AN: I delivered late before so how about early this time to make up for it? ;) Also to those who reviewed expect my replies sometime today as well as usual. I just got a bit busy and haven't had the time to sit down and devote to it yet! Hope you all enjoy the update. :)
Chapter 14
Her
She was seven, perhaps eight, when her father first struck her. At least that is the first time she remembers it happening; a sharp recollection of pain in contrast to the rest of her desolate childhood. Even now, the memory causes a prickling sensation to spread across her left cheek. Through his own negligence she'd gotten into his medical kit and taken out his roll of bandages. It was custom for him, upon arriving home, to tuck it away inside his valise and then place the case into the cupboard near the hall door.
A place she was very much forbidden from ever touching.
But on that day he'd left it on the drawing room table, open and inviting as anything could be to the restless hands of a curious and bored child. Her lone doll was in desperate need of repair; though in her mind she just needed a good doctor to see to her care. Too afraid to ask her father for help, she recalls taking the bandages and wrapping them entirely about her doll until there was nothing left save for a tuft of her hair sticking up from between the last of the wrappings.
Santana had no sooner placed a kiss to her doll's head and laid her proudly atop her bed when she was pulled away by a painful yank of her arm. Her father's eyes were the angriest she'd ever seen them as he stared down upon her. He said nothing; merely cut a path through the air so sharply with his hand that the bruise left upon her cheek was still tender even weeks later. She cuddled close with her doll that night, tears sullying the bandages. Her supper had been barred, leaving her stomach empty and protesting loudly in the quiet of her room. She couldn't move, unable to turn to her favored side where the bruise was swollen, and any touch upon her cheek drew the sting of her father's hand back to the forefront of her mind.
Her mother watched her from the doorway, looking torn between her own wish to soothe her daughter's pain, and the wishes of her husband, which in the end were tantamount to any regard she could afford to give. Santana wished for nothing more than her mother's feet to cross the threshold of her room and tuck the blankets about her as she'd done the night before. But her mother remained frozen in the doorway, as unable to move as she was.
She left after a few short minutes.
Feeling banished and unwanted, Santana silently cried herself to sleep.
She doesn't recall ever being tucked into her bed again.
Touching her fingers to her chilled skin, she swears she can still feel the welt upon her face now. Her cornmeal rests untouched on the table; so lost she's become in thoughts of her estranged father. She can't recall any a time he acted toward her as he did last night. He never once showed her such a side of himself, almost repentant in its starkness. A contradiction, certainly. She has always attributed contradictions to Brittany.
That thought does not stir well in her gut. For with her father there is none of the accompanying fondness and warmth the thoughts of Brittany provide her. At the thought of Dr. Lopez, she feels nothing but the cold of night lingering in the morning air.
Santana leans her elbows upon the table, fingers kneading a soothing pattern along her temples. She cannot make out what her father meant by his words, nor his actions. For once an argument has left her cheeks unscathed; his presence afterward not so much imposing as simply just there… a shadow so to speak. As she continues to think of it, a sharp pain erupts in her temple. Headaches and her father always go hand-in-hand and thus it is no surprise to her that one has developed now. Considering how little sleep she gained and the soreness in her side from the belongings beneath her cot, she's surprised the head pains didn't come about sooner.
She's thankful for the calm the camp finds itself in; sure the coming bustle of the day will only bode worse for her aches.
It's a quiet morn. Most of the men are tucked warmly back into their bedrolls. Those who are carrying on their chores are now, thankfully, doing so with the added benefit of the winter coats they so desperately needed. She can see the last of the men lined up by the caravan of carts just down the lane, some unloading crates full of supplies and others gratefully donning their new coats. Her father will probably have her and Michael cataloging the medical supplies they've received soon, and then pilfering some for his own gain, she thinks with a sneer.
But that is a matter to contend with later. He is not yet awake and the small amount of time she has to herself is waning with the ever-rising sun.
She is bleary-eyed, yawning into her bowl of cornmeal when Brittany finds her. There's a distinctive despondent air hovering about Brittany this morn, one Santana feels quite in tune to her own rather poor disposition. Though, in Brittany's case, Santana knows it's not borne of a restless night. She watched Brittany this morning, keeping pace far better than the rest of her company as they ran across the hillside during their drill. There was even a smile on her face at points. No, it is not fatigue that weighs her steps and mars her expression with a tight frown. It's something more. The sheer depth of her disquiet is prominent in dulled blue eyes. A hint of it revealed in the sharp line of her lips.
Santana's head throbs tediously and she feels her stomach growing nauseous as Brittany draws closer.
Brittany is only ever so upset this early when something has befallen one of the horses.
Santana hopes it is just a horse and not something more pressing. As Brittany approaches, Santana inquires, in as light-hearted of a tone as she can manage, "Did Piedmont try to eat one of his socks again, Britt?"
Brittany simply gives a shake of her head; her voice is small, verging upon cracking as she asks, "Is it all right if I sit with you?"
Santana immediately makes room, sliding down the bench so as to afford Brittany the space to sit beside her. Brittany does so hesitantly; her legs are unable to remain still, knees bouncing. Santana's eyes dart down to Brittany's lap, where tense hands clutch a once neatly-folded sheet of paper. Or more apt, a letter. The quiver she heard upon Brittany's voice is suddenly given reason. Santana's head pain spikes, belly churning as she realizes what news must be contained within that letter. Without bothering to look away Santana reaches over and sets a hand atop one of Brittany's own.
Brittany ceases fidgeting.
Santana need not ask who it's from; she already knows. Instead she ventures to hear, "How is she?"
Brittany cannot meet her eyes as she answers, "her fever came back... it's worse than ever."
Santana feels as though someone has taken hold of her heart, her chest constricting as she breathes out, "Brittany..." Tears begin to collect at the corners of Brittany's eyes, her gaze still upon the letter clenched in her hand. Santana slides closer until their shoulders meet and she can clearly distinguish the few freckles dotted beneath Brittany's right eye. She tightens her hold on Brittany's hand. "I'm so sorry."
Brittany sniffles, sloppily wiping some of her tears from one cheek. "She was doing s-so well," she whispers, voice uneven and causing Santana's heart to twist ever more. And when Brittany's eyes finally do meet her own, the seemingly endless anguish contained therein breaks whatever ounce of restraint Santana had left. She pulls Brittany to her, hugging her close just as Brittany's sorrow begins to overwhelm her. "I don't want her to die," she cries softly against Santana's shoulder, clinging tight to her coat.
"I know, no one does," Santana tells her, headache a non-issue now as she tries to soothe the pain this letter has brought. "Your father and Dr. Nelson are doing all they can for her, don't you ever doubt that."
Brittany shakes against her, her tone biting. "It's not enough."
Santana holds fast, mindful of the meddlesome stares a few passing soldiers throw her way. Her hold upon Brittany does not waver. The glare she focuses upon the men quickly has them turning their attention elsewhere. This is none of their business and she knows they care not for Bret's tears. Their judgment is insignificant. She won't let go.
Brittany is so grateful for Santana's embrace. The moment she received the letter from the express carrier she tore the envelope open, giddy for good news from home. The young man must have thought her mad the way her expression faded to a blank stare. She stood, legs unable to carry her forward as she reread the words of her father, hoping she'd merely misconstrued it all. But she hadn't, and reading for a third time of how poor Emily's condition has grown left an inconsolable mark upon her heart. She whimpers against Santana's neck, her stuttered breaths hot against the doctor's skin. Comfort is all she seeks and she's so thankful for the care Santana offers her now. She can feel the slight tensing of Santana's arms around her back as she hugs her close, the deep fill of her lungs pressing her chest forward. The ghost of a kiss is brushed against her ear as Santana pulls away. Brittany grows concerned, not wishing to leave the warm arms.
One of Santana's hands slips to Brittany's waist, the other retrieving a spare medical cloth from within her apron pocket. Brittany's lips are still trembling, eyes red as Santana dabs at her cheeks.
"She wouldn't want to see you crying like this," Santana whispers, smiling softly. Her eyes lock upon Brittany's, cloth stilling against a damp cheek. "Hold hope, Brittany."
"I just want to see her," Brittany confesses, posture as weak as her tone. She touches a few of her fingers to the back of Santana's hand, her eyes closing briefly as she draws in a deep breath and exhales just as slow. "San…"
There is a silent question uttered with her name. A plea for help. Santana swallows hard and readjusts Brittany's cap, tucking a few stray hairs back beneath the brim. "Write to her, send her your love. That will help more than you know," she whispers, tracing her fingers over the tip of one of Brittany's ears. She wishes there was more she could do. She knows there is nothing more she can give the family, no amount of money that will reverse what the disease has already wrought. Her throat tightens; she knows that Emily will die. It is only a matter of when, she thinks, despondent. Will Brittany receive the letter tomorrow? The next week? A month from now? Seeing her so broken before her in response to the news of a fever is torment enough…. again, she can't imagine the sadness that would consume her at word of Emily's death.
Brittany pulls away from the hand that rests comfortingly upon her jaw with more force than usual. "That's what you said before," Brittany tells her, obstinate, eyes narrowed with grief and frustration. "And she's no better."
Brittany knows it's not right to be so cross with Santana. She can no more cure Emily than anyone else… and she's always known so, somewhere in the very back of her mind where her thoughts are darkest and best kept hidden away. Where her fears for Emily's life are very much real, the hurt they bring more painful than any she's known. The way Santana looks at her now, as if waiting, wary of her inevitable fall, is all the affirmation Brittany needs to know those dark thoughts are more real than any of her hopes to the contrary. Emily is dying; truly dying. And she feels so hopeless, so angry that she is here for naught and not by her sister's side.
Nothing is right.
It is my fault…
Brittany wets her lips, her next words nothing more than a sigh of sound. "I never should have left…"
"Brittany," Santana says softly, leaning closer. "Don't blame yourself. You must believe she is doing all she can to fight this, to see you again."
Brittany stares at her a moment, thinking over Santana's words before asking, "Do you believe it?"
Santana does not hesitate in her reply. "If she's anything like you then yes, I do," Santana tells her and smiles as she adds, "I'm really looking forward to meeting her you know."
The smallest of grins begin to pull at the corner of Brittany's mouth. "Pa said in the letter that she likes your name," she says and then looks back up at Santana, her gaze heartfelt. "She thinks it's very pretty. I really hope you can meet her, and then she can see how beautiful you are too."
Santana smiles, warmed by the admission. "I can't wait, Britt."
Brittany breathes deeply, latching tight to Santana's words. She can't wait to meet Emily. Emily can't wait to meet her. She takes comfort in the thoughts, sitting up straighter upon the bench. Something crinkles near her chest as she does, a soft rustle of noise.
"Oh!" Brittany exclaims, quickly digging into her breast pocket. "I almost forgot, here," she says, extracting a small envelope. She grins as she holds it out toward Santana. "For you."
Santana quirks a brow up at Brittany, puzzled by the strange post. It's not the usual envelope she receives from Hendrick; this one is stained and yellowed with age. Her name is scrawled on the front, the penmanship loose and untidy. She opens the envelope, withdrawing a similarly old piece of paper. Though when her eyes scan across the name signed at the bottom she can't help the large grin that spreads across her face. "It's from Sam," Santana says, elated, as she smooths the letter out upon the table so as to allow Brittany to read as well.
Marysville, Ohio. October 17th, 1862
Dear Santana,
I hope my letter finds you all well in Tompkinsville. I've been home a day and still can't believe it. My brother Stevie won't stop trying to look under the wrappings on my stub and my poor sister Stacey always gives such a holler in rejection when he does. I've missed them and their bickering so ha! My parents are still fighting tooth and nail for work and while they are glad to see me home I know the station my funds provided them all will be sorely missed. If only a circus would pull into Marysville and I could auction myself off for show. I can just imagine the roll of your eyes that must have followed reading yet another of my "horridly off-putting jokes."
How are you faring? Has Bret been keeping your dancing feet in shape? Please pass along my hellos to him. I'll miss his steps, the very best he is! You both will have to come visit us here someday. I'm fixing to get myself a harmonica soon and should be well and good at it by the time you all stop round. Here's to prayin' those greybacks figure out what's right soon.
Your exasperating friend,
Sam Evans
"I'm so glad he's well," Brittany says once she's finished sliding the letter toward Santana, knowing the other woman finished reading long before her. Santana nods, folding the letter back up and then tucking it snugly into her apron pocket. She's happy Sam is well, surely, but more so that he returned home safe. "Will you write him back?"
"I will," Santana tells her, pushing her bowl of cornmeal toward Brittany who happily accepts the meal. "But not now, tonight perhaps. We can pen him a letter together?"
"I'd like that," Brittany says through a mouthful of food. "I miss our lessons."
"You don't much need my help anymore, Britt," Santana says with a chuckle.
"I know, but it was nice, you reading to me and all," Brittany says, sliding the bowl back with a thankful nod. "Emily always read to me at home. First night we're back you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to read to her."
Santana simply smiles, hoping Brittany doesn't notice the forced quality of the gesture. She's just brought Brittany's spirits up and would no sooner laud her father a hero than to speak words sure to bring back Brittany's sorrow. There is a chance, slim as it may be, that Brittany may very well get her wish. To keep herself from saying anything further Santana takes a few bites of her cornmeal.
Santana has grown quiet in a way that unsettles Brittany. Not to mention the three bites she's taken of her cold cornmeal without one snark upon its horrid taste. "San?" Brittany calls for her, voice hushed. She throws a leg over the bench, straddling it as she scoots closer and touches a few of her fingers to Santana's thigh. "Is something the matter? Should I not have eaten so much of your cornmeal? I know how awful you find it now without any sugar in camp and—"
"It's not that," Santana interjects, kindly, with an apologetic smile on her lips. "I've just been in a bit of a fog all morning. I didn't get much sleep."
"His snoring keep you awake again?"
"No," Santana tells her, the stirrings of her head pains returning, though dimmer this time. "I just couldn't find peace."
Brittany rests her hand atop Santana's thigh. "Why?"
"We had an…" Santana trails off, wondering how best to describe her disastrous evening. The feel of Brittany's palm pressed against her skirt does little to help, and the thoughts of her father now returning front and center to her mind only spur her headache more. She brushes Brittany's hand aside gently, ignoring the hurt look upon her face as she finally tells her, "We had an argument of sorts last night."
Brittany groans. "Santana, you promised."
"He was being an utter ass," Santana retorts with a snap and then grumbles, "I couldn't help myself."
"Did he lay a hand to you?"
"No."
There's a brief pause. Brittany stares at the side of Santana's face, scanning the knotted features for any sign of a mark. When she notices Santana stealing a glance toward her from the corner of her eyes Brittany's irritation flares. He did something to her and she can read Santana well enough by now to know why she's holding her tongue on the matter.
"You're not going to tell me what he said are you?" Brittany asks her, voice low. "Because it's about me."
"Brittany," Santana says, running a hand through her hair, wincing at a particularly painful spike of pain in her temple. Brittany's eyes soften at the ache creased in Santana's brow. Santana turns toward her, placing her hand atop Brittany's knee and giving it a slight squeeze in assurance. "I don't want you to think anymore on him. As you've said many a time he's a horrible man. He's not worth your thoughts."
"He's not, but you are," Brittany tells her, firm. "What happened?"
They stare at one another. Brittany is unwilling to leave and Santana wishes the sun would cease its path higher into the sky. He will be waking soon; sure to pass and see them engaged in conversation together. Yet Santana knows Brittany will not move, not until she's been told the truth of what transpired after she left. She can see the concern, plain as the day, right there in her eyes. Santana relents; she'd promised to not keep things to herself any longer. "When I got back he was… partway gone, a good deal of bourbon and who knows what else. I confronted him, about the opium and his visits to the church."
"Did he say anything?"
"Lies," she spits out, recalling his harsh words. "Then he… he told me how any other father would be proud to have me for a daughter."
Brittany wants so much to pull Santana into her arms. But the small distance Santana has put between them denotes otherwise. "I'm sorry," Brittany whispers.
Santana's brow furrows. "Whatever for?"
"That you have such a poor father," Brittany explains, leaning her side against the table. She props her head up on her hand, smiling over at Santana as a thought passes through her mind. So she shares aloud, "I promise that when you meet my Pa you'll adore him. He already thinks the world of you. Maybe you can think of him as your Pa too?"
It's a sweet thought but Santana doesn't even wish to think about how they'll conceal their relationship from Hendrick. Brittany can see her growing withdrawn again, all her courage from earlier seeming to disappear the longer they sit closely beside one another.
Brittany's eyes catch on Santana's collar, lingering upon the torn fabric and missing buttons. The flutter of feeling within her belly magnifies as she stares at the reminder of their evening together, of what could have been had they not been interrupted.
"I really wish to kiss you," Brittany whispers, voice thick with want. Her eyes dart up, locking upon Santana's own. There is a similar need in the dark eyes, unwavering as Santana holds her gaze. She can feel Santana's littlest finger brush beside her own along the bench, the smallest twitch of a shock sent through them both by the touch. Brittany's eyes close, a sigh pushing past her lips as she pulls her hand back to her lap. She knows they cannot be so open with their desires, not out here.
"I'm sorry Britt," Santana whispers to her as she always does, her tone sympathetic. "Perhaps I can meet you in Burt's come noon?"
"We'll be fixing sled runners to the armory carts then," Brittany replies with a groan, perking though as she asks, "Can we now?"
Santana rolls her eyes, laughing. "Burt's in there," she says between her chuckles. "I can see him, he's just waved to us."
Brittany follows her gaze, to where, sure enough, Burt stands just outside his tent, one arm balancing a crate as the other waves toward them. Brittany gives him an equally jolly wave back before he disappears inside the tent. "He won't mind none."
"I think he'd notice us kissing in his tent, Brittany."
"I know," Brittany says absentmindedly. "He's seen us already."
"W-what?" Santana explodes, red-faced as she stares, disbelievingly over at Brittany. "And you're telling me this now! Brittany! My god, by week's end, the whole of camp will know at this rate!"
"Stop fretting. He still thinks me a man," Brittany says, hoping to assure Santana and perhaps calm the fiery blush upon her cheeks. "He's very supportive of us together."
"As Bret and Santana," Santana growls.
"He could know us as we are," Brittany whispers, eyes flicking between Santana's very much still riled brown ones. "I'm sure he'll love us just the same."
"How many more people need know Brittany? No one was to ever have found out! It's enough having Noah know but if Burt were to react poorly..."
"He won't…" The way in which she says it, with such hesitance, pushes the fight straight out of Santana.
"He's all you have here, Britt."
Brittany shakes her head. "He's not. I have you, Noah, and Michael. I think it will go over well. He's not like everyone else San. He adores the both of us."
"Precisely."
"I'm going to tell him," Brittany says, resolute. "Tonight."
Santana feels her headache shant ever abate now. "I don't think you should."
"Why?" Brittany asks, none too pleased by the weary tone of Santana's voice. "Because then that's something else you have no control over?"
Santana stares at her a moment, fully accepting the bitterness dripping from Brittany's words. It is deserved, surely… but there is purpose to her concern. Brittany is surprised when Santana takes her hand and ever more so by her softly spoken response. "No. Repercussions aside, if you tell him and he scorns you I… I won't be able to bear seeing you hurt."
"San," Brittany reaches for her but the other woman has let go and moved up to her feet.
"I can't stop you, Brittany," Santana says, picking up her empty bowl. She purposely avoids the gaze she knows seeks her own and the hand she can see aching for her touch. "I don't want to be like him. Do what you wish," she whispers, relinquished, and leaves Brittany alone to her thoughts.
It's nearing supper by the time Dr. Lopez shows his face within the canvas walls of the field hospital. He speaks not a word to anyone, simply withdrawing his journal from inside his breast pocket as he makes his way off to the far west corner of patients.
After a few minutes he calls out for her, but Santana remains mute and unmoving, still stunned by his sudden appearance and subsequent productivity. Again he shouts her name, this time with less patience. Santana is spurred into motion, weaving between the rows of cots until she is standing opposite him between a bedridden and clearly pained soldier. The smell hits her hard, distinctive in its atrociousness. Rotten, acidic human waste. On the floor are a few small puddles of stomach bile. Ones she knows were not there just a few hours prior. The man is covered in a light sheen of sweat, shaking and curled tightly upon the cot with his blankets in a heap near his feet.
Dr. Lopez clicks his tongue, drawing her attention upon him instead. He's sucking upon a peppermint confection trapped between his teeth, staring down at her in contempt. "I need not have to call for you twice," he says, terse. Closing his journal he places it back inside his coat and motions with a wave of his hand down to the patient. "Abdominal swelling, fever, and as you can see and smell, currently enough vomit upon the floor to constitute his condition a veritable problem. Prepare me a table. I need to drain whatever it is that's infecting him before it spreads to the others."
Santana gives a nod at the order, not questioning her father's diagnosis for it is obvious whatever currently ails the man must be examined. She's never seen a belly swell so, not once in all the time she's spent as her father's aide. But the look upon his face tells her he's seen something similar, if not the same, before. She has no time to question him about it, not when he's already shouting more orders.
"Chinaman!" Dr. Lopez calls as he sheds his winter coat from his shoulders. Michael approaches quickly, brushing down the apron tied round his waist as he does. He keeps his head bowed, eyes staunchly upon his feet as Dr. Lopez throws the coat to his chest and tells him, "This man, take him to my table. Afterward see to the mess he's left."
"Yes, sir," Michael says, gaze venturing up and briefly meeting Santana's own. There are so many questions in his eyes; ones Santana notes seem nothing to do with the orders they've been given. He wishes to speak to her, but now is certainly not the time.
"I need to inform Major Keller of this procedure. I'll return shortly," Dr. Lopez tells them both, the very picture of professional poise as he takes off in search of his superior.
Santana stays, helping Michael to carry the soldier to her father's station. Once upon the table, the man having emptied his stomach a few more times on the way, Santana hurries to afford him some comfort. An injection of a small does of morphine quells his shivers and moans, his body falls slack on the table as his mind grows tranquil.
Michael watches her, anxious to heed his orders from Dr. Lopez but also needing to speak with her. He finds an opportunity when she begins to clean her father's surgical tools.
"Santana," Michael says quietly, helping her to lie out the instruments needed for the procedure. Santana never ceases in her work as she spares him a glance, waiting for his next words. Michael reaches forward, his hand coming to rest atop hers, stilling her from further distraction. She looks up at him only to be faced by a solemn expression and equally grave words. "I know you've been lying to me."
She turns away, pulling her hand free as she tells him, "I haven't lied about anything." She withdraws a set of scalpels and begins cleaning them with a fresh cloth. After a moment she pauses, giving him a wayward glance as she says, "Okay, except for that one time I may have borrowed your scissors and forgotten where I put them down."
"I found 'em," Michael replies instantly before shaking his head and speaking quietly once more. "But that's not what I meant." Then softer yet, "You and Brittany."
Santana lets out an exasperated groan, slamming the scalpels down to the table. "There's no—"
"I saw you both by the river." Any further words die upon her tongue at the comment. She feels her heart has gone with them, still as it's suddenly been rendered. Michael leans toward her and whispers, beseeching, "Please don't lie to me."
"I…." is all she can manage to croak out, eyes wide as they desperately search his for any indication of his erstwhile aversion. What she finds is simply a man torn, tired and willing to listen. "Can we speak elsewhere, later?" she asks him.
Michael can hear the hint of fear upon her voice, even as she holds his gaze. He reaches forward, hand wrapping around her upper arm. The touch, though firm, is grounding, kind. "I don't think less of you, Santana, please know that," he tells her, even managing a small smile as her gives her arm a squeeze before letting go entirely. "I just want to understand."
"Okay," her voice is small, but grateful; relieved.
"I believe I've some vomit to attend to now," Michael says with feigned enthusiasm. He gives her a wink and playful nudge with his shoulder as he moves to leave. "I'm glad to see you in here again."
And Santana smiles broadly back, for she too is pleased to be assisting once again, in whatever capacity he affords her. "Me too."
Michael leaves and not a minute later her father approaches, flanked by another medic and a rather staunch looking nurse. Santana recognizes them instantly. The ones he's used in her stead.
"Seems he's vomited himself unconscious," Dr. Lopez notes, eliciting a chuckle from the medic. Dr. Lopez doesn't acknowledge him, simply pointing to the floor as he orders of the man, "Clean this, now."
"Yes, doctor," the man replies, quieted as he hurries to gather the needed supplies. He tries to reach for Santana's pile of sterile cloths but the hand she lies atop the stack accompanied by her hardened glare has him backing away in search of another.
"They're merely rags, Santana," Dr. Lopez says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I won't need more than one."
"They are for the patient," Santana tells him.
"For what? The drool leaking from his mouth?" Dr. Lopez asks, scanning his choices of scalpels as he reaches to pull up the soldier's shirt.
From the corner of her eyes Santana notices a flash of red stained against her father's hand. Without warning she grabs the fingers of his right hand, turning it palm up. Dr. Lopez tries to wrench it from her grasp but Santana holds firm, pulling up the sleeve of his issued surgeon jacket to reveal the truth of his sickness. The skin is inflamed, an ugly blood-filled rash poorly contained on the underside juncture of his thumb and palm. She's seen this type of abrasion before. And she's plenty sure she knows where else he may be suffering similar outbreaks.
She throws his hand aside; no more disgusted with the syphilis he's contracted than she is with the thought of him wishing to carry forth a surgery in such an afflicted state. "You cannot operate on him," she tells him, barring his way from the soldier lying in wait behind her. "I won't let you infect a patient."
Dr. Lopez rolls his eyes. "Your utter idiocy is infectious. I've things under control," he mutters, pushing her aside and motioning toward the cart of bandages. "Fetch me some wrappings."
Santana does not move. "You know as well as I bandages will not stop your blood from mixing with his."
"And what do you know of diseases of the blood? Have you any idea what is ailing that man?"
"I don't deign to know all," Santana answers, still holding firm to her position. "But I know what you have and I know you cannot touch him in such a state."
Dr. Lopez advances upon her until she can see the short whiskers of his beard and smell the peppermint upon his breath. "Remove yourself."
"You lied to me!" She exclaims, pushing him away with a hard shove. "How long have you been treating yourself? Those chancres look fresh. You can't be more than a month afflicted."
By now a few of the medics and, by sheer lure of the promise of gossip, all of the nurses stand just outside the partition, attention upon the pair. Santana can see them from over her father's soldier, her gaze leaving his for only a second but time enough for him to understand where her eyes have drifted… to the audience they've drawn. He steps up toward her, intent upon ending this before any more ears are privy to what ails him.
"They're already closing, the syphilis is passing. This conversation is done," he hisses out.
"But you have open lesions now! You cannot expose yourself to a patient!"
"Remove yourself lest you forget our agreement!"
"I will not!" Santana bellows, knowing she has crossed a line never to return. "This is beyond any of your threats! You're too blinded by your pride and disdain to see reason. You operate on that man and you will give him your sickness! I cannot allow it!" she proclaims, chest heaving. She is not alone in her judgment, the very same sentiments now reflected back upon Dr. Lopez in the unyielding expression upon the faces of his staff. Santana's though, are prominently the strongest, her eyes boring squarely into his own for the first time since their argument on the veranda. He sees none of the bridled fear in those dark eyes now, not one ounce of the broken woman remains. Instead what stands before him in utter, steadfast defiance is a force even he is now sure he cannot subdue. There is no mistaking the look of repugnance in her gaze, nor the trace of pity held within. He doesn't know what causes his chest to pain more, that she so easily has turned against him or that she is so undeniably right.
Santana steps forward, her gaze never once wavering from her father's as she orders aloud, "Michael, will you see to it Dr. Lopez is escorted back to our cabin?" Dr. Lopez can feel the man step up beside him, Michael's hands wrapping securely around his arm. Michael nods at her, proud. Her next command boils the blood already pumping furiously through Dr. Lopez's heart. "And then please ensure Major Keller is informed of this indiscretion."
Dr. Lopez's eyes narrow dangerously into her own as he feels Michael give a tug upon his arm. His vision grows clouded, muddled with rage as he allows the medic to pull him away.
He regrets ever allowing her to follow him to this place.
And he only grows more incensed knowing she will perform the surgery with faultlessness in his stead.
For once in her life Brittany Pierce is nervous. So much so she cannot hold down any of her supper. The small bite she took when she first sat down for this meal with Burt has already tried working its way up her throat twice. Thrice now, she notes as she grows queasy once more and swallows her dread down thickly. She's grateful for the snow that falls outside the tent, for she's sure if she wasn't bundled beneath her thick winter coat that Burt would have noticed the way her shoulders quiver and the soft knock her knee makes as it bounces against the underside of the table.
But Burt is in a proud mood, his usual keen observation set aside in place of boasting fatherly charm. He eats heartily, talking through great mouthfuls as he entertains Brittany with talk of a letter he's just received from Kurt.
"He's finally found himself a good lad to call a friend," Burt tells her, the smile on his face never once waning. "As much as I love those girls he's always about town with it's good to see him finally fitting in with the boys, you know?"
Brittany shifts upon her stool, nodding vigorously. This isn't anything like when she told Noah. Her hesitation then had only lasted but a minute before the truth came spilling from her lips. My name is Brittany, she repeats in her head. That's all I have to say. She tries to imagine the look upon Burt's face when she tells him the truth. Will it be like it is now?
"They must have moved in no more than a month ago, I take it; the Andersons. Kurt has been showing their son Blaine around, getting him acquainted with the neighbors and all that."
Will he smile at me as he's always done?
"He says just the past day, from when he sat down to write to me, that he and Blaine had good fun with some gals down at the annual winter harvest festival."
Will he still think well of me?
"There was dancin' and singin' and so much good company! I wonder if any of them lovelies caught his eye."
Will he still care?
"Bret? You all right over there, son? You're lookin' peaky."
Brittany snaps to, trying her best to quell the uneven pattern of her breaths. She can't seem to control the capacity of her lungs, her body fighting for more air. She sucks in a deep breath, the chill air stinging sharp at her throat and a roll of shivers passing down her spine.
Burt leans forward over the table, brow creased with worry as he asks, "Do I need to fetch Santana for you?"
"No!" Brittany exclaims, eyes wide as she stuffs her hands deep into her lap. Burt's eyebrows raise high at her insistence. Softer Brittany adds, "No… I'm all right. Just a might cold."
Burt smiles over at her, relieved by the answer. "Let me toss some more logs to the oven then. That'll warm ya up. I always forget how much like Kurt you are. He's always freezing too, even under all those layers he insists on putting on."
As Burt chuckles and works to bring more heat to the flames of the oven Brittany pulls her bottom lip tightly between her teeth. She cannot understand why this is so difficult, to simply tell Burt, someone she loves, the truth. But she knows doing so will be admitting to the lie she's carried for so long, one that feels as natural to her by now as the skin upon her muscles. There is no denying that Burt thinks the world of Bret, that perhaps the father may even love him as he does his son. Brittany wishes not to see the heartache upon the face she's come to trust so crumble with her confession.
She would not be able to bear it. Nor the hate she now imagines would soon follow. The same Santana found in Michael… someone she trusted explicitly.
But Mr. Hummel could never hate anyone, not even Scott Cooper, she reminds herself as Burt sits down once more, giving her a wink as he picks up his bowl and slurps down the rest of his supper.
She steels her nerves with a straightening of her posture and a quick lick of her suddenly dry lips. "Mr. Hummel?" she ventures cautiously, eyes fixated upon the man's calloused hands.
"Finally found your tongue tonight, I see. Was afraid that Miss Santana might have swiped it," Burt says with a light laugh. He can sense something plaguing his charge though the extent of the troubles goes beyond his speculations. He hoped his more jovial of approach would help ease the tension he can see in Bret's jaw. At the very least ease the boys obvious nerves enough for him to look up.
But Bret remains wound up, eyes darting quickly across Burt's hands. It couldn't be anything to do with Miss Santana, Burt thinks. Those two had ironed out all the kinks they'd forged in their relationship. And if anything Bret is never so sheepish over matters of the heart. No, the Bret before him is quieted in another way. One he recognizes as the same softened demeanor he finds in Kurt when the boy isn't being as forthcoming with him as he likes. Burt sits back on his stool, his smile growing ever more gentle as he says, "It's all right, Bret. Whatever you wish to say, it's all right."
Brittany lets out a slow breath, eyes falling closed as the words wash over her. She wishes everything will be all right after; that they can still sit here as they do now, eating together and laughing over Kurt's silliness.
She cannot lose this. Not Burt.
"I just forgot to lay out Piedmont's saddle," she tells him, toes curling in her boots at the lie. She briefly glances up to Burt, relieved by the smile now back on his face and the amused shake of his head.
"All this worry over a saddle?" He asks with a chuckle. "Here I am thinking you've come down with the flux!"
"I'm just fine," she tells him, slipping hastily down from the stool. "I should probably go get that saddle off him, before it gets too cold out."
Burt wishes her a goodnight, even as Brittany fights back tears and takes off in search of the one person she knows won't think her a coward for walking away.
It's nearing nightfall by the time Santana has finished up on the soldier. A failed field surgery during a recent battle was never quite finished, a small pistol round still buried within his stomach muscle. The surrounding tissue had grown infected, a good portion of it needing to be removed or cauterized. The surgery was an absolute success. She can't help but beam with pride when a few of the more reserved medics give praise to her skill. Michael, of course, being the most vocal. There are no words to describe how relieved she was when they sided with her. She was worried, naturally, that even despite her father's affliction they may have shown loyalty to him.
She couldn't be more pleased to have been wrong.
She gives Michael a grateful hug and thanks each of the medics in turn before leaving.
Typically she wouldn't dare venture into their cabin so early in the evening. Especially when she sees the glow of a lamp inside the small window. The last thing she knows her father could ever want to lay his eyes upon right now would be her, but she feels if they are to continue working together – if this botched and threadbare relationship they've constructed is to sustain – she must say something.
She expects he's been waiting for her.
What she finds in their cabin instead is her father slumped in his chair, a nearly empty bottle of cheap whiskey held loosely in his right hand. His eyes flitter up lazily, locking upon her own, unsteady and glazed. It seems to take his mind a moment to place her, for he stares at her with a quizzical crease of his brow whilst she tries not to choke upon the odor of spilt alcohol upon the floorboards.
"S—ometimes," he slurs out, voice gruff as he stands to wobbly legs. "I think wha' my life would be… had you n'ver been born."
Santana ignores his offense and the subsequent stream of insults he spouts after. Her jaw clenches tight so as to keep her voice in check as she turns from him toward her cot and begins undoing the many buttons along her coat. The small room is decidedly warm, and her mounting exasperation toward her father only exacerbates the heat already burning inside her. His continued insults do nothing to quell her temper.
"You think yourself a sur'eon! A doctor!" He spits out a vile amount of liquor to the floor. "Wha' have I to do to rid you from my life?"
His eyes rove over the small splash of fresh blood stained upon her elbow. Blood from a procedure he was to have overseen.
"You disgraced me t'day!" He shouts at her.
She whirls upon him, infuriated as she tells him, "You did that to yourself!"
Dr. Lopez lunges toward her, arm raised high. Before he can bring his hand down across Santana's face the cabin door is thrown open, his attention diverted as Noah rushes in past the threshold. A snap of cold air slaps Santana against the face as Noah shoves her father down to his bed, snow billowing in from outside quickly to fill the void of air.
"Is that how you treat your daughter?" Noah is shouting down at the pinned doctor, her father desperately trying to wriggle free from the soldiers iron clad grip. With a twist of his arm Noah manages to drive his elbow into the side of Dr. Lopez's head, the inebriated man growing instantly slack beneath him as he lets out a howl of pain.
Santana is stunned, riveted to the floor as Noah stands and brushes his hands off upon his sleeves. His previously hardened eyes turn soft as he finds Santana's gaze.
"You all right?" he asks her as he approaches, closing the door so as to not let any more chill air inside. He can already see the beginnings of the cold kissing at the top of Santana's nose, her bare forearms prickled with gooseflesh. He's unsure how much of it could be attributed to the winter air… and how much is caused by the man still groaning on the bed behind him. He leans close as he lays a comforting hand over her shoulder and whispers, "Britt asked me to come in. She's just outside, worried outright for ya."
"Tell her I'm okay," she says, voice still somewhat shaky. "Go, I can handle him."
Noah is reluctant to leave, his hand firm upon her shoulder. "You sure?"
Dr. Lopez sits up on the bed, his hands gripping the sides as he struggles to keep from toppling over once more. He motions toward Noah, a snarl upon his lips as he slurs out, "You beddin' 'im too?"
"You've no idea what you're talking about," Santana snaps from over Noah's shoulder.
"I've seen you with Pierce!" Dr. Lopez bellows, fraught to stand to his feet. "The way you fawn o'er that idiotic boy is-it's- you must be fucking him!"
Santana moves forward, Noah hastily stepping aside. He watches her come to stand, tall before her father, her voice strong as she tells him, "Unlike you I've retained my dignity."
In his mind, Dr. Lopez knows the accusation is warranted. It is the truth of the matter after all. He has brought this sickness upon himself, only his infidelity is to blame. But the tone with which she spat it at him; as if she herself is not partaking in the pleasures of the flesh he knows she must be… with him, that boy whom is mocked so thoroughly about this camp Dr. Lopez can feel his own name being dragged through the mud. It should be she who need steal remedies from the med stock. She who need spend hours praying for salvation before God from this disease.
She is to blame for it all, for everything wrong in his world.
I won't allow it, he thinks. I won't!
Santana barely has time to register his movement, swift as it is. She feels the breath knocked from her lungs as he lunges up toward her with a primal shout, shoving her back with such force she trips upon her feet and lands sprawled on floor a few paces back. The wood is unyielding, a painful bed to land upon, her spine aching in protest as she digs her elbows into the floor to keep her head from crashing back as well. She can feel the scrape of the wood panels splintering, tearing through her sleeve with ease. But nothing pains her more than the sound of the door slamming against the wall, the feel of the winter air once more upon her cheeks as Brittany surges inside, the darkest of expressions etched across her face.
"No…" Santana breathes, heart pounding as she shakes her head and she hurries up to her feet. Brittany cannot be in here, not with her father in such a blind rage. Noah makes a move toward Dr. Lopez, Brittany about to follow when Santana grabs hold of her by the wrist, yanking her back abruptly. Her elbows protest, the faintest smell of blood upon the air. Brittany's eyes lock upon her own, sharply fierce before their focus is drawn down to the blood staining the once-muted white of Santana's sleeves. Her gaze hardens, mouth pulled into a thin line at the sight.
"Get away from her!" Dr. Lopez yells, grappling with Noah for control. He manages to land a solid hit to the soldier's side, elation coursing through him as Noah doubles over, coughing as he steps back. He shoves the man aside, charging for Brittany.
Dr. Lopez is easily sidestepped, Brittany quick to grab hold of Santana and move them from his path. He smacks headlong into his desk, reaching to brace himself atop the surface before he may slip into the mirror. The desk rattles, journals and vials of ink shaken from their places of rest toppling down across the surface. His cigar box spills open, two syringes rolling forth.
One is already filled with a potent dose of opium.
His vision blurs, hands knocking the syringe further from his waiting grasp as the alcohol slows his impulses and blood pumps faster through heated veins.
With a shared nod of their heads Noah and Santana advance upon him whilst his back is still hunched. Brittany wishes to reach out, pull Santana back into her arms but the moment has passed, Dr. Lopez now turned around to face them. She can feel her throat constrict at the look of craze in his eyes. Unease pools low in her belly as those eyes stray, unfocused as they are, toward Santana's slow approach.
"Santana," Brittany whispers, hoping for the woman to halt. Especially given the syringe now clutched so shakily in Dr. Lopez's hand.
"Don't you dare speak her name!" Dr. Lopez shouts, brandishing the needle high.
Santana and Noah spring toward him. Dr. Lopez reacts upon whim, driving the needle into the first body within reach, Noah's eyes widening as the serum is pushed into his blood. He feels Santana's fingers take hold of his arm, the syringe pulled out not a second later. His eyes meet hers, clear for a brief flash of time before a euphoric rush envelops him, arms suddenly heavy, feet no longer feeling as though they are rooted to the Earth. He can hear the echo of a slap resonating in the room, Santana's cry of pain soon following. He reaches for where he thinks she may be but the drug within his system is powerful, drawing him further into it's comforts, his body crashing down to the floor as he loses all control over his now unresponsive limbs.
Brittany can still hear Santana's cry piercing her mind. And even as Noah crashes to her feet she has only one thought upon her mind. She reacts on instinct; her vision tunneled with fury as steps forward and sends a clenched fist straight into Dr. Lopez's nose. A loud crunch slices the air as he stumbles back, cursing and clutching at his face, blood seeping fast past his fingers. "Bastard!" he screeches, spitting more blood from out his mouth as he desperately tries to reset his broken nose.
"You will not hurt her ever again," Brittany growls, holding his infuriated gaze evenly. Their eyes burn into eachother's; Dr. Lopez's unhinged and shaded with hatred, Brittany's steadfast and burning. She can hear Santana breathing hard behind her and feels the rush of the fight leave her, her hand throbbing in the wake of her anger. She turns and lets out a hiss at the spike of pain, shaking her hand in hopes of suppressing the frayed nerves in her knuckles. When she looks up she finds Santana standing just a few paces away, pressing her palm against her severely bruised cheek. Another flash of anger flares inside Brittany at the injury but Santana is staring over at her with such a mix of horror and pride in her eyes that Brittany feels it once more ebbing. She knows she's done well and manages a smile at the corner of her mouth as she asks, "you all right?"
She barely makes it a step toward Santana when a foot connects solidly with her back, a holler of pain ripped from her mouth as she crashes upon the floor to her knees. Her hands smack against the floorboards, her body quick to catch herself from collapsing.
"No!" she hears Santana shout and no sooner does she feel the scarf around her neck tighten painfully. She chokes, clawing at the fabric as Dr. Lopez yanks her back, his grip upon the scarf ever strong as he twists it tighter.
"Let go!" Santana is screaming, tears streaming from her panicked eyes.
Brittany gasps for much needed air, feet scraping along the floor as he drags her back, winding the scarf into a thick noose. Her lungs are desperate for air, hands digging deep into the flesh of his arms. She claws at him, scratches sure to leave scars rendered into his skin. Her mind grows hazy, body fighting, legs thrashing.
She can hear Santana crying out for him to stop, see the last blurred silhouette of her dress as she surges toward him.
"Let her go!"