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.

13. The Ice We Dance Upon

AN: My beta rocks and got this to me sooner than I expected! Happy Friday night everyone.

Song credit for this chapter: Auld Lang Syne the Robert Burns version. And in a nerdy historical note it was actually a very popular song among troops. So popular that come later in the month this chapter takes place it is banned from being sung in Union camps. For, get this, being too depressing and threatening. AKA, Union leaders feared their men would desert as the song reminded them so much of the home they were missing. *Insert "The More You Know" star here* ;)

Chapter 13

The Ice We Dance Upon

The rain lets up come evening, leaving the camp sodden and many a soldier overcome with chills. Clothes are hung to dry by fires spread throughout the tent lanes; soldiers huddle nearby immersed in the warmth of the flames. The bonfires are so many in number the clouds still lingering low in the sky above are cast orange. The whole of the camp seems to burn beneath a blanket of haze. Santana watches, silent, as the clouds grow darker with the coming night, orange giving way to the deepest of blacks as the temperature plunges ever further. A few remaining droplets of water sprinkled against the windowpane catch the firelight, slowing in their descent as they begin to freeze against the glass.

She can feel the cold of the air outside permeating through the window and tucks her arms closer into her body.

It's warm inside the cabin, the fire she started earlier in the stove still as inviting upon her back as it was a mere half hour ago. From behind she can hear the faint sounds of Brittany's bath water rippling in the tub, occasionally distracting her from the sights beyond the window.

And whenever Brittany feels need to speak, Santana forgets entirely why she's perched on her cot as she is.

"This must be what giants feel like," Brittany notes aloud after several minutes in silence lapse between them. She shifts uncomfortably in the small tub, trying to regain feeling to her toes. With a grunt she draws her legs up closer to her chest, knees now peeking high out of the water. She lets out a sigh as she scrubs some soap over the exposed skin. "Giants and Finn."

Santana says nothing in response, her attention fixed upon whatever it is that lies just outside the window. She readjusts her footing, hands gripped upon the edge of the window ledge, eyes narrowed in annoyance out the glass pane.

Brittany doesn't understand why she's insistent upon keeping watch. "San, come down from there," she tells her. "Noah is already looking out for us."

"He seems to think that entails checking in every so often," Santana mutters darkly, scanning the men milling about the lane for Noah's telltale blue scarf. Supper with the boy had already been awkward enough and near impossible to sit through after Brittany had mentioned needing a bath. Santana doesn't think she's ever seen Noah looked more excited and was none too pleased by his insistence he keep guard. Never again, she thinks to herself. "The twit's tried to peek in here at least twice already."

"I told him not to," Brittany says, ducking her head between her knees to rinse the soap from out her hair. As she sits back up, brushing clumps of wet hair from her face, she notices Santana's eyes upon her. She can't help but smile. This is first time since she's disrobed that Santana's even so much as glanced her way. "Come here," she motions down toward the tub.

Santana's back is still turned, hands gripping harder to the window ledge. "Are you nearly finished?" she asks, not daring to let go. God forbid the moment she does her hands instead find purchase upon the damp skin she's been deftly avoiding as if it were a bout of infectious plague. Gloriously infectious plague. For Brittany's skin, even rubbed raw in places from the confined tub, is as tempting to her gaze as she knows it would be to her touch.

"I'm not yet wrinkled," Brittany replies, inspecting the tips of her fingers. She looks back up at Santana, the brown eyes that were once so focused upon her own now clouded, darker as they stare down upon her shoulder. Brittany slides deeper into the water until her own gaze is once more locked upon Santana's. Santana snaps from her daze, eyes clear and face burning hot as Brittany asks, "San? Why is it only my fingers get like this?" She sits up straighter and wiggles a few in Santana's direction. "You're a doctor, you must know why the rest of a body stays the same. Is it only humans? I don't notice wrinkles on Lord Tubbington's paws when I give him a bath… but most of the time it's because he's trying to put his claws in my eyes."

"I…" Santana croaks, voice nothing but a rasp of sound escaping her throat. The question has caught her off guard, surely, but nowhere near the level of Brittany's suddenly exposed chest. Santana's not sure if Brittany hasn't noticed or if she simply doesn't care that her breasts are on full display. Yet knowing the woman as she does, she can't help but think it the latter. The assuredness of such a thought kindles the longing already pulsing through her veins.

Brittany stares up at her expectantly, awaiting a response it seems will never manifest. After a moment the expression upon Santana's face registers within her mind. It's the same as the one she had upon her face just a few hours prior in Burt's tent as they parted for air between kisses. The same darkened eyes, same parted lips. Same desire, same want. "Santana?" Brittany urges quietly, motioning once more for the other woman to draw near.

Santana releases her hold upon the window, turning toward Brittany. As the cool air meets her warmed back a shiver rolls down her spine, snapping her back to the present. Brittany's earlier question floats to the conscious level of her mind, the innocence of it dousing the heat beneath her belly. She runs a chilled hand through her hair, calming as she steps down from the cot. "Your fingers wrinkle due to the thicker layer of skin needing space to expand," she explains finally, voice still shaky as she digs out a journal from beneath her cot. She opens it, pressing it solidly against the window to block out any unwanted eyes from peeking within. She only hopes Noah keeps his promise to alert them the moment Dr. Lopez approaches.

Brittany tries not to let her disappointment show at Santana's obvious indifference to her question, instead untangling her hair as she asks, "But it's interesting, right?"

Santana meets her gaze, noting that the joy contained in Brittany's eyes just a moment ago is gone. She squats down beside the tub, keeping her own eyes firmly locked upon Brittany's. She wants so much to reach out and brush some blonde hair over the woman's wet shoulder. Instead she shrugs, clasping her hands deep into the folds of her dress. The fire in the oven crackles loudly. Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she tries to reason through Santana's actions. What would be so wrong with touching her?

"San—" Brittany begins to softly voice her thought but is drowned out by a remark of Santana's own.

"You really should reconsider your hair," Santana tells her and Brittany immediately stops trying to work through a rather nasty knot.

A thicker knot seems to form within her stomach at the comment. "I told you I'm not cutting it," Brittany replies in a whisper.

Santana leans closer, gaze somber. "It's dangerous, Britt."

Brittany casts her eyes down, fingering the ends of her hair as she says quietly, "Emily would hate it if I did."

There's a soft rustling of clothes and then a warm hand is pressed against Brittany's damp cheek. She can feel Santana brushing her thumb high along her cheekbone, urging her chin upward so their eyes may meet once again. Santana is smiling at her sadly, hand still cupped against her face as she says, "I think Emily would care more you are safe."

"It's all I have left of me…" Brittany confesses. She glances back up toward Santana, eyes pained as she asks, "Can I think about it?"

"You'd still be you," Santana whispers.

"I'd be ugly," Brittany grumbles.

Santana chuckles, tapping her thumb against Brittany's nose gently. "Impossible," she says.

Brittany manages a small smile, lifting a hand from within the tub and fitting it over Santana's upon her cheek. "I really wish this tub was bigger," Brittany says, leaning her head against Santana's hand. "We could both fit then."

Santana feels her face and neck burn hot, her gaze dropping down to her lap. "Brittany."

Brittany slides Santana's hand from her jaw; brushing a few light kisses to the back of her knuckles. "I'd very much like to share a bath with you," she whispers against the back of her hand.

"Not here," Santana says quietly, shaking her head, eyes rooted to her skirt. Her breath hitches as she feels her hand being placed against Brittany's collarbone and then slid down over the flat plane of her breastbone. She can feel the heart beneath start to beat faster, skin growing warmer. "Brittany," Santana all but whimpers out; a breathless plead.

Brittany watches Santana's jaw tighten, her eyes squeeze shut. "It's all right to touch me," she tells her softly, hoping Santana can feel the way her heart now races. "I'd like that too."

Santana's eyes dart up, terrified and yet filled with want as they lock upon Brittany's. "If he were to—"

Brittany leans toward her, her other hand now clasped behind Santana's neck. "We're alone. Safe," Brittany whispers, pulling her near. She presses a light kiss to Santana's temple, another to her bruised cheek. "Do you not want me?" she asks softly, fearing for the answer in the way Santana's hand stays firmly over her heart.

Santana cannot will words to form let alone the ounce of strength it would take to shake her head. She's sure doing so would only confuse Brittany; the courier desires a nod, an affirmation that yes, she very much does want her. Has always wanted her. But Santana need only hear the sparks of the fire to know now is not the time, this is not the place. Not surrounded by possessions of her father, her thoughts consumed with the fear of his subsequent untimely arrival.

Noah promised to look out for him, she reminds herself.

Brittany's hopeful words echo in her mind. We're alone, safe.

And she so does desire to carry out what they started in Burt's tent.

With a quick lick of her lips she looks up, meeting Brittany's eyes. They're dilated, far more than she's ever seen them. They search her own, the fingers behind her neck tender as they trace back and forth across her skin. Brittany hasn't waned in her yearnings, not in the least as she awaits an answer.

Santana keeps her eyes upon Brittany's as she moves her hand lower beneath the lukewarm water, her palm fitting over a small breast. Brittany's back arches into the touch, eyes falling shut, a gasp pulled from her throat. Santana feels as if the flames of the oven fire have taken home within her gut. She slides forward, tucking her legs beneath her as she leans over the tub and captures Brittany's lips between her own.

She can feel the sleeve of her dress stick along her skin, the water soaking up her arm. A shiver of wonderful chills roll up to her shoulder as Brittany's hands tangle in her hair, their kiss growing ever more impassioned. She can't hear the pops of the fire, merely the blood rushing through her ears and the sounds of Brittany's small moans as she cups her hand firmer to her breast.

Brittany curls her toes against the tub edge when Santana's tongue seeks entrance to her mouth, running just against her top lip. Warm fingers roll over her hardened nipple, teeth raking over her bottom lip as Brittany pulls her mouth closer. A splash of water meets her ears as Santana's free hand drops down into the tub and finds purchase along the small of her back. Brittany only wishes the tub were bigger, lamenting but for a moment how she craves to pull Santana in and completely atop her. The thought is lost, forgotten as tongues brush together and the deepest of sounds is rendered from Santana's throat at the action.

Brittany wants to touch her, feels so utterly confined in the tiny tub.

She moves up to her knees, Santana drawn to hers with her. Brittany's hands work blindly to undo the topmost buttons to Santana's dress. Her fingers slip, wet against the small clasps, unable to find purchase. A groan pushes past her lips as she pulls Santana closer with a yank. A few buttons rip from the collar and clink against the tub as they fall to the water with a plop. The sound only spurs Santana to kiss her all the more, lips daring to move across jaw, hot as they burn a path down her neck.

They're snapped apart as a quick succession of knocks is rapt against the door. Panting, eyes still heavy with desire, they look upon one another.

"Get Britt out!" Noah's hushed command meets their ears followed by the pounding of his steps as he rushes to intercept Dr. Lopez.

They scramble, water sloshing from the tub to spill against the floor as Brittany jumps from out the bath. She grabs for her towel, Santana swatting her hand aside, hissing out, "No time! Dress!" as she thrusts Brittany's undergarments into her wet hands. Brittany's eyes are wide, pupils pinprick sharp as she hurries into her fresh clothes. Santana tosses the towel to the ground, soaking up as much of the mess as she can. From outside she can hear Noah greeting her father, their voices fading as Dr. Lopez is led away.

But for how long, Santana thinks, her heart lurching painfully at the thought. Brittany is shaking, hands unable to complete buttoning her shirt. Santana steps forward, helping her to finish, their eyes meeting as she clasps the last along her collar.

"San," Brittany whispers, voice nothing but a quiver of sound. Santana tugs her down, crashing their lips together. The kiss is desperate, desires from mere seconds before still unquenched. Brittany clings to Santana, heart racing for an entirely different reason now as she hugs Santana tight.

"Trust in Noah," Santana tells her as they part, brushing quick kiss to Brittany's cheek. She hands Brittany her coat, helping to braid her hair quickly as Brittany buttons herself warmly inside her uniform. Her cap is tugged down atop her head next, a wide-eyed Bret Pierce ready to exit the cabin. As Brittany collects her dirty uniform from the table Santana climbs back atop her cot, plucking her journal from the window to peer outside. She finds Noah hastily, engaged in conversation with Dr. Lopez.

Dr. Lopez's back is turned to the cabin. She can see her father's shoulders tensing, his patience growing thin. She turns down to Brittany. "Go," she tells her.

Brittany gives a nod, opening the door but a crack. She peeks outside, spotting Dr. Lopez down the lane with Noah. All her anxieties flee at the sight of the man, a burst of anger quickly rising to fill the void. To think she could hate him anymore. She feels Santana place a calming hand against her back. Brittany looks back over her shoulder, Santana nodding for her to leave.

"Go, Britt," Santana mouths, pushing against her back gently.

Brittany gives her as confident a smile as she can muster as she tells her, "I'll see you soon," before slipping outside the door and letting it fall silently shut behind her. Santana presses close to the door, listening as Brittany's steps fade around the side of the cabin.

She leans her forehead against the wood, breathing hard, relieved and spent.

She's safe, Santana repeats like a mantra in her mind. She turns her head to the side; the tub is still filled with water, floor a mess. She moves to begin cleaning the rest when the door is thrown open and the bitter cold of the night air rushes into the cabin. Santana scoots back from the door, shuddering as the wind bites at her damp skin.

He enters then, steps halting as he takes in the sight of the dirtied tub and Santana's less than composed state of dress. She straightens her posture respectfully, hands deftly held behind her back as he narrows his gaze toward her. The scent of soap lingers upon the air, soap and the burning wood from the fire. He prods with his foot the drenched towel crumpled on the floor. Santana was never one to leave such disarray whenever she bathed.

She knows better than to invite his wrath.

Nevertheless he hasn't the time to dwell upon the newfound boorish nature his daughter has turned to in his absence. It is clear her mind is becoming unhinged without a name with which to align herself. She's brought this madness upon herself, he thinks. Acting out in jealously, so very low and petty. He shant show her an ounce of consideration. Desperate acts are best ignored.

"Clean this mess up," he orders, retrieving his coat from atop his cot. Before he exits he turns to her, eyeing the wet patches along her neck. Though, perhaps, one parting comment won't assuage his apathy. "And do cease bathing like such a savage."

He slams the door as he exits, the entirety of the cabin shaking in its wake. Santana wishes to do nothing more than collapse atop her cot and breathe for what feels the first time in ages.

But her father's sudden appearance and even more so flippant departure stirs peculiar within her gut. She wonders if he's heading to the church and that if she were to leave now perhaps she could follow. Garner some insight into what is spinning so dangerously within his mind. She slips on her boots and coat, wrapping one of Brittany's scarves snuggly around her neck. She touches the fabric wistfully, heart pained, knowing full well what Brittany were to say if she knew where she was headed.

She'd ask me to stay, Santana thinks.

Her mind was made up the moment he entered. A light snow has begun to fall as she closes the door to the cabin behind her. In the dirt she can see her father's steps away from the cabin, soon to be covered by the snow if she doesn't move quickly.

"Santana!" Noah calls before she can take another step forward. He runs up, cheeks and nose colored red from the cold.

"Noah, look, I need to be somewhere right now but thank you for your help," she tells him, patting his arm as she takes off down the lane.

Noah catches up quickly, keeping pace beside her. "That's all? A simple thanks?" he quips.

Santana stops, stares at him through narrowed eyes for but a second before landing a slap against his arm.

Noah recoils, rubbing his bicep beneath his two jackets. "What was that for?" he asks, affronted. "I saved you both just then!"

"For trying to catch a gander at Britt," Santana tells him, scanning the lanes for Dr. Lopez. "You're absolutely odious."

"I don't know what that means, but it don't sound too nice," Noah grumbles, nudging her shoulder. She begins walking again and Noah falls into step beside her once more. "Where are you going?"

"After my— Dr. Lopez, I'm going after Dr. Lopez," she tells him. Just ahead she spots him, engaged in a conversation he looks to be rid off with Lieutenant Cooter. "I need to know what he's doing, Noah."

Noah follows her line of sight until it lands upon the man. He feels a shudder take over his spine just recalling how horrid it was to speak with him. It feels like it took every word in his vocabulary just to keep the doctor's attention focused on him. The minute he saw Brittany disappear behind that cabin he bid the man adieu and hoped he'd never have to look back. And the way Santana is staring at him now, he has a feeling she won't be giving up her pursuit. "Do you want me to come with?" he asks her quietly.

Santana looks up at him, touched that he'd even wish to help her in this matter. "No," she tells him with a soft smile. "Though could you keep Brittany here? Not let her worry?"

"I don't like the idea of you going after him all by yourself," Noah confesses, wary. "And what with the snow coming down now and all…"

"I don't plan on being seen," she assures him. And with a wry grin adds, "And this is nothing compared to winters in Ohio, even you can attest to that."

Noah nods, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he tells her, "If you're not back in an hour I'm coming after you myself."

Santana doesn't bother replying, simply throwing another assured smile over her shoulder as she follows in her father's steps out of the camp.

---

Santana keeps well-paced and far behind sight of her father and his vigilant ears. The walk up to town is long; her only fear is that her hour will have elapsed and Noah will come charging in sure to out her in his failed attempt at heroics. Nevertheless she presses on, hugging her arms to her chest as the snow falls harder, the moonlight obscured behind thick clouds.

Her feet have frozen inside her boots as she trudges through the slosh upon the ground. She need not look down to know the hem of her dress is a splattered mess of ice and mud. There is only a moment's relief when she spots the first lamps still burning along the road ahead, the town not far beyond. Her father's heavy steps are clear as day beneath the small flames. They are the only ones currently laid in the freshly fallen snow.

She follows them, mindful to keep her own steps hidden within his strides. She can hear the crunch of the snow, loud against her ears in the otherwise quiet night as she makes her way toward the center square. The town is asleep; only a few lamps are still aglow behind the curtains in apartments above the storefronts. Ahead she can see the spire of the church rising in the center of town, a few candles lit in the windows.

Her father walks toward it, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. A few soldiers stumble from the tavern, laughing, their arms draped around some town prostitutes as they head across the street. She watches as her father looks upon them with scorn, never once stopping as he continues in his path for the church. She holds her position, waiting in the darkness of the corner street until he passes through the doors.

Once the doors close and nothing save for the soft sound of snow sizzling against the street lamps' flame meets her ears she makes her way over. The windows are low enough for her to peer inside, the church empty save for her father who sits in a pew near the front, starring listlessly up at the small alter. After a moment he bends to his knees in prayer. She watches for a short while, waiting for him to move, but when it becomes apparent he won't she steps back from the window.

What Michael confided to her is true. He's just praying, she thinks, growing ever more perplexed. Why? She's not sure what she imagined to find after following him but feels a sense of loss now having witnessed the truth first hand. There is no more to be seen, nothing she can gain from this endeavor.

The snow continues to fall as she makes her way back to camp, far more confused and ever more anxious than when she left. She simply cannot grasp what is going on in that man's mind. Her thoughts are no more sensible than his actions.

What has driven him to such extensive prayer? To lie so blatantly before his peers? To abuse his station and administer opium to himself in such abundance and disregard for his own health?

She's already attested his behavior earlier to the drug. It is surely what is numbing his senses and heightening his thornier characteristics. Not to mention his delusions, she thinks with a sigh. To think Cooper posed a threat to him is outrageous. Laughably so.

And yet Dr. Lopez felt it enough to have him committed regardless.

Santana can't help but think the wrong man was sent away.

Her superior has clearly lost his grip upon reality.

She's still thinking upon his insanity when she finds her friends. They are already sitting around a fire behind Burt's tent. A few poles have been driven into the ground, the tents' flaps tied up to create a canopy against the falling snow. It's not a perfect solution, she knows, but it affords to keep them dry and their fire untouched. Michael waves her over, having spotted her first. She holds tight to her coat as she hurries over, Brittany snapped from her enjoyment of Noah's song as the crunch of snow beneath Santana's feet meets her ears.

She grins, sitting up and giving a few enthused pats to the empty space beside her. Santana takes a seat, grateful for the warmth of the fire and the arm Brittany links with her own. She can feel Brittany lean toward her, their shoulders brushing as she settles closer and her belly warms ever more. Her gaze instantly flicks over toward Michael, relieved to find the man's attention held by the fire. There's a lot upon his mind, she knows, and not wishing to disturb his thoughts she turns her attention up to Noah.

He is looking at her, trying so hard to mask the nosey stare she knows he wishes to send her way.

"I'm fine," Santana mouths to him, pleased when he visibly relaxes and resumes strumming his guitar once again.

All else is forgotten as they indulge in their nightly ritual. It is easy to do so with the curtain of snow that feels as though separates them from the camp. Noah, for once, is without a drink tonight. Michael remains lost in thought, occasionally sharing in a dance or two upon Brittany's insistence. Santana can tell the death of his daughter is still a fresh wound upon his heart. He falters in his usually graceful steps, the smile he gives to Brittany in thanks after their dance is never the same as before. Not as wide, eyes not as bright.

He laughs though, humored when Noah pulls them all inside Burt's empty tent and asks for Brittany to let down her hair.

"I told you it was long!" Noah tells him, extending his hand out palm up. He curls his fingers a few times, eyebrows bouncing on his forehead. "Now pay up."

"I haven't a greenback on me," Michael says with a chuckle and a shrug. Yet as Brittany pulls her hair back up under her cap his smile falls as he tells her, "I was rather hoping you kept it short."

Santana ushers them all out before the look of misery upon Brittany's face can haunt her any more.

They're able to sing just one more song before the snow starts getting worse and they must head to their beds. The last tune of the night is always sung by Santana, tonight no different. Much to everyone's delight her repertoire is now vastly expanded. Though Brittany always requests Long Ago anyway, the song quite dear to her.

And for the first time in weeks Santana consents to her request, unable to say no after everything else Brittany's had to tolerate today. The way Brittany discretely threads their hands together beneath her coat when she begins to sing makes it all the more worthwhile.

When the song is over and the night must come to an end the men stay to secure Burt's tent and douse the waning fire.

Brittany walks Santana back to her cabin; the two huddled close against the densely falling snow. They stop a few cabins away, both hesitant to part. There is so much Santana wishes to tell her still but instead she shrugs free of her coat. Brittany is surprised by the move and only grows more so when Santana holds it out to her.

"Santana, no, you need this," Brittany insists, pushing it gently back toward her.

But Santana shakes her head, forcing the coat into Brittany's arms. "I have a fire to keep me warm tonight, you've not."

Brittany hugs the material close. "You could stay with me?" she asks with a hopeful grin.

"You know I can't," Santana tells her, blinking against the snow catching on her lashes. She reaches up, holding tight to Brittany's wrist. "Promise me if you get cold you'll go to Burt's tent."

"But if in the morn he sees me—"

Santana interjects, "Ever more reason to cut your hair."

"I know…" Brittany mutters, chin turned down. The snow that had collected upon the brim of her cap slides down, landing upon Santana's coat. She brushes it off gently. "I'll be okay in my tent," she says quietly, looking back up at Santana. She gives her a halfhearted smile. "Thank you for the coat." And with that she begins to step away.

"Wait," Santana says, pulling Brittany back with a gentle tug of her sleeve. Brittany allows herself to fall into place in front of her once more, closer this time, their small clouds of breath mixing before them. Santana chances a glance to their sides before letting her hand slide lower, fingers lacing warmly with Brittany's. "I love you. I feel I don't much get to say it enough."

Brittany's grin is infectious. "You say it in other ways," she tells her, nose crinkling as she holds the coat up beneath her chin. "And I love you as well, so much."

"Keep warm," Santana whispers, wishing she had the courage to kiss her.

Brittany is more than aware of what the look in Santana's eyes means and what she wouldn't give for the doctor to act upon that desire. Instead she nods, gripping Santana's hand tight and tells her, "keep safe."

---

Brittany yawns, stretching as she plops down onto one of Burt's stools the next morning. Her thickest blanket is wrapped tightly about her shoulders, and even with her coat buttoned high up her neck and a half woven scarf draped around her shoulders she's still shivering. She's thankful for the roaring fire Burt has already seen to starting in his stove; the warmth washes over her chilled cheeks and seeps down into her frigid bones. She could barely sleep last night, the cold as unrelenting in its reach as the snow that piled outside her tent.

The camp had woken to at least two feet of the frost coating everything in sight. Pristine, glaring white, untouched snow. It was something that once brought her great joy, the promise of a morning spent with Emily by her side. Running through the fields, chores ignored in favor of chasing after snow fairies. Or those mornings after a third snow when the lake froze over enough to dance upon the surface. She misses ice dancing, misses the snow in Lima where there was always the promise of a morning spent in warmth despite the chill and where her father would always have ready for them a steaming mug of milk upon their return.

Perfect mornings, Brittany remembers, heart aching for home.

Her memories become jumbled as Burt places a bowl of cornmeal before her and slides a cup of steaming milk toward her hand. Brittany gives him a grateful smile, albeit tired, as she reaches for the drink.

"Didn't get much sleep either, did you?" Burt asks as he takes a seat beside her and begins eating his own meal. He watches as Brittany shakes her head, her eyes a dull shade of their usual vibrant blue. He can see the beginnings of fatigue collected in the skin beneath her eyes. He's seen the same on countless men this morning, all dragging their feet as they joined the food lines. His hand finds one of hers, unsurprised by the cool feel of her skin beneath his touch. "How about you eat some and then head off to the corner for some rest? Can't do with my best boy at half mast."

Brittany shakes her head, sipping at her milk. "I can't let you work alone today too."

"Ah," Burt waves her concern off with a chuckle, pulling his hand back. "I've been working alone my whole life. You think Kurt wants his nail beds turning black with soot? He'd no sooner grow a beard than so much as touch anything in my shop."

Brittany manages a soft chuckle, knowing quite well what Burt says is true. He's shared enough with her about his son that she feels as much a part of the family as Burt always tells her she is. It warms her far more than her drink ever could, simply reminding herself that he cares for her.

Though she does wonder why Burt is staring at her so… curiously tickled.

"Have I milk on my lip again, Mr. Hummel?" she asks, wiping the back of her hand beneath her nose.

Her sleeve comes away clean, her confusion only mounting as Burt laughs.

"Oh no, nothing of the sort," Burt tells her, still with that quality of amusement upon his tone. Brittany's brow creases, trying to place where his good humor could have been born. No one is happy this morning. Not after having to sleep through such a frigid spell. "How's the shoulder?" he asks.

Brittany rolls her shoulder, pleased to find it just as well as it was the day previous. "Wonderful!" she tells him with a grin.

Burt nods, smiling wryly. "Put it to good use while I was out at the cavalry stables?"

Brittany's smile falters as she sets down her milk. "No, sir."

"Well, I know my table was sure put to good use," he mentions, mindful to keep the laughter he wishes to escape from bursting out at the sheer shock now painted in Bret's eyes. "Santana find it comfortable?"

"I… I," Brittany stammers, feeling very warm beneath her collar all of the sudden. She clears her throat, mindful her voice stay low as she tells him, "I was just helping her to sit and then… slipped."

Burt quirks a brow. "That so, Bret?" he asks, pursing his lips to keep the smile wanting to crawl across his face in check. He leans forward over the table, eyes probing as he asks, "You just so happened to slip right into her like that?"

Brittany sinks further upon the stool. "The floor was wet," she answers, absentmindedly tracing one of her drawings atop the table. She steals a glance up at Burt. "With water. From the rain. It was real slick."

"And her big lips," Burt says, puckering his mouth. "They just caught you, that right?"

Brittany blushes, nodding as she stares down into her cornmeal. "Her arms helped some too," she says quietly. "And maybe her legs…"

Burt chuckles. "I noticed."

Brittany's head snaps up, a rush of words escaping her. "Mr. Hummel, I'm sorry I—"

Burt holds his hand up, shaking his head as he laughs louder. "Bret, it's all right son. Don't apologize," he says between his calming laughter. He smiles warmly at her. "You can't help how ya feel."

Brittany picks at the corner to one of her etchings, a crease forming in her brow as she ventures to say, "You don't mind then? Santana and I…" she trails off before looking up, wincing when she asks, "like that?"

"Why should I? You ain't doing anything wrong," Burt tells her, upset to find Bret looking so unsettled. There is nothing to be so anxious over, not at all, Burt thinks. It is why he reaches back across his table and gently pats Brittany's fidgeting hand. When their eyes meet he gives her hand a squeeze. "You don't have to hide these things from me, Bret. I've known how you feel about her all along."

Brittany's eyes widen, panicked. "Does everyone?"

"Calm down son! It's all right," Burt tells her, standing from his stool to come stand beside his charge. He puts an arm around her shoulders, giving her a solid but gentle shake. He watches, relieved as Brittany settles back down atop her stool, giving him a small smile in return. "Her father is a right bastard; I can see why you two hide."

Brittany nods. "He can't know."

"I reckon that's for the best too," Burt sighs, moving back to his stool. He's pleased to see Bret relaxing some more, at the very least picking the cup of milk back up. "You two are more than welcome to my tent," he tells her and when she gives him the slightest bit of a smile in return he can't help as his own turns playful once more. "Though do mind the table, it's about as old as me and twice as worn. Wouldn't want Miss Santana having to visit her own hospital."

Brittany finds herself blushing again, nodding sharply as she tells him quietly, "Thank you."

Burt finishes his breakfast much sooner than Brittany but remains at the table, their talk turning to the day's chores, with the occasional mentions of Santana thrown in for good measure. Burt loves how Bret's eyes seem to brighten upon mention of the doctor, just as they did all those weeks ago when the boy couldn't keep his mouth shut up about her. He misses seeing Bret so happy, knows there's a lot he's had to endure and more weighing upon his mind. Mail has been slow since arriving in Hartsville, letters marked so far in the past it's impossible to gather what the present may hold for those you love.

Burt hopes Emily is faring well. He knows how much his charge cares for his sister. Tuberculosis is a tricky disease, predictable in its diagnosis but lingering in its breadth. He's known many afflicted, young and old. The young were the hardest graves to dig. He always thought of Kurt as he helped to hollow the soil. How easily it could have been him instead. Burt can't imagine what Mr. Pierce must be feeling. One child upon her deathbed the other entrenched in the throes of a brutal war.

He doesn't wish such a position upon any father.

They're a strong family, he thinks now, watching as Bret finishes up his glass of milk, a stain of the liquid dotted along his top lip. Good people.

Of what the future holds for the Pierce family there is one thing Burt is sure.

Santana will be welcomed with open arms.

With that warm thought planted in his mind Burt catches Bret's eye, pointing up toward the boy's lip. Brittany shrugs, smiling as she runs her tongue over the milk. They get to work on forging sled runners for the camp carts. Brittany helps him to gather some materials, pausing as she comes across a few scraps of metal near the bottom of his bin. A smile works across her face as she plucks a few slender strips into her hands and gazes back out to the snow covered camp.

"Mr. Hummel?" she asks, turning to him before he sets to work on heating the bars in the fire. He raises his brows, gloves tugged tight on his hands. Brittany grins wider, holding up the metal. "Do you think I could get your help with something? It's for Santana."

---

November 27th, 1862

After two days' time the snow upon the ground has hardened, the once malleable ice now a burden to sit upon. A fitting end to my equally fitting day, Santana thinks bitterly. A wonderful Thanksgiving. Her chores in the field hospital this afternoon were as taxing, if not more so, than the day before and just as degrading. Her only solace came in the form of a fresh bread delivery for the patients, the most the regiment was able to manage in way of a feast for those sick in the tent. The aroma was a welcome change from the stale air inside the musty hospital. It isn't a sanctioned holiday yet; some men confused as to why they were being given such a hearty portion of food. Many were determined it was meant as their last meal and thus grew ever more depressed as the day pressed on. Santana helped to convince them otherwise, only needing to sedate one or two who would not believe her.

She takes the last bite of her bread roll and shifts, uncomfortable and exhausted in her spot on the ground in front of the that fire Noah feeds more dry wood. The flames lick at the offering, burning hotter as they slowly devour the fuel. She draws her knees up to her chest, shivering as she wraps her arms tightly around her legs.

"Brittany will be here soon," Noah tells her with an unnecessary wink, she notes. Santana scowls up at him in reply.

"I just saw her," Michael mentions from over his cup of steaming coffee. He takes a few sips, wincing at the watered-down taste. He can't recall the last cup he enjoyed; every subsequent day without a new shipment meaning less beans for grinding, less flavor. More late shifts in the medical tent spent in a fog of fatigue. He yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He smiles blearily at Santana, "she was with Burt over in his tent."

Noah strums a few chords upon his guitar. "See?" he says, nudging Santana as he comes to sit beside her. "She'll be here right quick."

"I'm not worried," Santana tells him, rubbing her hands over her shins.

Noah plucks a few strings, the sound ringing loud and clear in the night as he leans toward her and whispers, "No, but you could do with some warming up."

Santana tries not to let his comment fluster her, but she can feel the heat upon her cheeks increasing regardless.

"Stop frustrating Santana so," Michael says with a chuckle, noting the glare she seems to be burning into the side of Noah's face. He hasn't a clue what the man has just whispered to her ear but knowing Noah he can more than imagine the words that have brought her such aggravation. "She clearly wants to hear none of your jests."

"Thank you," Santana tells him before shooting Noah yet another silencing look.

"Even if seeing her so exasperated is a bit fun," Michael admits cheekily.

"I hate you both," Santana grumbles, shoving Noah aside when he tries to slide closer beside her. He laughs as he moves to sit beside Michael, striking up a song she vaguely recognizes.

When he begins singing she can do little more than stare, aghast as he bellows loudly,

"Oh! Santana, do not cry for me; I come from 'ole Ohio with a guitar on my knee."

Santana lets her forehead drop down to her knees with a groan. Even as Michael joins in the song, occasionally bursting into a fit of giggles, Santana is mortified. She keeps her head tucked resolutely against her legs. That is until she feels a warm blanket drape across her shoulders and a familiar arm slide beneath the wool to rest along her back.

"Found you," Brittany whispers as she scoots closer to Santana, pulling the blanket fully around their bodies. She grins, "I love this song. There should be more about you."

"Evening Miss Bret," Noah says, mocking a tip of his cap as she nestles beside Santana. Santana seems to instantly brighten now that her better, and more agreeable, half has arrived. He can't help but smile himself, seeing the way Santana's cheeks darken as she steals a few glances toward Brittany. Yep, Noah thinks, she's more than smitten too. "So then," he claps his hands before him, rubbing his palms together as he looks to each of his friend's faces.

Michael remains in a vague state of awareness, eyebrows rising even as his eyelids fall shut. Santana squints, clearly suspicious of any further comment that might spew from his mouth. But Brittany, good 'ole Brittany, is smiling at him as she always does, ready for their evening of songs to commence.

"You two look mighty snug and since the fancy footed doc is about three minutes from making himself a bed out here on this ice how's about we forgo the dancing and just enjoy a few songs from yours truly?" Noah asks with a large grin.

"That sounds nice," Brittany tells him, smiling just as wide.

"That sounds abhorrent," Santana says concurrently. Brittany stares at her, disappointed. "What?" Santana asks, rolling her eyes as she explains, "I'm not going to sit here and be subjected to the visual torture of Puckerman being roused by the sound of his own voice. Frankly, if I were given a choice, I'd rather listen to my patients defecating in their bedpans some more."

"Santana," Brittany warns.

"Excuse her sharp tongue tonight," Michael tells them, though he too wears a look of disappointment upon his face. His next words mitigate her sour mood though. "She's had quite the day beneath the field hospital tent. We both have."

Santana feels Brittany's hand begin to trace a soothing pattern against her back. "Are you all right?" Brittany asks her quietly.

Santana lets out a breath, nodding. "I'm fine, Britt," she says, meeting the concerned blue eyes with her own measure of comfort.

But Brittany presses further, knowing how apt Santana is to keep secrets, especially ones concerning her father. Her hand stills along Santana's back, body drawing near as she ventures uneasily, "Did he…?"

Santana shakes her head. "No, just stupid chores," she tells her, giving her a small smile. Santana nudges her shoulder, hoping to pry a smile from the lips now so close to her own. "I swear it Brittany, I'm more than all right. Hearty Thanksgiving-day to you."

"Merry Thanksgiving to you too but you were still just so…" Brittany trails off, thinking for a moment before speaking softly, "mean to Noah. You haven't been like that in a long time."

"I know," Santana says, her hand finding Brittany's knee beneath the blanket. She gives it a squeeze, pleased to see the smallest hint of a smile returning to Brittany's mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispers before looking back up at Noah. "Apologies, Noah."

He grins and strums a few notes upon his guitar, singing, "We're right as the rain, you and I!"

Santana's lips purse, eyes hardening, her patience growing thin once more.

"Maybe someone else should have a go?" Michael poses upon seeing the tightened expression on Santana's face. "Brittany?" he offers. "I don't think you've ever shared a song yet."

Brittany sinks within her frame, the tips of her ears growing pink from where they stick out beneath her cap. "I'm not a singer, not like San," she admits quietly. "I can't ever remember all those words."

Noah shrugs, accepting Brittany's response and about to launch into a song of his own when Santana holds her hand up, shushing him.

"Come on, Britt," she bumps her gently. "I'm sure you know one."

Brittany shakes her head, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

Santana won't take no for an answer, not when she knows Brittany is more than capable of recalling a song, the same way she's able to effortlessly recall the steps to dozens of dances. So she begins to hum, the tune familiar, soft enough for only Brittany to hear at first. Brittany's eyes hesitantly meet her own, recognition flickering in the deep blue. Santana's voice grows stronger; Noah grinning as he gently plucks the accompanying chords upon his guitar.

"Sing with me?" Santana asks in a whisper, finding Brittany's hand beneath the blanket. She threads their fingers together, rubbing her thumb gently along Brittany's. The small smile Brittany gives her melts the last vestiges of her trying day.

Together they begin, "Should Auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind..."

Brittany scrunches her nose as her voice cracks, smiling sheepishly at Santana who only gives her hand a squeeze in encouragement and joins her for the next verse.

Michael reclines against the tent post, eyes falling closed as he lets the song carry him into fond memories. It is a favorite melody among the troops, especially as of late with their thoughts upon home and their wishes for the warmth of their families to surround them once more.

When he opens his eyes to watch the two he notices a change in their manner. A subtle shift upon the air, a familiarity revealed that wasn't there but a minute prior. Their eyes are only upon one another, tender in a way friendship cannot attest. Much the same way he knows he gazes upon his wife and she in return looks upon him. Fond, certainly, but also intimate.

He feels he's intruding upon their moment, a witness to something they've not shared with anyone...

Anyone it seems but Noah, who keeps the melody upon his guitar and watches them like a proud father.

The song ends, Santana's trance seeming to shatter with it. Her cheeks burn hot as she puts the smallest amount of distance between her and Brittany. Brittany tries not to let her disappointment at Santana's sudden change in demeanor show, knowing how ill Michael thinks of them as a pair. She glances up toward him, their eyes catching for a brief moment. She cannot make out the look held within his dark eyes; it is both inquisitive and troubled. Tired.

He gives her a strained smile and she returns it, uncertain.

"Well, now that the ladies have graced us with their angelic tones I think it's high time I am allowed the same pleasure," Noah boasts, rearranging the guitar in his lap. He doesn't wait for their responses, simply rolling straight into a more lively song.

Santana rolls her eyes in good humor as he carries on. She looks over toward Michael, happy to note her friend has reclined back against the tent post and looks near the brink of sleep. He deserves a good night's rest after the hell Dr. Lopez saw fit to put them through today. Woken at dawn to cart bodies to graves. A morning spent administering injections to the most restless of patients. Afternoon surgery consisting of nothing more aside from moping blood from the table and floor. Bedpans needing to be emptied and cleaned come supper. Not once were they allowed to tend to patients in the manner they've grown accustomed. Not once allowed to help a soul crying out in pain.

Thank god for that bread, she thinks now recalling her father's callous words.

"Let him howl," Dr. Lopez would say. "We haven't the pills to see to it they all rest in silence."

Opium pills she knows he is still pilfering. Morphine too possibly, she thinks.

Her thoughts are interrupted as Brittany leans closer, warm breath brushing against her ear as she says, "I need your shoes."

The request must be repeated in Santana's mind before she turns, confused, toward Brittany. She notices Brittany's nose is tinged pink from the frigid air, her lips a might chapped. She wishes to reach up and brush her thumb against the dry skin, rub away the cold and warm Brittany in a way no outside eyes should ever be privy to.

She blinks, ridding her mind of the simple desire of a shared kiss.

When Santana raises a brow at the odd request and her eyes dart down to her covered feet Brittany laughs. "Not those, your other pair. May I borrow them?"

Santana turns to her, still puzzled. "Why, exactly?"

Brittany avoids Santana's curious gaze as she replies, "I want to knit you some socks. Like the ones I made for Piedmont… only for ladies," she adds as if it needs clarifying.

Santana stares at her for a moment, unblinking before breaking into a fit of giggles.

Brittany frowns. "You don't want socks? But it's cold and I—"

Santana silences Brittany's doubt with a quick squeeze of her hand. She's pleased to see a small smile pulling at Brittany's mouth and despite quite not understanding how the use of her shoes will help with the matter so tells her, "I'd love some socks, Britt." She can't deny how beautiful the smile is that breaks across Brittany's face at her approval. "I'll get you the boots tomorrow."

Their time together ends after a few more songs and a dance Brittany is able to coerce from the lethargic Michael and Santana. Afterwards Santana bids everyone goodnight, wishing to return to her cabin and grant her body the sleep it so desperately craves.

But Brittany moves to stand with her, asking, "Can I walk you back?"

"No, I should go alone," Santana tells her, and quieter adds, "He's been in there since supper. I don't want him to see you."

Michael notices the subtleness of the dejection upon Brittany's features as she sits back down beside him. He leans over, watching as Santana walks away. "I'll follow her," he tells Brittany. "Make sure everything is all right."

He's grinning at her warmly, all traces of his earlier unnerving inquisitiveness gone in favor of the friend she's come to know. Brittany smiles at him, "Thank you, Michael."

He gives her a nod before picking himself up to his feet and heading off into the night after Santana.

Once he's gone from sight Brittany breathes easier. Michael will ensure Santana is well. As she helps Noah to extinguish the fire a thought strikes her.

"Noah?" she asks, smiling, feeling far more hopeful than she has all evening. He turns to her, chuckling upon seeing the exuberant expression upon her face. "Could you help me with something? It's for Santana."

---

Michael catches up to Santana quickly, her pace slow through the old snow. He can't help but note she seems to be lagging in her usual confident strides, something he knows he cannot attest to the ice. She's purposely delaying her return, he thinks as he comes up beside her.

"I'm a grown woman," Santana tells him, turning her attention upon him with a smirk. "I think that qualifies me to walk back to my cabin sans escort."

"Consider me peace of mind then," he replies, chuckling. "For Brittany that is."

Santana's expression softens. "Did she ask you?"

"No, she didn't have to," Michael tells her. "She's much easier to read than you."

Santana stops, staring at him from below a furrowed brow. What could he have seen upon her face?

"Are you all right?" he asks.

She resumes walking, and Michael notes, briskly. "I'm fine."

He decides to press his luck. "I noticed something strange tonight, between you and her."

Santana steps quicken. "Of course you did. I'm strangely exhausted."

"Santana, stop," Michael pleads, grabbing hold of her arm. "I know you're exhausted. We've both been through an ordeal of a day."

"Then what is it you mean to say to me?"

"Santana… I'm not blind," Michael tells her, voice but a whisper in the cool air. "What you two share is beyond any friendship I've ever seen."

"Well, I can't see how you could think otherwise since I've told you that's all we are," Santana tells him curtly and moves to step away but he holds tight to her arm, keeping her in place before him.

"I know and I trust you," he tells her, letting go of her arm with a sigh and a muttered apology. He knows she's still keeping something from him, can see it in the flash of panic that crossed her eyes. But he will not pry, not in matters private to her and ones that he's still unable to comprehend. Instead his gaze moves past her shoulder, over toward her cabin where he can see the glow of candlelight cast out from the window. "He's in there, isn't he?"

Santana spares a look over her shoulder and lets out a groan. "It would seem so."

"Will you be all right?" Michael asks, the hand he lays upon her shoulder this time gentle, concerned.

Santana gives him a dry smile. "I wish everyone would cease asking me that," she tells him. "But yes, I'll be all right."

"I saw him today," Michael says, lowering his voice once more as he leans toward her. "He was taking some opium from the reserves."

Santana's jaw tightens. "How much?"

"Far more than the dosage needed for simply one patient," Michael replies, pointed.

She nods. "Thank you."

"Whatever is happening with him please," he begins to say, bending so as to be eyelevel with her. "Please take care, Santana,"

"I am," she tells him, the grin she gives poised. "And do get some sleep, Michael."

"I'll try," he says, squeezing her arm before he lets go. "Good night."

She wishes him the same, her steps far more determined as she strides away and disappears inside the cabin. He waits a moment, listening for the argument he is sure will unfold. He doesn't know how long he stands out there in the cold, simply staring at the window, but when it becomes apparent all is well, he makes his way back toward his tent.

His sleep that night is disturbed, dreams filled with images of his daughter's blurred face and others with bodies entwined in darkness beneath wool blankets. The briefest flashes of blonde and black hair unforgettable.

Unnerving.

---

The second time it snows is on the eve of the new month. When Brittany awakes, her bones chilled to the core, to discover the layer of white now blanketing the camp, a smile breaks across her face. And despite the uncontrollable shivers that have taken over her body, she cannot wait for night to fall once more. Her teeth are unable to stop chattering as she slips on an extra shirt before buttoning her winter coat up high along her neck. Two scarves are tied about her neck next and she doubles up her socks. Burt reinforced her boots a few days prior, anticipating the snow now upon them. She wills herself to remember to thank him.

She's certain her toes will stay nice and warm and Burt is owed a good cup of coffee this morn in thanks.

…or the best she is able to attain at any rate.

With her spirits far higher than anyone else in camp she takes off in search of Shannon Beiste.

Across camp Santana wakes to her father throwing more logs into their small oven, muttering of the men he's sure will be stricken with frostbite after their morning drill sessions. It's a sentiment Santana shares with him, even though she does not voice her opinion aloud. Between those stricken with fever, the fifty some more still in the throes of dysentery and the countless others afflicted with everything ranging from syphilis to measles she dreads her day.

But she carries out her duties regardless, a reprieve granted to her midday when her father disappears for a few hours and she must attend to his patients. It's the first time in little over a week she's been able to practice, let alone allowed the space to breathe as she checks a feverish man over. Prodding his stomach with a few of her fingers draws a wince and a moan in protest. His tongue is furred, spotted with grotesque and foul-smelling splotches. She need not even examine him further, between the bouts of coughing and the rash she can already see peeking out from the collar of his shirt the soldier was well in the midst of what had come to be known as camp fever.

The symptoms vary between the two most prevalent strands, Typhoid and Malaria, but they share enough to be thought one in the same. Santana's seen ample cases of the latter to dismiss it now. Malaria is a summer ailment, only ever seeming to spread when the days are hottest and the air is thick with humidity. It has no place infecting men in such frigid weather and she'd never seen a case of it past October.

Typhoid fever it must be. This is the fifth man this week afflicted. He would do well in a few weeks upon a daily dose of calomel and the occasional opium pill if his stomach pains were to withstand. Granted if their shipment ever arrived and her father ceased in his madness.

She grins despite herself and the soldier grows perturbed by her excitement. Surely she can see he's ill. Practically upon his deathbed, he thinks, if she were to ask. What has she to smile about? Unless…

"Is my prognosis good?" he asks, cautious of her answer.

"Oh, no, not at all," Santana replies, still smiling at him with that same intolerable liveliness. "You've camp fever, you'll be bunking it in here for a while I'm afraid." She grows more reserved, curious as she asks him, "why would you believe your prognosis to be good? Surely you've looked in a mirror recently."

"Your grin," he says, pointing up to her mouth. "It hasn't faltered since you begin examining me."

Santana looks at the man for a moment. Her eyes flitter over the snot leaking from his nostrils unchecked, the glaze over his eyes and the cracked dry skin at the corner of his mouth. Disgusting, she thinks, and wonderful.

I miss this so.

She smiles as she sends him off to be appointed a bed.

When Dr. Lopez returns she sets back to her assigned work, never once mentioning to him the patients she tended. He can't even recall the names of the ones currently in his care let alone think twice about the newest additions. He seems delirious, mind clouded as he sets to his tasks. She watches him, noting the way he seems to carry all the internal symptoms of a fever yet with none of the more obvious, and glaring outward. No rash, no limp limbs, not even a cough let alone a sniffle.

He scratches at his wrist as he meets her eyes, his gaze sharp as ever.

"Haven't you meals to fetch?" he barks at her.

And Santana nods, holding his gaze for second more, before heading out to see to her errand.

---

Brittany finds her late in the night, the light of Santana's cabin spilling out from the lone window onto the snow covered ground below. The door is ajar, Santana sitting fatigued and half asleep with her head propped up on her hand and desk strewn with open medical journals and notes. Brittany enters quietly, closing the door softly behind her. Santana's head turns languidly, her gaze settling upon the grinning courier.

"Britt," she says with a sigh, arm dropping to the table. "I'm sorry, I can't join you all tonight."

Brittany comes up beside her, one of her hands tangling with the hair at the nape of Santana's neck. She bites her lip as she scans the titles to the articles strewn about the table. There is a type of order to the chaos of books and paper. Many journals are open to opium remedies, others to diseases she can barely pronounce. One catches her eye, scabies. The term doesn't sound too horrid. Nothing she'd name a pet certainly but for Santana to be so engrossed at such an hour can only mean one thing. "Is someone very sick?"

"No, it's nothing to—" Santana pauses, a pang of guilt riddling her heart upon realizing how easy it was for the lie to slip forth. "It's research," Santana tells her, reclining back in the chair as Brittany wraps her arms across the top of Santana's chest. Another sigh leaves her lips, content as Brittany presses a kiss to the top of her head.

"About?" Brittany asks.

"About whatever it is that he has contracted," Santana says, a frustrated groan leaving her lips as she realizes she's been reading for a few hours and is not anywhere closer to an answer than when she first sat down.

Brittany rubs Santana's shoulders, easing the tension from her tired muscles. "You think he's ill? He doesn't look it..." she trails off, thinking, her chin coming to rest atop Santana's head. "What do crazy people look like? Because I think he's that."

Santana chuckles, looping her arms up behind Brittany's neck. "Maybe I should be calling you a doctor instead."

"I can't be a doctor, San," Brittany says, voice small. "Doctors are smart."

"Exactly," Santana tells her, tilting her head back to steal a kiss. Brittany smiles as she pulls away, warmed by the spark of confidence in the dark eyes. Santana turns in her chair then, hands now clasped with Brittany's own. "And I think you're right. I've been sitting here all evening trying to find something, anything that would explain what's affecting him. A neural disorder didn't even cross my mind. Perhaps a trigger of sorts set him off? It would explain the dependency, the newfound recklessness of self, God fever—"

"San?" Brittany asks, snapping Santana from her verbal stream of thoughts. "When you talk like that, real smart like, it's very exciting and it really makes me want to kiss you but I'm also really confused right now."

Santana tugs Brittany down gently until the courier sits squatted beside her. "You know how he's taking opium?" she asks, waiting for Brittany's nod before continuing. "It's unlike him to simply do it for the sake of indulgence," she explains, tucking some of her hair back behind one ear. "There has to be a reason and at first I thought it was something external, like when someone gets sick with the measles. You treat the sickness and it goes away. But if there is no sickness, and you treat it anyway…"

"Then you're crazy?" Brittany supplies.

Santana nods, eyes drifting over to the chaos the desk has become. She gives a tired sigh. "In which case I need to read some entirely different books."

"Not tonight," Brittany whispers, standing to her feet and extending a hand down to Santana. "I'd like to take you somewhere."

"It's freezing outside," Santana mentions though she allows Brittany to pull her to her feet. "Where could we possibly go without turning to attractive sculptures?"

Brittany merely grins, impish as she helps Santana into her coat and leads her through the door. Noah is waiting for them just outside the door, a basket tucked under one arm and a sly, telling grin upon his lips. Santana quirks a brow, her skeptical expression only growing ever more so as she turns to Brittany.

"You'll see," is all Brittany offers in way of explanation as she holds out her elbow for Santana to take.

They walk down through camp, past the outpost and into the nearby woodland. Santana remains close beside Brittany, occasionally throwing curious looks back toward Noah, whom only shrugs in reply to the silent question she poses and nods for her to face headlong once again.

It only takes a few minutes for the sound of the river to meet her ears, Brittany's grin wide as she bounces with anticipation beside her.

Before the banks of the river are even in sight Brittany comes to a stop, motioning Noah over.

"I'll take that now," she tells him and Noah happily obliges, handing her the basket with a tip of his cap. "Thank you, Noah!"

"I'll keep watch here. You both go on out there," he tells them, unable to keep the large grin from his face. "It's not exactly a tent but it'll suffice," he says with a wink thrown Brittany's way.

She blushes furiously, tugging on Santana's hand as she pulls them closer toward the river.

"Brittany," Santana says, struggling to keep up with her in the knee-deep snow. "Where are you taking me? And please do not tell me we're going for some type of midnight dip. I know you want to bathe with me but you do realize that water is about five degrees from freezing… if it's not already."

"That's silly, San. You have a perfectly fine tub in your cabin, even if it's small, we could fit," Brittany says with a laugh, brushing some dead ferns out of the way for Santana to pass. "There was a drought here all summer so the water level is said to be real low and what with how cold it is an all I thought it'd be good fun to try some ice dancing!"

Santana halts in her steps, refusing to move but a foot further.

"It's safe," Brittany chuckles, beckoning Santana with a wave of her arms. "I do this all the time back home!"

Santana shakes her head, feet firmly planted in the snow just beyond where the riverbed lies through a few more yards of trees. "I've had to deal with enough frostbitten cocks this week to dare venturing any further."

"Well it's a good thing we don't have those to worry about then, huh?" Brittany giggles, hopping back over toward Santana. "Plus we have these. I asked Burt to make them for us." She opens the basket, withdrawing from inside a pair of beautifully handcrafted ice-blades. Santana can't help but admire them, the skates gleaming even in the muddled moonlight streaming through the trees overhead. Brittany holds them out for her, her smile bright as she tells Santana, "It's why I needed your shoes."

"So I take it I'm not getting socks then?" Santana asks with a smirk.

"Oh, you are," Brittany says. "Right after I finish Ranger's. He was jealous of Piedmont's."

Hand in hand they wade through the snow separating them from the river. Brittany is excited, far more so than Santana thinks she's ever seen her. This must be what she's like at home, she thinks. When she need not fear who may be beside her, need not care for the chores of war and the burden of being apart from her family.

Brittany's smile falls as her eyes scan across the flowing river. "It's not frozen," she laments, stepping up toward the shallows. She prods the mud with her boot, a frown marring her features as she says quietly, "It should be ice."

"Britt," Santana whispers, upset at the slump in the courier's shoulders.

Brittany turns toward her, exhaling a deep clouded breath as she says, "I'm sorry I pulled you out here for nothing."

"Not true," Santana tells her softly, taking hold of one of Brittany's hands and pulling her back upon the solid ground. "The banks are just as fit for dancing as the ice would have been."

"It's all mucky, Santana."

"Dance with me anyway?" Santana asks, placing Brittany's hand against her hip. "I don't think I've ever had the privilege of sharing one with Brittany Pierce."

"You dance with me all the time," Brittany says with a chuckle, nevertheless taking hold of her other hand and starting them into a slow waltz.

"I dance with Bret," Santana clarifies with a crooked grin. "And now I want to dance with you."

---

Michael watches from a distance as they dance. He'd been curious when he saw the trio heading past his lane, especially after Noah had told him the bonfire for the night would have to wait. Naturally he'd followed, suspecting to find them doing nothing more aside from sharing a bottle of brandy and singing to their hearts loudest content far from the judgmental ears of their more somber fellow men. It was a sentiment Noah had encountered on numerous occasions, especially after some rather nasty comments in passing from a soldier or two.

But that's hardly the case now.

He doesn't even see Noah with the women.

And they look more than content to be left alone.

His heart stops when Santana leans forward, her lips fitting so accustomed to Brittany's.

Michael stumbles back at the sight before him, his back colliding with the rough bark of a nearby tree. Snow cascades down the branches above, coating his shoulders and hair with a thin layer of frost. His eyes remain riveted to the women before him, even as he struggles to regain his breath, his gloved hands clutched against the tree for support. Through the still of the night he can hear Santana's voice, soft as it carries her song through the few yards of forest separating them.

The click of a pistol hammer echoes, grating and loud in his ears, the hairs along the back of his neck standing on end at the sound. He swallows thickly as the cold metal of the barrel is pressed beneath his ear.

"You ain't seen nothing," a voice hisses and Michael spins around suddenly as the owner registers in his head. Noah lowers his pistol immediately, stunned as Michael's eyes meet his own. "Michael… what are you doing out here?"

Michael's pulse is still far too rapid, heart working frantically in his chest. He licks his lips as he leans his side against the tree, steadying his suddenly limp limbs. He's never been held at gunpoint, the sheer shock of terror that enclosed his body now absconded in favor of debilitating relief. It's left him in the wake of a rather strong dizzying thrall, his mind a haze of confusing thoughts. He wills the double image of Noah spinning before him to settle, slamming his eyes shut to quell the nausea rising in his stomach.

He can feel his friend's hand upon his shoulder, secure and concerned. He opens his eyes once more, relieved to find only one Noah standing before him.

"Are you all right?" Noah asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper as Michael lets out a pant of air and rests his head against the tree.

"You put a gun to my head," Michael manages to say, breathless still.

"Sorry about that," Noah tells him, voice still hushed. His eyes search Michael's, hoping to find the medic's forgiveness. But Michael's gaze, even unfocused as it is, is directed just over Noah's shoulder. Noah knows whom he stares at with such astonishment.

Santana hasn't ceased singing.

"Michael," Noah begins to say, giving his friends shoulder a squeeze.

"They are together…" Michael says, watching as Brittany spins Santana back toward her, the song upon Santana's voice pausing for just a moment as Brittany draws her in for another kiss. She lied, he thinks, a flare of resentment rising within him.

Noah lets out a sigh. "Don't think of it like that."

"Then what am I to think Noah? Look at them!" Michael exclaims in a hushed whisper, knowing better than to allow his anger to get the best of him. He pushes Noah's hand from his shoulder, stepping forward toward the women as he tries to put a name to the feeling stirring so profoundly in his gut. He motions out toward them, sputtering, "It's… it's…"

"It's what?" Noah snaps, forcing Michael's gaze back upon his own. Michael is surprised by the usually nonchalant man's suddenly hard expression. Defensive even, he thinks. "Sinful?" Noah prompts. "Do it look sinful to you?"

Michael can't help but wince upon hearing the contempt in Noah's tone. It's not sinful, he wants to say but cannot will the words to carry forth. A small part of him agrees, that yes, what he's witnessing by the river between Brittany and Santana is very much a sin, very much the depravity that has led to such a gruesome war. Yet as he takes a hesitant glance back toward the women he can't help but think he's wrong. He knows those women, cares for them without shadow of doubt. And as he watches the warm smiles spread across their faces as they part, the way Brittany so carefully brushes her fingers across Santana's bruised cheek, there is only one answer that's able to leave Michael's mouth, "No…"

Noah can see the struggle Michael's undergoing within himself and nudges the man's shoulder with his own, hoping to help him see more clearly and not through the eyes he knows society has formed. "They can't help none how they feel for each other. Same as you and Tina and everyone else in love."

Michael lets out a long breath. "It's not the same."

"It looks mighty the same to me," Noah tells him.

Michael turns to him, both befuddled and irritated by Noah's conviction. It's not at all the same. Two women simply cannot love like that. "How can you say that?"

"Look at them, Michael. You can't tell me what they have is any less real," Noah says and then quieter yet asks, "Do you care for them?"

"Of course I do," Michael replies, offended. How dare Noah think otherwise!

"Then what more need matter?" Noah asks.

"God. His judgment."

"God don't pass judgment on good people," Noah tells him, voice hardened once more. "They're still Santana and Brittany. They're still our friends."

Michael feels a pang of hurt strike his chest at Noah's words. "I wish I could see things as simply as you," he admits. "Your world is a far better place, Noah."

"It is simple. You live in this world too. We love them both. That's all that matters," Noah says, smiling as Santana's laughter filters through the trees. "They ain't doing nothing wrong."

"She lied to me…" Michael tells him, hugging one arm across his chest.

Noah snorts. "Gee, given your enthusiasm I can't ever reckon why," he says, resisting the urge to rolls his eyes, especially given the guarded way Michael now stands beside him. "You really can't blame her for lying."

"I asked her again yesterday and she lied then too."

"Michael—"

"I trusted her."

"Then trust her still," Noah says as he takes hold of Michael's arm and turns the man to face him. "Nothing's changed."

"But it has," Michael says, pushing Noah's hand aside. "You can't tell me it hasn't. Just look at what they have you doing for them!"

"First of all, I volunteered," Noah tells him, eyes narrowing. "And of course I would help to keep their secret safe, they're my friends." The word is spat with such reverence Michael takes a step back. Noah's eyes widen at the move. "You're not going to report this are you?"

"What?" Michael asks, baffled. The look of panic in Noah's eyes is all the answer he needs. He quickly shakes his head. "No! I'd never! How could you think that?"

Noah merely gives him a meaningful look.

Michael lets out a groan. "Just give me time," he pleads glancing back toward the river. They've stopped dancing, simply engaged now in a conversation. He cannot make out their eyes, not from this distance, but he knows they speak softly to one another. A small smile forms across his lips as he watches Santana brush some snow from Brittany's shoulder. "I don't think I've ever seen Santana look so…"

"Happy?" Noah completes. He chuckles. "Yeah, it's a bit jarring at first."

"She deserves to be happy."

"Even if it's Brittany who she's found it with?"

"I… I still don't know. I may not ever understand it but… I can see why you're out here for them," Michael relents, feeling far more drained than he's had in years. He manages a soft smile though as he tells Noah, "I'm glad they can rely on you."

"They rely on you too, you know," Noah whispers, looking back out toward the women. "Santana especially."

Michael nods for it is all he can say further upon the matter. He knows his sleep will be fretful, dreading the next time will come face to face with Santana. And as he watches the girls resume their dance this time, he feels less a sense of the loss he was expecting, instead a sort of demurred warmness. Santana is happy, he thinks, wishing he could be as forthright as the man beside him. Blind to gender, blind to love. He's envious of such simplicity of thought. Envious of the way Noah accepts what he sees before him with an open heart.

Protects it as if it were his very own.

"You're a good man," Michael tells him finally.

"You are too," Noah replies.

Michael nods, knowing he's intruded long enough. "Keep them safe."

"Brittany's sworn me to it," Noah admits with a chuckle. "G'night Michael, we'll see you in the morn."

"If I'm not elbow deep in shit," Michael jests before wishing him a goodnight as well and turning back toward camp.

He'll come round, Noah thinks, grinning as he watches Michael depart. When the fuzzy silhouette of the man is lost to the darkness he turns back to the river. Through the trees he can see Brittany leading Santana down the bank, embarking on a stroll beside the river. He stays back, leaning against a tree as he watches them disappear into the night. He'll keep vigilant for wayward soldiers, leaving the girls to their privacy.

Though they really could just do with a nice solid tent, he muses.

---

Walking along the bank, Santana stumbles, Brittany's grip upon her hand tightening.

"Was it a turtle?" Brittany asks, as Santana shakes her foot free of the deeper snowdrift.

Santana squints up at Brittany, puzzled by her assumption. "A turtle? In this weather?"

"Maybe he didn't find a home for the winter. Like Lucy," Brittany tells her as she squats down to the ground. She brushes some snow aside until the cold dirt ground is all that remains. Her eyes flick over toward Santana's boots, a wry grin forming across her lips as she looks back up at the woman. "Your laces are undone, did you know?"

Santana bends to retie the loose strings but Brittany moves first, taking the laces within her hands and deftly looping them tightly around Santana's ankles before tying a neat knot.

"Clever," Santana tells her once she's standing beside her once more.

Brittany pulls her close, arms wrapping behind Santana's lower back as she presses a light kiss to her temple. "Thank you," Brittany says, hugging her near. "You're the only person that ever tells me that."

Santana leans into her embrace, resting her chin against Brittany's shoulder. "I miss this," she confesses. Moments where they are alone. Where she need not worry and can simply relax in warm arms.

"You don't have to," Brittany says quietly, leaning her head against Santana's. "We can be this way always. No one else ever need know who I really am, we can still be careful," she insists, pulling away but a fraction to look upon Santana's face. Santana's expression has grown tired, her gaze warm yet impatient. She doesn't agree. Brittany reaches up, brushing her fingers against Santana's cheek. "I love you, Santana," she tells her, eyes steadfast. "I'm so tired of having to keep myself from smiling when I see you."

"If my father finds out, Brittany," Santana says, her tone low and raw. "Do you know what he's said to me? He's threatened to have you sent away."

Brittany for once feels the cold of the air biting at her skin. "Like Cooper?" she asks, hesitant.

"Or worse," Santana admits, voice cracking. She takes hold of Brittany's hand, imploring thickly, "That's why I must do whatever he asks of me and why you must keep your distance."

"I don't want him to take me away from you," Brittany says softly, her own expression growing worrisome. "What if it's to an asslum and they make me eat moldy cornmeal for dinner everyday without milk? I won't survive."

Santana despises seeing her so defeated but knows this is the last Brittany will ask. Until the day comes when her father ceases in his fledging power struggle, this is how it must be. Stolen moments along a river, kisses shared in the darkest of nights. "Then you understand?" she asks finally.

Brittany nods, still holding Santana's gaze. "I hate him more than ever."

"He's not here now," Santana says, smiling as the cups Brittany's face within her palms. "No one is."

Brittany lets out a light giggle. "I think you meant, Noah is."

Santana drops her hands, groaning, "Ugh, please don't remind me of that voyeur right now."

Brittany gives a tug against Santana's back, their bodies once more presses against the other. "I told him to look away if we got naked," Brittany explains, eyes darting toward the surrounding trees. "He's probably watching us then."

"Then who's keeping look out?" Santana asks, her gaze as well now riveted to the trees. She feels the prickle of eyes upon her, unsure if it's simply her own dread manifesting so tangibly. "What happens if someone comes?"

"Oh, we've worked out a warning call in case," Brittany assures her, grinning as she explains, "I told him to give a howl for one person, two for two, three for three, four—"

"I think I get it, Britt," Santana says dryly.

"Do you?" Brittany asks her, uncertain for Santana seems quite perturbed if her lowered brow and thinned lips are any indication. "Because for ten I told him just to moo since it would take too long to howl that many times and people might think it strange a pack of wolves are about."

Santana can't help but smile, amused. "As opposed to a displaced cow?"

"It happens all the time, San. It's a serious problem," Brittany tells her earnestly. She lowers her voice, gaze turning cautious, as if holding the greatest of secrets as she tells her, "They're not very smart, you know."

Brittany had expected a nod, perhaps a quip of Santana's own about the intelligence of those lumbering animals. But instead Santana grows quiet, her gaze softening the longer she holds Brittany's own. Her hand picks at a few strands displaced from Brittany's scarf, twining the string around her smallest finger.

"Someday," Santana tells her, voice low. "I am going to take a very long bath with you."

"That'll be the best day ever," Brittany tells her, grinning broadly. "Even better than that day you touched me because then you'll be touching me all over. I'm all tingly just thinking about it. Especially down here, goodness, if you touched me here San I think I might die. But not truly more po—"

Poetically, Santana thinks as she gives a tug to Brittany's scarf and brings the couriers words to an abrupt halt with a kiss. She can feel Brittany smiling against her mouth; the smallest exhale of breath brushing against her cheek. They stay wrapped in each other for a long while, snow melting to the river beneath their feet, neither caring that the water stains their boots and cold of the air stings at their ears. They're content to share in a kiss, languid and ever so warming as it is. Santana swears she feels the tingles Brittany described, low in her belly when Brittany's hand moves beneath her coat to rest against her waist.

And when the hand moves, sliding across her stomach before coming to rest just below her ribs she must end the kiss, her eyes darkened with want once more as she stares up at Brittany.

"I just want to touch you," Brittany whispers, voice hoarse. She presses a wet kiss against the corner of Santana's mouth, another against her jaw and a third below her ear. "Please," she breathes, shaking in Santana's arms.

"Soon, Britt," Santana murmurs against her lips, kissing her soundly. "I promise, soon."

---

"Back late, yet again," Dr. Lopez intones, tired yet with a distinctive hint of exasperation upon his noticeably slurred voice. Santana closes the door to their cabin behind her, heedful to keep the clasp unlocked as she's done so every night since their dinner at the estate. She's not willing to be locked in here with his madness. And per usual she pays him no mind, simply shrugging free of her coat and noting the half-empty bottle of bourbon upon their night table. She hopes he's too far-gone to enquire any further into her whereabouts. As if he cares for where I've been, she thinks with a roll of her eyes. He only ever cared to ensure she wasn't out with Bret Pierce and she knows better than to give him even the tiniest inclination to the accuracy of that suspicion.

"Michael and I were emptying some bedpans," she explains as she folds the coat neatly before laying it at the foot of her bed. "Do you mind turning down your lamp?" she asks as she sits upon her cot and reaches down to unlace her boos. She finds herself stopping before she can even touch a finger to the laces. A brief memory of her night with Brittany resurfaces, Santana recalling just how thoughtful Brittany was as she bent to tie the clever knots still secured around her ankles. Santana finds herself growing warm, a small smile tugging at her lips. What she wouldn't give to be beside Brittany tonight instead.

"You're thinking of him again, aren't you?" Dr. Lopez grumbles, flicking past the next page in his book with a little more force than necessary. His eyes shift, gaze narrowed as he keeps his attention fixed upon the page. Santana can see the skin upon his knuckles paling, the tension now coiled in his clenched jaw. He scratches furiously at a spot on the back of his right hand. "You only ever smile like that after you've been with him."

"Good night, sir," Santana tells him as she slips beneath her thick layer of blankets and pulls the covers up far over her head.

She can hear her father slamming his book shut and she winces as he snarls, "You've been laying with him, haven't you?"

"No, sir," is her quick response, her back still deftly turned to him. A brief flash of panic seizes her heart before she relaxes, assuring herself what she's spoken is the truth. He has no reason to press the matter further and he's as likely to examine her for evidence as he is to set his own hands ablaze. If there is one thing she can always be certain of, it is her father's aversion to any type of prolonged contact with his estranged daughter.

She worries for what his continued silence now must mean. She half expects him to rip the blankets from over her body and strike his palm across her face. But she can hear his even breaths from his position still atop his bed and she swears she can feel his eyes upon her shoulders. It is much to her surprise that the next words he speaks are uttered so quietly.

"I know you think me a monster," he says, very much riveted to the curled lump beneath the pile of blankets.

Santana swallows thickly, curling further into herself as she mutters bitterly back, "I think nothing of you anymore."

"That's a lie," Dr. Lopez says with an annoyed groan and a roll of his eyes. "You detest me."

"As I said, I think nothing of you anymore," she replies. "Please let me sleep."

A few more moments pass, Santana blessedly thinking him to have granted her plea. Her eyes shoot open again as he confesses drunkenly.

"I never wanted a daughter, you know."

She sits up in the bed, sleep not soon to come. Her back is pressed against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest as she stares in disbelief over at her mess of a father and with a scowl tells him, "As if I had a say in the matter."

"A son is'll I prayed for," he continues on, eyes unfocused as they rest upon a spot on her blanket somewhere near her feet. Santana subconsciously pulls her legs closer. "So what misfortune I felt then when you 'ere placed in my arms instead. What could you ever amoun' to? You'd never be able to follow in my steps, my practice would peri—" he hiccups, brow furrowing. "Would peris—" again, eyes growing darker. "Would die along with me. All I've worked for, my name, everything. Gone with your birth."

As he quiets she feels her skin grow cold, a chill settle deep into her bones. She pulls her blankets around her shoulder, holding them close. "Why are you telling me this?"

He looks up at her, dark eyes flickering in the light of the flame. They're empty, entirely devoid of any emotion, let alone the vestiges of a human as he tells her simply, "I've no answer for you and honestly I haven't a clue why I am still speaking. Penance? The bourbon, perhaps?" he motions drunkenly toward the bottle. Santana notices a letter also crumbled beside the bottle. "Your mother wrote," he explains as he catches where her attention has settled.

Santana looks up at him, eyes narrowing. "I care not."

He knows better than to believe her lie. "She misses you," he says, for once revealing to her the truth. Well, in not so many words anyway, he thinks. His wife misses the routine of her life, the parading of their daughter and all the insipidness that entails. He's entirely sure she's gone mad by now with no company to keep and no prospects to flaunt Santana about for. Though he must admit she's right on one account and thus says aloud, "I should have never allowed you to follow me here."

Even with his mind trapped in the throes of alcohol and veins no doubt clouded with opium Santana can't quite believe she's still engaged with what might be the first actual conversation she's even had with this man. She's still alert though, still mistrustful as she asks him, "Then why did you?"

He can sense her unease, it's plain as day upon her face, even as her face just blurred in his eyes. He takes a small measure of pride in being able to unhinge her so. "I knew you'd be of use to me," he explains, turning his gaze to the slanted roof. There are a few loose nails sticking out from the slats, evidence of the shoddy construction. He scowls up at them, thinking them much the same as the useless staff assigned in the field hospital. "You've seen the incompetence in those nurses, let alone the slippery fingers of some of the medics," he tells her. "I needed a hand I could trust to remain steady, a mind I knew would keep focus."

"If this is your way of apologizing—" Santana begins to say, vexed.

But Dr. Lopez snaps his attention back to her, silencing her words upon her tongue at his look as he spits out, "I've nothing to apologize for. Do not confuse my words for some type of veiled plea for forgiveness. You've forfeited my name."

Santana lets out a snort. "Then what are you saying? Why bother with me at all? Why keep me here if you hate me so?"

"As I said, I can't have you off with Pierce. Word spreads faster in this camp than the dysentery now rampant in the field hospital," he says, very much ignoring the heated glare she sends his way as he does. When he meets her gaze he tries very hard to keep his mind sober, stare penetrating as he hisses, "I won't have your actions reflecting badly upon my character."

"I'd say your actions are the ones under more scrutiny," Santana bites back. "Michael saw you today, taking more vials."

She can hear the growl in his voice as he retorts, "I believe you were told to hold your tongue on that matter."

"You may have power over me but don't doubt a man like Michael won't see to what's right," she says heatedly, growing far more confident in her words. Enough to demand of him, "What are you using them for and on that matter why do you keep stealing to the chapel so late in the night?"

Dr. Lopez's once calm expression tightens, eyes widening ever so slightly upon her second question. He hadn't expected her to find out, or anyone really, about his nightly visits to the church. If there was anything good to come from being so near a town such as Hartsville it was the solid foundations of a house of God. Somewhere even he could escape to clear his mind and pray for deliverance from the sickness upon his hands. But he cannot speak such to Santana, not with her eyes boring into the side of his face with such scrutiny. She never did miss anything, so sharp her mind. And he's quite aware just how unsavory the sentiments are that the Chinaman holds for him. He'll indulge her with an answer and hopes his tone keeps her from pressing further upon the matter.

"I can't speak my prayers here, not with you hovering about," he mutters hotly. "As for the opium, it is for a pain I've sustained. I believe a hernia has formed in my lower back."

And of course, he thinks, when she stares at him with eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You don't walk like a man would with such an affliction."

Dr. Lopez lets out an exasperated groan. "Hence the copious amounts of opium in my possession. I feel nothing most days," he tells her impatiently. She squints at him more and Dr. Lopez can only roll his eyes in response. "You obviously don't believe me though."

"I'm not a fool," she tells him simply.

He smirks. "That you are not," he says, accompanied by a light and chilling chuckle.

Santana bristles beneath her blankets, hugging the coverings close to her chest.

Dr. Lopez stares at her for a moment, quieting as he studies her face. He doesn't think he's ever taken the opportunity to do so, not like other fathers would. He doesn't ever recall standing over her crib, watching her sleep, nor years later checking upon her at night when the house was quiet and still. She's grown right before his eyes and yet all at once not at all. He can't even recall what she looked like as a child let alone even a few months prior. Surely far more well fed than she is now is all he can manage to think for a moment. He feels a pang of loss for having not kept the memories but he also feels it arbitrary.

He never wanted her.

And yet there she sits, existing despite his prayers and wishes.

He watches her shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze, her eyes hardening in reaction. She's so very much her mother, he realizes now. The lighter complexion, the long lashes, the full cheeks. All except in the eyes, dark brown just like his own. The very best in both of us, he thinks. And yet entirely not at all. Something far different. Not better, per say, he'd never admit to that. But distinctive.

He can't help but think aloud, "Any other man would be glad to have a daughter like you. Proud even," he adds as an afterthought and Santana is shocked to note, almost considerately. She can see his eyes clouding, the liquor and opium taking grasp of his facilities. Yet his gaze remains sharp despite as he tells her, "You've certainty exceeded all my expectations."

"There was a time I would have given anything to hear those words from you," she tells him, voice thick with emotion. He gives a nod, scratching at the back of his hand once more. The next words Santana speaks are full of conviction, her tone bitter and callous. "But you're hardly a man worth esteeming anymore."

Dr. Lopez lets out a rumble of dissatisfied noise from deep within his throat, eyes sharpening to a glare as he asks, "You're denying me the respect you promised?"

"I promised to show you respect," Santana tells him, staunch. "And from what I've been told I'm a fine actress."

They stare at one another, both unfaltering in their angered glares. Santana knows she's spoken out of turn, knows she very well could have just placed Brittany upon a list for the next caravan south. But she will not show him just how terrified she is of such a fate. She is not afraid of him, not anymore. So she must keep herself from releasing her held breath as her father breaks their stare first and leans toward the small table between their cots.

He turns down the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the soft glow of the embers still crackling in their stove. "Good night, Santana."

And Santana buries herself deep into her cot, shivering and confused as she mutters back, "Good night, sir."