly about Santana's wrist. "It is," Brittany agrees, voice thick with emotion. She manages a wobbly smile as she tells her, "And I don't like fighting with you. It makes me feel sick." Her nose twitches, a thought coming to mind as she says aloud, "Though not flux sick because that's foul and you don't make me want to defecate like that, San."

Good god, Brittany, Santana thinks with a chuckle and a revolted curl of her top lip, please don't elaborate further. "I don't think—"

"But more a fever," Brittany carries on regardless, a thoughtful knot upon her brow. "I get real hot and queasy and I feel as if—"

"Okay, let's just stop there." Santana finally claps her hand over Brittany's mouth. She can feel Brittany's lips trying to form words on her palm, until blue eyes meet her own and any further embellishments she was trying to express still upon her tongue. Brittany can see the repentance in Santana's gaze, feel it in the hesitant way the hand leaves her lips, moving instead to toy with her shirt collar. Santana rolls the first undone button slowly between her fingers, unsure how to apologize. She'd never fully said the words, but the implication was more than received. The hurt in Brittany's eyes is more than apparent. Santana's never felt more heartless. "I'm so sorry I almost called you…" she cringes, unable to complete her thought. Her fidgets cease, hand lying flat against Brittany's chest. She can feel the strong thuds of Brittany's heart in her palm, calm and steady. "You're not—"

Brittany reaches up, pressing her own hand over Santana's. "You can say stupid, San. I know you didn't really mean it."

"It doesn't matter if I meant it or not," she says, holding tight to Brittany's hand as she finally looks up. Brittany's smiling down at her softly, gaze forgiving. Santana feels so undeserving of her. "It was wrong of me to even think it. You're not stupid Britt, far from it." And with a bold grin that makes Brittany's stomach flip oh-so-delightfully, Santana tells her, "You're the sharpest tool under my bed."

It's enough just to see the way Brittany's face lights up at her words. She never expects the speed with which Brittany moves next. In an instant she's brought a hand gently against Santana's swollen cheek, the other slipping beside her neck. Her lips are captured in a delicate kiss, Brittany's body soon coming to press up against her own. Santana swallows down the yelp of surprise at the sudden affection bestowed upon her. She also thinks bestowed isn't quite the right word. She's not been given anything.

Brittany wants her, in this moment, and she's not hesitant in her desires. Santana can't help but smile into the kiss, thinking fondly at the sudden act of boldness. One she very much welcomes, letting her own arms wrap behind Brittany's back as she draws her nearer. She can hear Brittany let out the softest of moans, sharp teeth gently tugging upon her bottom lip soon after. Santana feels her stomach twist into a mess of flutters, mind growing ever more clouded, heat sinking deep past her belly.

The small of her back meets the table, a whimper of a sound elicited from somewhere deep in her throat when she feels Brittany's hands take firm hold of her hips. She's vaguely aware of the sensation of her feet leaving the ground; Brittany easily picks her up and sets her down just as quickly atop the table. She's more than aware of the hands now sliding down to her thighs, the heat of Brittany's palms burning straight through the skirt of her dress. A dizzying combination when mixed with the searing kisses being trailed down her neck.

Santana hooks her legs behind Brittany, drawing her closer until the clink of her belt buckle smacks against the table edge. It's drowned out by the clap of thunder overhead, the briefest flash of lightning cuts across the sky casting a sharp glow atop the tent roof. The table shakes and both are unsure if it's the sky's doing or their own. Brittany rubs a hand back up Santana's thigh, the other resting soundly atop her opposite knee. She can feel Santana trembling beneath her touch, the faintest hint of a smile crossing her lips as the table bumps against her waist. Her doing, Brittany thinks. My fault.

She pulls away though; smile faltering as she feels Santana pull the cap from off her head. Dark eyes are intently focused upon her own as Santana places her hat on the table and pulls her long braid over one shoulder. "San," Brittany manages to utter, voice hoarse, pulse racing.

"You're not Bret with me," is the whispered rasp of a reply that meets her ears before full lips are hungrily pressed against hers once more. Santana cups Brittany's face in her palms, tilting her head up, pulling her further into the kiss. Brittany doesn't even recall how Santana ended up atop the table but the legs locking behind her back drive a want so thick into her gut it makes all other cognizant thought impossible. All she can feel is Santana, hands hot upon her skin, kiss slow, wet and intoxicating. Her heart hammers against her chest; she's missed being intimate like this with her. Misses her entirely.

They part, Brittany burying her face against Santana's neck, breathing hard as her arms wrap behind the small of Santana's back. "It gets harder and harder to pretend I don't love you," she whispers against heated skin, eyes still closed as she presses her body closer, clinging as tightly to Santana as she can manage.

"I know and I'm sorry," Santana breathes out softly, turning her head to brush her lips over a spot just beside Brittany's ear. She crosses her arms behind Brittany's neck, the blond braid obscured beneath her sleeve as she tugs her close. "We'll be home soon."

Thoughts, time and concerns are lost as they find their lips meeting once more.

What they fail to notice is Burt –who only returned to retrieve a few spare nails— standing agape in the tent entrance at the sight before him. Water cascades down, drenching his covered back as he silently exits the tent, rain pouring so thick the two figures inside become nothing more than a blur. He closes the tent flap, lightning flashing overhead and thunder shaking the air. And as he turns, intent upon informing the cavalry their mares will have to wait, a knowing smile firmly plants itself upon his face.

Patience it seems is indeed a virture for he knew he'd catch Bret with Santana eventually.