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.

15. Found

AN: Poem in this chapter is Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. If you don't know it, you'll recognize it, I swear. ;)

Correction: Big thanks to suspenceme for catching this: In chapter 12 Michael says the baby they lost was his first son. It's supposed to be his first girl. Can't believe that completely slipped my mind. All fixed now but it's mentioned in this chapter again and hence why I'm warning you all about my mistake. Sorry about that!

Chapter 15

Found

At his daughter's cry, time seems to still for Albert Lopez. He can feel his wits struggling to define the present, muddled as they currently are. Through the fog his sight has become he can barely see his daughter; her body is an unnerved blur of motion as she rushes toward him. For the span of a blink his gaze sharpens and the gleam of fury in her watery eyes becomes apparent. He can feel every hair upon his arm stand to attention. She's hastening toward him, screaming. The raw sound rips through his ears, a vicious chorus of "her" resonating in his drugged mind.

He cannot put pause to reason.

Santana just called the whelp 'her'.

It is unmistakable.

Such a simple slip of a tongue and yet all he can now perceive.

Her.

Santana slams against him, her fists pounding frantically against his arms. He barely feels the pressure of her blows, his mind in a suspended state of delirium, 'her' repeated ad-nauseum in his head to the point of faint.

Her.

He feels sick. The sordidness and wretched implications of that sole word take hold of his reflexes and he releases Brittany with a sudden shove.

She drops to the floor with a smack, gasping for breath and clutching at her burning throat. Santana is quick to fall by her side and envelope her, coughing hoarsely as she is, in protective arms.

A woman.

Her.

"¡Imposible!" Dr. Lopez snarls as he bends down and seizes the cap off Brittany's head. A neatly-tied blonde braid tumbles down over slim shoulders. His eyes narrow, rage exploding as he grabs Brittany by the back collar of her coat and rips her from Santana's arms.

"Leave her!" Santana shouts as he works to tear the coat from Brittany's body, desperate to prove his mind otherwise. His daughter has not been with another woman. God has not been forsaken in her soul. He is not being punished for her sin!

He gives a roar as Santana hurls herself into him, both of them toppling against the bookshelf. The air is knocked from his lungs as his spine is driven hard into the wood. Books tumble down upon them, a few colliding against his broken nose. He does not feel the pain, numbed as he's become to the sensation of touch. Santana lets out a groan as a book smacks against her temple, another quick to cut the corner of her eye. Dr. Lopez's vision is tunneled and focused upon his daughter as he regains his balance. He lands a hard smack against her bruised cheek and Santana is instantly sent crashing to the floor by the force.

"S-stop…!" Brittany rasps out breathlessly, eyes wide with horror as she stares up at him. Her gaze falls upon Santana, her horror absconding in quick favor of the ache she can feel coursing through her heart. He hurt her.

She's to blame, he thinks as he glares down at the top of a blonde head. It is her fault; the impending ruin of his life. His reputation has been destroyed; everything will be taken from him.

All because of her.

Brittany scrambles back on her hands and the heels of her feet as he advances upon her. His fingers barely brush against her scarf when he feels his body being yanked backwards, mind spinning as he hurries to right himself. There's the quick shuffle of feet behind him, a scrape of metal against the floorboards.

He turns and there, standing before him with the empty needle brandished in her hand is Santana, chest heaving as she stands protectively in front of Brittany.

"Have you lost your senses?" he shouts to her, pointing wildly at Brittany who struggles to remain upright behind Santana. His eyes flicker down to their waists, to where he can see his daughter's hand laced tightly with that of hers. He's beyond disgusted by the display, stomach lurching at the sight and for a moment he fears expelling his supper right there upon the dirtied floor.

"I've lost nothing," she hisses at him, her eyes burning decisively into his. He wavers some under the intensity of her gaze; she's never stared at him with such conviction before. But he tells himself it's merely the drink in his stomach causing him to see so and squares his shoulders harder as he tries to match the heat of her gaze.

"This is sin," he tells her, voice low and edged with fury.

Santana bristles at the words yet only holds firmer to Brittany's trembling hand, her own shaking just as noticeably. She can feel the woman behind her, breaths still labored and pained. Ire rages within her at the sound. This is not how it's to end. Not with Noah barely conscious on the floor and Brittany barely breathing behind her back. Not with her father staring at her with such utter hate. Not with threats made from a painfully pounding heart. Not in fear. Tears spring once more to her eyes but she sucks a deep breath through her clenched teeth and holds them at bay.

Dr. Lopez takes a step forward.

Santana holds the retracted needle out further. "You will not harm her!" she exclaims in a hushed growl. "I swear to you I won't hesitate to plunge this into your neck."

"You're an atrocity," Dr. Lopez scowls, voice unbalanced, the expression upon his face crazed. His cheeks darken; the vein protruding from his neck pulses fast. "Both of you, this," he motions between them, a sneer upon his lips. "God will see to it you're punished."

"He saw to it you were my father," Santana snarls, drawing strength in the way Brittany squeezes tight to her hand. "Enduring you all these years was punishment enough."

"Get out," Dr. Lopez hisses, spitting out a small amount of blood to her feet. "You've chosen where you lie. Be in sin."

Santana remains in her stance, unable to breathe as his eyes bore into her own. There is so much buried beneath the glaze of opium and alcohol clouding his vision. His hate is tantamount, as thick in his gaze as it is upon his tongue, hardened now to steel she is sure nothing shall ever dent. There is disgust, the same he's always held for her, but magnified tenfold. She feels not for his abhorrence and distaste, her heart as toughened to them as one can only be after years of such acquaintance. But at the regret… at the trickle of fear she can see as his eyes dart ever so prudently between her own, Santana feels her hand lowering.

What little remains of their relationship is destroyed with the turn of his head and the step he takes backward.

Brittany tugs on Santana's hand, hoping to draw her closer. She does not trust that he is retreating. Her eyes are riveted to the way he steps cautiously over Noah. They need to get him out of here.

"San," Brittany whispers, pleading.

"LEAVE ME!" Dr. Lopez bellows, falling, exhausted, to his cot.

Brittany moves first, hurrying to pull Noah up to his feet. The soldier wobbles, a lazy grin on his face as Brittany throws one of his arms over her shoulder and hauls him up and against her side. Santana watches her father for a moment longer; his body rests slumped on the bed, gaze deftly fixed upon the stove fire. His shoulders rise and fall with forced, uneven breaths; the veins upon his neck and hands are more prominent than she's ever perceived. He's never looked old, not to her. But here, now with everything between them gone, she can see how flecked his hair is with gray and the deep lines carved by wrinkles beside his eyes and mouth. He's aged since coming to war. He looks tired… done.

"Santana," Brittany whispers, strained as she holds out her cap.

Santana lapses into her training and takes it, quickly placing it snuggly back atop Brittany's head before sliding Noah's other arm over her shoulder and helping to carry the man out the cabin.

She can faintly hear the cabin door being closed once they're a good deal away. The echo of the sound feels much the same as the cold bite of the air upon her skin.

It's over, she repeats inside her head. It's done.

She cannot stop to think about what will transpire now. Noah's safety is the most pressing matter. There was a great deal of opium in that syringe, enough for a day's worth of injections. Her only goal is to get him into a cot and have Michael keep vigilant by his bed through the night. Afterward—

Her stomach knots, heart thudding hard against her chest as insecurities begin slipping through her defenses. And then what? He knows! He'll have us both committed, kil— JUST GET NOAH HELP!

His legs drag through the freshly fallen snow as Brittany and Santana lug him hastily toward the field hospital. Their quick breaths fog in the air, snow crunching loudly beneath their feet. The falling flurries have blessedly left the lane devoid of men, most now huddled inside their tents if not surrounding the large bonfires near the center of camp.

Brittany chances a glance past Noah's sagging head at Santana, knowing there must be so much coursing through the girl's mind. Even in the darkness enshrouding the lane she's stunned to find Santana's expression unreadable in its utter emptiness. She's a void of emotion, her eyes fixed upon the field hospital a few yards beyond. It worries Brittany, even as they manage to find Noah a cot and Santana pries Michael away from some bedpans, ordering him watch over Noah through the night.

"He's too much opium in his blood," she says, voice concentrated, clip, as she pulls some blankets high up to Noah's chin. "Watch his breathing. There's nothing more can be done till morn."

"Santana," Michael ventures, reaching for her but she steps away, quickly retreating for the exit and leaving Michael alone with Brittany. He looks up at her, brow creased with absolute confusion and concern.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, wishing she could stay and give him the answers he so desires. But she cannot leave Santana alone, not after everything that's happened. "I have to go."

Brittany finds Santana standing just outside the tent, not a shiver rolling through her crossed arms. It is then she notices they aren't so much crossed but hugged to her chest instead. A shield of protection against thoughts she can no sooner keep at bay than she can shield her skin from the wind. Without a word Brittany, takes her gently by the hand and leads Santana back to her tent, guiding the quieted and numbed woman through the darkest and emptiest of lanes. Brittany knows it's vital they not be seen, not by anyone. Not so it's easier for him to find them. Not with Santana like this. Ever since setting Noah down it's as if she's recoiled within herself, no more able to speak than she is to blink. Tranced almost, like characters bewitched in Brittany's old storybooks.

Brittany settles Santana down atop her bedroll, wrapping a few blankets about her shoulders.

It's all catching up to Santana, the utter truth to what now will come to pass.

A small whimper of sound finally escapes her lips as Brittany hugs her close. "It's okay San," Brittany whispers, feeling the tremors finally begin to take hold of Santana's body.

"Britt…" Santana stammers, terrified.

"You have me. I won't leave you," Brittany tells her, tucking Santana's head against her neck. She can feel trembling hands cling to her back, Santana's body pressing harder against her front. Brittany places a soft kiss to the side of her head, hoping to ease the obvious torrent of emotions now overwhelming the woman in her arms. "You were so brave tonight."

Santana's next words still Brittany's heart. "He's going to tell the Colonel," she cries weakly. A sob pushes past her lips. "Everyone will know who you are… Brittany—"

"It's okay, it's okay," Brittany shakes her head, arms tightening around Santana. "I'll cut my hair, I'll do whatever it takes to stay."

"It won't matter, nothing will." Santana is unhinged, voice cracking. "His word, it—he'll…"

"Shh, San, it's okay," Brittany soothes, ignoring the spike of fear Santana's words have driven deep into her heart. If he is to tell then it's not safe here anymore. "We'll leave. At first light, we'll go home."

Santana jerks away from her, eyes unnerved. "No, now; we have to go now."

Brittany cups Santana's face within her palms, brushing away the tears that fall unchecked from her eyes. "Okay, now, we'll go now," she whispers, trying to force calmness into her voice. We're going home, she repeats to herself, drawing strength and courage in the warmth the thought provides. We'll be home soon. "Stay here, I'll get what we need from Burt," she tells her, pursing her lips as she realizes, "Santana, I need to tell him who I am."

Santana holds her gaze, unblinking and anxious. She whispers but one word, "hurry."

---

Brittany runs, legs and lungs burning from the speed of her exertion. All she knows is she must find Burt. Appeal to him for help. Within the hour she and Santana need to be well out of this camp and bearing headlong for Lima.

Home.

The lamps are doused in Burt's tent as she enters; there is no light save for the feeble glow from the dying embers of his oven fire. She makes her way toward his table. The silhouette of his mug rests atop, full with his steaming evening coffee. He can't have left too long ago. He is sure to return soon. Brittany busies herself with striking a lamp, bringing much-needed light to the dark tent.

Looking around Brittany finds herself struck with nostalgia. This is the last time she will ever set foot in Burt's tent. No more evenings will be spent carving stories into the table. No more mornings sharing mugs of warm milk. This is the last she may ever see of him…

Swallowing down the uncomfortable feeling swelling in her throat she traces her fingers over the edge of the old table. Kurt's letter sits atop, a half-penned response lying beside it.

He'll be here soon, she repeats to herself.

A minute passes, the hands of the clock passing far quicker than she ever recalls time actually moving. Brittany sits on one of the stools, one leg bouncing as she absentmindedly picks at the edges of her engravings on the table.

After ten minutes she grows anxious; she must return to Santana, she cannot wait for Burt a second more.

Plucking his pen from the table she drags a clean sheet of paper toward her. She'll explain it to him in a note. Her hand moves hastily across the page, letters as shaky in their construction as she assumes her voice would have been.

She barely fills a quarter of the page with her scrawl when the rustle of the tent flap startles her. She springs up from the stool, knocking the inkwell aside in her hurry. The dark liquid spills across her page and stains the worn wooden tabletop.

"Quite late to be penning love notes," Burt chuckles as he makes his way toward her.

Brittany ceases in her attempts to dab up the mess with her ruined letter, throwing him an apologetic look in return. Burt waves her concern aside. Brittany's attention is drawn down to the pronounced limp in his gait. There's a strain in his brow as he pulls out a stool and sits himself down.

He's hurting.

"Let me help you," Brittany tells him when he tries to reach for his mug despite the discomfort it must afford him. She slides it closer to him, her nerves returning as his gaze meets her own.

"No, no, it's all right Bret," Burt tells her, though notices something off in the blue eyes he's come to know so well. He attributes it to embarrassment, especially with the way Bret's cheeks and ears have turned such a vivid pink. "Old cranky knee is all."

"I could get you some warm milk," Brittany offers. "That always makes me feel better."

"I know," Burt grins, nodding down to the stool beside him, indicating it's all right for her to sit. She does so, cautious. "I'll be all right. Did you need something though?"

Brittany's lips tighten into a thin line as she shifts uneasily upon a seat she once considered such a comfort.

"Bret…" Burt leans toward her, seeing the clear state of distress in her posture. Her eyes are riveted to the table, unable to even chance a glance up toward his own. "Has something happened?"

"What is," Brittany begins to ask, voice quieted, stilling. She swallows thickly and looks up at him finally. Burt is taken aback by the terror in her suddenly pale eyes. "What is the penalty for deserting?"

"Someplace worse than where Cooper was sent, that's for sure," Burt answers, trying to gauge what his charge could mean by such a question. "Bret, surely you're not—"

Brittany doesn't know which would be worse; to be caught running and sent away or to stay and meet the fate her punishment would decree. Where her friends would see… Burt…

"Something's happened," Brittany whispers, choking some upon her words. She's terrified of leaving here; of leaving someplace she's felt so safe for so long. But Santana cannot remain, and Brittany refuses to allow him a chance to seek retribution. He will not hurt her, not ever again.

And thus, in a far more assured voice, she tells him of the events in the Lopez cabin, barely catching herself from revealing too much. She doesn't want his judgment clouded yet by that truth. Burt listens, sympathetic, flares of anger rising in his eyes and in those moments Brittany knows his care for her is most evident. He will help them.

She doesn't fear telling him any longer.

"I can see why she'd want to go," Burt says once she's finished speaking, his expression thoughtful. "If you wish to help Santana leave I'll assist in any way I can."

Brittany draws in a long breath. "I don't want just Santana to go," she says, standing up to her feet and slipping the cap from off her head. "I'm to go with her."

At first he wishes to let out a chuckle. Bret sure kept his hair long. Kurt would be envious of such color and sheen, he muses. But as Brittany remains standing, wringing the cap between her hands and staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to grasp what this moment means, it finally dawns upon him who it is that now stands before him.

"You're…I can't believe," Burt struggles to find the words, gaze traveling across Brittany's features, seeing the obvious, glaring, femininity in the slant of her eyes, and the long slope of her neck. He explodes up to his feet, cringing when his knee protests as he exclaims the first thought upon his mind, "Whatever were you thinking?"

"Coming here was the only way Emily would get well!" Brittany tells him, earnest as she reaches for him, hoping to guide him back down to his chair. Burt swats her hands aside, moving from the table. Brittany is not deterred as she follows him across the tent. "I needed to take my father's place. You must understand, you took Kurt's."

Burt spins on his heels, wincing at the pull in his knee as he tells her hotly, "That's entirely different! He'd die out in those fields!"

"And Emily would die if I were to have stayed!" Brittany counters, her heart throbbing in her chest. She steps back, so angry at herself for shouting and so frustrated that Burt has shattered all her imaginings of this moment. She didn't think he would ever spurn her… not like this. "I don't…" Brittany whispers, letting her body fall down atop a stool. "I don't know how to care for her, not like my Pa. And we needed this money for her medicine...but that…just please Mr. Hummel," she pleads, gazing at him from eyes filled with tears. "Please understand."

"You're helping no one being here," Burt tells her, maintaining his breadth of distance from her. He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking curled fists deep into the groove of his elbows. He can't believe he's been so blind.

Brittany watches him for a moment, her expression growing forlorn as she tells him meekly. "I help you."

The tone of her voice, so broken, pulls at Burt's heart. She has been of help, he knows, more help to him than he can imagine any other man assigned could have done. But she doesn't belong here; no woman ever belongs at war. She should be at home, kept safe under the watch of her father, far from the gore of battle and the ever more pressing troubles of men confined to such close quarters.

It's no wonder she was once so tormented.

He steps closer, tone soft as he asks, "What's your name?"

"Brittany," she answers just as quietly. "Brittany S. Pierce. Will you help us?"

Burt purses his lips as another question, this one more significant, comes to mind. "And who holds affections for Santana?" he asks. "Brittany or Bret?"

Brittany hesitates before replying, so fearful of being shunned twice. But Burt is staring at her with a mix of patience and apprehension. It's confusing; too conflicting. Her answer is simple, "I do."

Burt lets out a strangled noise, nearly a groan, as he turns from her once more.

"Please don't leave!" Brittany calls out to him once she realizes he's making headway straight for the tent exit.

"You're in love with a woman! As a woman! I can't… I cannot in good conscience help you with this," Burt sighs out finally, one hand upon the tent flap. "You should never have told me. Let me have stayed an ignorant old man."

"You deserve the truth," Brittany tells him, too afraid of him walking out of the tent and then undoubtedly out of her life. He can't go. She moves down from the stool, making slow, pronounced steps toward him. Burt remains torn between seeking the comfort of his dreams and remaining to hear this woman's appeal. Bret is a lie, he tells himself. This woman is in love with Santana. How is this even…? Brittany reaches him finally, keeping her hands firmly at her sides after seeing how adverse he was to the thought of her touch not a moment before. "If you care at all for Bret, we are the same," she speaks so softly Burt swears for a moment it is Kurt appealing to him. "I'm no different from him. Those drawings on your table are mine, that mug there, I drink from it all the same."

"Bret is a lie," Burt mutters.

"You've always said how much I remind you of Kurt."

Burt cringes, the tent flap falling from his hands as he hisses, "Do not bring my son into this!"

"You once thought of me as a son as well!" Brittany tells him, hushed. "I am Bret! He is not a lie!"

"You need to go," Burt tells her, lifting the flap once more and motioning for her to exit.

"Please Mr. Hummel, please help us," Brittany all but begs, hands shaking as she realizes she cannot lose him. He's her only hope for getting Santana home safely and here, right now, that very end is crumbling before her eyes. She's no idea what to take on such a journey and Burt is always so thorough in the maps he constructs for her errands. He prepares everything for her, all she could ever need and more. She cannot do this without him. She needs him. He cannot hate her so… not Burt. She draws in a shuddering breath, heart breaking more with every moment he avoids her gaze. If he wishes nothing more to do with her… if this will be the last she ever sees of him… for Santana's sake she will yield to his scorn. "I swear to you you'll never be bothered by us none again if you help us to get out safe. Please… she's so scared. I d-don't know what to do."

Burt's eyes close at the desperation in her voice. And he knows, in the deepest corners of his heart, that he'd regret letting her leave here without the guidance she seeks. She is still his charge; she still holds a piece of him he's unwilling to part with. Not yet. The nature of her relationship with Santana still eludes him, so contrary a coupling beneath the eyes of God. They must know what they see in the other is wrong, perhaps Santana is confused by all the men's garments upon Brittany's tall frame...

He knows that can't be true though. Not a girl as sharp as her.

Nevertheless he will worry over that matter later. For now there is a woman crying in his tent, begging of his assistance. The good in him cannot let her suffer so. He lets go of the tent flap, turning with a sigh back toward Brittany. Her eyes grow wide, hopeful as he meets her gaze.

"What truly happened in that cabin tonight?" he asks her.

Brittany tells him everything. The evening is so burned to her memory it's as if she's relieving it, second by second, as she speaks. Burt feels the same pangs of concern upon hearing it again, the words the same, though Dr. Lopez's outburst has now been given greater reason. His actions are deplorable, Burt thinks, not just by the standards of a father, but of decency and humanity.

Brittany awaits Burt's response, hoping with all her heart he will now agree to assist in their departure. The time is slipping away from them; Santana must be beyond anxious.

Burt thinks there is but one way to ensure neither girl is implicated. Brittany will not like his answer. "If Dr. Lopez is as crazed as you say it's best you not be here," he tells her, but amends his words upon seeing Brittany's relieved smile. "Though just you."

Her smile shatters, pupils suddenly as sharp as the tip of his finest pen. "W-what?"

"I've some supplies stuck in Glasgow; they didn't make it in on the shipment. I could use a courier," he says slowly.

"I can't leave Santana here," Brittany says, shaking her head quickly. "We have to go together."

Burt takes hold of her arms, eyes hard as they stare into her own. "If you wish to keep her safe, it's better if you're gone," he insists. "Running now will only make you both seem all the more guilty. Dr. Lopez has probably gone to the Colonel by now, if he hasn't already. I'll do what I can to convince him what Lopez speaks is lies and that you were never present but you must leave. I'll tell him I sent you away at supper. Has anyone seen you since then?"

"Only Noah and Michael," Brittany answers, bewildered. How can this help? How can leaving be the answer? Her stomach plummets as she thinks of what Santana will say once she tells her.

"Good," Burt nods, moving away from her to gather the usual supplies for such a trip. As he works to stock a bag with spare rations he instructs, voice softened, "Take Piedmont and leave through the east end of camp, the patrols there are never on watch."

He tosses the bag toward her, Brittany catching it as she always does; though this time he notes she hugs it protectively to her chest. "Burt…" she whispers, her alarm evident in her unsteady tone.

She's never spoken his name; not once in all the time he's know her. Not even after all his countless attempts to pry it from Bret's stubbornly proper tongue. But this is not Bret before him. This is Brittany. He still can't quite believe it. Running a hand over his balding head he steadies himself with a firm hand placed atop a stool. He can't forget what she confessed… how dear she feels for Santana. With a sigh he tells her, "You best go."

And then she's rushing toward him, her arms thrown back around his neck as he's pulled into a crushing hug. "Thank you, thank you," she whispers against his ear, squeezing him tight. "I love you so much."

It was once a sentiment Burt would have easily returned. But he finds he can't; a hole has been rendered somewhere in his chest by the loss of the illusion he believed in. "Just go," he whispers and watches her run out into the night. Run off back to her.

---

Santana practically pounces upon Brittany when she ducks back inside the small tent. Brittany barely manages to keep herself upright as Santana's hands grip firm to her upper arms, a slew of nervous words spilling forth from her mouth. They make Brittany's head spin, thoughts dazed as she tries to place even but one phrase. It helps none when Santana lapses into frantic Spanish.

"It's okay, he's okay San," Brittany assures her, placing calming hands atop Santana's knees. The touch quiets Santana, though does little to quell the turmoil burning in her eyes. Brittany smiles down at her, hoping her grin eases even a fraction of Santana's obvious apprehension. "He's going to help us."

"Then we must go," Santana tells her, about to move toward the tent entrance when Brittany's hands squeeze tight against her knees, keeping her in place.

"No," Brittany whispers, Santana's heart stilling at the faintness in her tone. "You're going to stay."

Santana's brow furrows, eyes narrowing in question. "But if my father has gone to Colonel Wright—"

"Burt is going to talk to him," Brittany explains softly, staring at her with such apology. "But I have to go."

"Where?" Santana exclaims in a hushed whisper. It's also a might incensed, Brittany notes. She knew Santana would be upset with this idea.

"Glasgow, it's a day ride North from here," Brittany tells her, hoping to soothe Santana's quickly mounting exasperation by slowly rubbing her palms up and down Santana's thighs. It seems to not help at all, if anything Santana only grows more frustrated by the touch. "Burt has a plan, don't worry," Brittany says, stilling her hands. "All will be well."

"How is you leaving going to help at all?" The stare Santana sends her way is reproachful, belittling. "They'll just assume you've deserted!"

"They won't," Brittany tells her, adamant as she scoots closer. "Michael will speak for me, you know he will. Between his word and Burt's your Pa's claims will seem nothing but lies."

"Brittany…" Santana breathes out, the truth to Brittany's words finally sinking in her panicked mind. Brittany can see Santana's defenses lowering, the taut coil of her shoulders unraveling. When she looks back up at her this time there is none of her spite; none of the sting of her criticisms remain. She is worn, so tired of fighting, a vulnerability of sorts apparent in her gaze. Santana's hands drop from her arms, twining instead with Brittany's hands upon her knees. "Just be safe, please."

Brittany allows a small smile, leaning forward until she can clearly make out the rich brown of Santana's eyes. "You know I always am," she whispers. Santana kisses her, just a ghost of a touch upon her lips. Brittany brushes one more to the corner of her mouth. "I better leave now, afore someone sees."

Santana nods, knowing her words to be true. For once she is glad for Brittany to be leaving on errand. If Burt cannot clear their names then at least there will be one less of them to condemn. She wants to spare Brittany from that punishment, if at all possible. Leaving now will ensure she remains unscathed.

It hurts nonetheless, letting her go.

"You know Christmas is soon," Brittany tells her, wiping the small amount of blood from Santana's brow with the pad of her thumb. She hates the cut but she hates the man who brought this all upon them even more. Santana's eyes soften at her touch, quelling the small spark of bitterness in Brittany's gut. The courier smiles, thoughts returning to the joy which tidings of Christmas bring to mind. "Perhaps I'll get you a gift while I'm away."

"I just want you to come back," is Santana's honest confession.

"I swear it," Brittany pulls her into a warm hug. "I love you, Santana."

"I love you too," Santana whispers fiercely, embracing Brittany close. "Please stay safe."

Brittany is worried for the desperate quality in Santana's tone. She's still scared... and has ever reason to be, Brittany knows. This isn't like all the other times she's been sent away, where the promise of her return meant a peace brought back to mind. There will be no peace for them. Brittany leans back so as to cup Santana's face within her palms, needing her to hear her next words clearly. "You stay safe too, don't let him near, not ever. Promise me."

Santana nods, for it's all she's able to convey, words lost as they've become on quivering lips. Brittany kisses her then with such force she's taken aback, her hands quick to clutch tight to Brittany's coat lapels to keep herself from tumbling backwards. Blue eyes are tautly shut, a sharp intake of breath held long in her lungs. She wishes to remember this, fearing what the days to come will bring for them both. If Burt is to fail…

Santana eases Brittany's intensity, gently drawing Brittany's bottom lip between her own, tasting of her slowly. The hands upon Santana's jaw relax and a small whimper of noise is elicited from the courier. This is Santana's promise to her, her kiss speaking far louder than any words Brittany could have wished to hear. She'll keep safe. She'll be all right.

She won't be scared.

Brittany pulls back, air rushing to fill her starved lungs even as she leans back in, stealing a few more kisses. Santana's fingers brush over a bit of exposed skin beneath her scarf. Brittany's throat is still tender to the touch. It doesn't hurt, but Santana draws back away, rolling frayed sections of the scarf between her fingers. Brittany watches, calm once more returning to her breath as Santana fixes the fabric around her neck, careful of any spots where Brittany's skin is still rubbed raw.

"Go," she whispers, patting Brittany's shoulders as she manages a shaky smile. "Go before I run away with you myself."

Brittany knows it's very much a possibility, one that she simultaneously desires and fears. To go home, back to her father and Emily and all the animals she misses so dearly, every day, upon her farm; to go back to Lima with Santana safe by her side is all she's wanted. All she's prayed for. She whispers a silent plea to her mother for Santana's continued wellbeing. Brittany knows she'll worry for her, every minute of every passing hour while she's away. It is why she ensures her cap is pulled tight on her head and gives Santana a confident grin before ducking out the tent and toward an indeterminate future.

Had she waited a moment longer she's sure she would have pulled Santana out with her.

It takes all Santana's will power to remain in the tent as she listens to Brittany's steps fade into the night. She's so uncertain of what tomorrow will bring.

But Brittany is gone.

She will be safe.

She doesn't sleep regardless.

---

Santana leaves the tent with the light of dawn, dreading what her day may bring. Her only solace comes from the fact that Brittany is long gone now; whatever trials she is to face will be done so alone and without fear of Brittany being brought down with her. It is a sacrifice of sorts, one each of them is making, for Santana knows if Brittany were given a choice she would have instantly elected to stay instead.

She knows not how dangerous that circumstance would have been and chooses not to think more on it. Brittany is safe. She is far away and if things are to turn for the worse Santana is glad she will not be here to suffer them as well.

She's chores to attend to, and falls into her morning routine with some difficulty. All her belongings are still stashed beneath her cot and she's wary of venturing near the cabin. She'd promised Brittany to not let him close, but she needs her things; at the very least her tools and another clean dress.

She needn't have worried.

Her possessions are in a haphazard pile outside the cabin when she chances a pass by. A few men rummage through the heap, quirking brows as they raise her pantaloons and jest of their desires for the owner.

They freeze upon sight of her, hands crossed defiantly over her chest as she stares them each down. Her clothes are dropped as they scatter, knowing full well the temper she's more than capable of unleashing upon them. Her sharp tongue has struck down enough men in this camp for them to ever risk being degraded so openly, and by a woman no less.

It is an embarrassment.

They'd never hear the end of it, mocked relentlessly till they proved their worth or, in the more likely event, dropped dead.

"Bastards," Santana mutters to herself, watching them withdraw back to their chores. Once they've gone she turns down to gather her things. Of course he tossed her belongings from his sight. They are apparently as much of an abomination now as she is herself. She can imagine the disgust upon his face as he threw them from the cabin, probably thinking the items as riddled with sin as her supposed soul has become. Santana tries to bite back her tears as she stands to her feet.

When she returns to Brittany's tent she's unable to contain the pain any longer.

She is nothing but a mar upon his life, has only ever been such. She has wasted so much time and shed so many tears for but a word of his affection. It never existed, a truth she's always known. Yet now it feels more real to her than the perception of it that's always been at the forefront of her mind.

A notion could never truly harm.

But the veracity of it resting in her hands, that is real.

He wants nothing to do with her.

Despises her.

Always has.

She curls down into the bedroll.

She misses Brittany terribly and yearns for her swift return.

She cannot do this alone.

---

December 6th, 1862

She avoids the field hospital like a plague the next day, scuttling around the camp in a restless fog. He is sure to be in there and she is sure to be clamped in irons at any moment. It is torture, this game he's playing upon her mind. She knows he's relishing in her agony, waiting for the opportune moment when she's at her worst to approach with the Colonel by his side. She wishes not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her being taken away. It is the one thing she can control.

What she cannot avoid, it seems, is the aptitude of her friends. They find her sitting just outside the camp; perched in a field of grass and snow, the smell reminding her of Brittany and bringing her much needed comfort. The snow on the ground is melting, patches of the once-vibrant green peeking through. It's a muted brown now, slowly dying from the cold snap of the winter air.

She plucks a few pieces from the ground, twisting them between her fingers.

She just wishes something would happen, anything. This limbo she is existing in is maddening.

Michael plops down to her one side, Noah slowly to her other. He's looking well, albeit covered in a sheen of sweat she knows is his body's way of ridding him from such a potent amount of toxins.

They say nothing as they sit beside her for a few long minutes. Eventually Michael moves, draping a coat around her shoulders, one Santana notes fits snug about her frame despite her never having seen the likes of it until today.

"I believe congratulations are in order," Michael says with a soft smile.

"An official surgeon!" Noah boasts, clapping her over the shoulder gently. "Now you've the lapels to prove it!"

Santana stares at each of them, bewilderment apparent on her face. She's not eaten since Brittany left, her stomach such a knot of nerves; her appetite has been stunted. She did not need a new coat… her old one is perfectly fine.

"Compliments of Major Keller," Michael explains, adjusting it more suitably over her arms. "He'd like you to join his ranks."

"What?" is the squeak of noise Santana is able to manage out.

Noah laughs, wiping at his forehead as he nudges her side. "Everyone knows what your father tried to do."

Santana's eyes shoot wide open.

"Not of that," Michael corrects glaring over her head toward the man. "Noah's told me though," he tells her quietly. "I know you probably wish not to speak of it but know we are here. He's not won. What Noah meant is everyone's aware of the surgery he attempted and how you intervened."

"Has he been in?" Santana asks him, voice quieted.

Michael shakes his head.

Santana leans against him, glad for the arm Michael wraps around her shoulder. They sit together for some time, watching the men below bustle about the camp. She notices Burt hobble by, his pained expression clear even from a far. She must thank him, she thinks. It's because of him nothing has changed.

Eventually the men coax Santana up to her feet, Noah even managing to draw a smile to her lips when he tells her of the strange visions the opium caused him. She's so relieved the dosage did not cause him more harm; her father thankfully a much smaller man than her friend. But for him to have even plunged the needle without care, knowing the possibility of Noah's heart failing from such a dose… there are no words Santana can find to describe such utter disregard for life.

But she knows of one way she can ensure he doesn't win in this matter.

She fastens up her double-breasted coat proudly.

There are patients in the field hospital awaiting her care.

---

It is late in the day when he finally does arrive within the field hospital. The first thing Santana notices is the change in his uniform. Gone is his old surgeon jacket, replaced instead by the simple cut of a medic's. She need not wonder more upon the change, knowing it was Major Keller who's stripped him of his title, and it seems gone far enough to also strip him from the very symbol of all his pride. The nurses move from his path, their sneers evident even at a distance.

And even though she promised Brittany to stay clear, she must know what he's said, if anything at all against them.

He's begrudgingly stocking one of their cabinets with the shipment of bandages they received just a few days prior. Major Keller obviously not trusting him near vials of medication any longer. He can feel her approaching even before he garners a glimpse. The hush that has swept over the staff is telling.

"Have you gone to him?" She knows she need not elaborate; there is only one person they are both aware he could have told.

Dr. Lopez snorts, eyeing her double-breasted coat from over his shoulder with disdain. Good god; it is as if even the brass of the buttons mock him. "Why should I answer? What can I gain from speaking to such a harlot?"

Santana grabs him by the arm, spinning him to face her as she whispers hotly, "Have you, or have you not?"

He wrenches his arm free. "I've not," he snarls.

"Why?" Santana implores. Why has he not defiled her name? Why has he not spoken the truth of Brittany's secret? "You've everything to benefit by it."

He turns to her then, staring at her curiously from sober eyes. "Is that what you think? I simply out you for the abomination you both are and all shall be forgiven?" he asks, narrowing his gaze into her own as he leans toward her. His jaw is clenched tight, words hissed between his teeth, "You may not be of this family anymore but my name still follows you like a shadow. Everyone in this camp knows who you are, who you belong to. I'll never be rid of you and I won't have your vile affair with that girl spreading through this regiment and added to my indiscretions. It won't just be you who hangs for such a sin."

He straightens his jacket as he rises, turning back to his chore of organizing the cabinets. Santana knows not what to make of his words. The veiled threat of them settles uneasily in her gut.

"And why should I interfere with the mark you've now burned onto your soul?" he asks, not once looking back to her as he arranges some tourniquets on a shelf. "God sees all, Santana. I don't need to condemn you. Not when you've already condemned yourself. He'll see to the rest."

Santana wishes to spit a retort back, something as equally dismissive as his own. But none manifests. Flustered and embarrassed for still standing agape behind him she turns on her heels and strides out the field hospital.

There's someone else she need speak with and thankfully she knows he won't frustrate her so.

Her anger dissipates when she enters Burt tent. She's been meaning to see him ever since Brittany left, but hadn't the nerve to do so until now. He doesn't notice her standing in his entrance at first, his back turned toward the oven fire as he pulls out a scalding red horseshoe with a pair of blacksmith tongs. She waits for him to put it down before clearing her throat, not wishing to startle him.

"Umm, Mr Hummel?" She calls, tentative.

He hasn't heard her, her voice drowned by a grunt as he bends to pick his hammer from the floor. There's sweat upon his brow, the familiar pull of tension lining his face. She worries for the pain he must be enduring. Why hadn't he mentioned it? He knows he's always welcome within the field hospital. His pains just as significant as any others. How long has his knee been giving him such trouble?

Instead of voicing her opinion out loud though all Santana can manage is small "Hi…" as she greets him timidly, fingering the bottle of pills in her pocket.

Burt looks up at her from over his work, his expression not revealing even an ounce of the misgiving now pounding in his heart. He knew she'd come. He's not been looking forward to her arrival. After a beat he turns back to hammering down the horseshoe. "If you're here about the Colonel he's none the wiser. No one is. You should count your blessings for such dumb luck," he tells her, voice raised to be heard over the clang of the metal. When her footsteps out his tent aren't forthcoming he pauses, arching a brow her way. "Shouldn't you be getting back to patients?"

Santana is stunned by the bite in his tone. This is not at all how she expected to be received. Nevertheless she steps closer toward him. "I came here to thank you."

"Don't thank me," Burt mutters, tossing the horseshoe back to his oven.

"You're helping us when you've no reason to," Santana tells him, her heartfelt tone surprising even to her own ears. She holds out the pill bottle for him. "Here, it's for the pain."

"I don't want your pills," Burt pushes her hand aside before picking up his tongs to pull the more malleable horseshoe out. "Please go."

Santana refuses to leave, not until she's had her say. It's obvious Burt's opinion of her has grown unfavorable. Does he feel the same now for Brittany? Why would he have offered to help them if so? Santana knows where his slight is born. Brittany must have told him and if not, Burt is a smart man; he's determined by now what place Brittany holds in her heart. She expected his reaction, really. It is but one of the many reasons she's been avoiding his tent. She's intent on making things right in any case, for Brittany's sake. "She loves you, you know," Santana tells him, earnest. "Thinks you a second father. The way she talks of you—"

Burt slaps a hand to the table, his eyes narrowed in grief as he stares up at her. "Please leave, Miss Santana," he begs of her. "I may hold a place in my heart for her but the tricks you've played upon her mind to love you in such a wicked way I cannot ignore."

"I haven't tricked her into loving me," Santana counters, her own gaze turning sour. So it isn't Brittany he holds faults with. It is me.

"Couldn't you have seduced anyone else?" Burt cries out. He stands up to his feet, ripping the thick leather gloves from his hands. "Why Bret!"

"Her name is Brittany," Santana says evenly, careful to keep her tone tempered. "And if you think I've some type of… of perverse influence over her than you are not the man she speaks so highly of."

"I'm a good man. I've done nothing but treat you both as if you were my very own," Burt tells her, tossing the gloves to his workbench. He motions toward Santana, lip curling in a look that churns Santana's stomach. Not to her, she pleads to herself. He did not say these things to Brittany. "But this… this is unheard of. There's not even a word I can think of to describe it!"

"Not a word? Should I list the ones I've heard for you? Let you have your pick?" Santana asks of him, her voice becoming thick with the sound of the tears now collecting in her eyes. She holds out a hand, ticking off each word upon her hand. "My father thinks us an atrocity. I've been deemed depraved, abominable, and oh- there's of course my favorite, sinful," she spits out, glaring at Burt. "You might find that one fitting."

"How can you stand there like that? Knowing what you've done to her."

"Because I used to believe the same as you. That what I felt for her was wrong and—" she chokes upon her words, recalling just how horrible she'd been. "And that I must be sick for it." She says it with such shame, her eyes having gone so utterly soft that Burt is taken aback. "But Brittany never shared my sentiments. To her, what we feel for each other has always been right. She's never questioned it."

Burt can hear the sizzle of his horseshoe, melting, unsalvageable in his oven. A waste. "Women weren't made to love each other in such a way."

"And yet we do, regardless," Santana tells him, blinking back the water from her eyes. Her chin is held high when she addresses him next. "I love her. I can no more help it than you can the love for your son. Or the love I know you still hold for her."

"What do you want from me?" Burt asks, tired of this exchange.

"Nothing," Santana answers. She can see now Burt is obstinate in his beliefs, the hard line of his jaw and cold stare in his eyes as unbending as the steel hanging from his tent walls. She places the small bottle of pills down on his table. "As I said I just came to thank you."

Burt stares at the tiny bottle. A bribe, he thinks, disgusted. Is this how she swayed Brittany? With gifts and promises of love? He can imagine it so. Brittany is always so eager to believe whatever those she trusts and respects speak as truth. Unquestionably. Her loyalty unfailing. She left not to protect herself but to protect this woman who... this woman wishing nothing of him but an open heart. The longer he stares upon the pills the more he feels his spite unfounded. They are not a bribe… they aren't even a truce.

They are just her keen notice for his wellbeing.

"She needs looking after, you know," Burt calls out softly before she is able to fully exit the tent. He cannot yet meet her eyes though he feels her gaze upon him. "She forgets things so easily, and so much confuses her it worries me most days if not all the time. I mean just yesterday—"

"Mr. Hummel," Santana turns, smiling as he finally looks up at her. "I promise to look after her."

And he nods, picking his gloves back up as he motions out the tent. "You should go," he says.

It is not the way she wishes to leave him, but she knows more need not be said. Wishing him well she ducks out of his tent. She only hopes when Brittany sees him next his mind is made up in their favor.

---

December 7th, 1862

The moon has long since marked its path across the sky when Brittany finally makes it back to camp. She slows Piedmont's approach, mindful of the quiet embracing the camp. For once she can hear the soft current of the river and the ripples as the water breaks against the bridge nearby. Piedmont's gait is light, the clomp of his hooves against the trodden grass doing little to rouse the sleep from the watchmen's eyes. The two soldiers posted at the front path are slumped against each other, one with his mouth-hung open and the other curled tightly in his coat. Their rifles lie forgotten by their sides, dulled metal barely glinting in the bright moonlight. Brittany's gaze wanders up the signpost behind them. There's a small trail of smoke leaking out from the extinguished glass lamp hanging above their heads. The flame can't have died too long ago, the soldiers obviously having succumbed to fatigue far earlier.

Brittany merely shakes her head as she maneuvers Piedmont around them, the men never once stirring as they pass. She's grateful for their tiredness, it would have been meddlesome otherwise to explain why she is returning so late in the night. Even though the rest of camp is well asleep Brittany is wide-awake and has been since leaving Glasgow in the early hours of the morning. She feels not an ounce of weariness seeping into her muscles, though is sure she lost feeling in her arms hours ago. She flexes her fingers in Piedmont's reins; surprised by the dexterity after such a long time spent clutched so stringently to the leather band. She is afraid they'd have stuck; unable to move just as her mind is unable to cease thinking of what's transpired during her absence.

Did he tell anyone? Hurt her again?

Is she still here?

Did Burt settle everything? And Noah, what's become of him?

Please Ma, let them all be all right, Brittany prays whenever her thoughts grow too troubling.

All she wishes to do now is find Santana. It's all she's wanted since the moment she hopped upon Piedmont's back and took off into that cold night. She gives a quick shake of the reins now, Piedmont's gait speedier as she steers him toward the cavalry enclosure. The gate comes undone with a quick kick of her foot, swinging open as she leads Piedmont inside. Brittany slips down off his back, unhooking Burt's small pouch of supplies before she gives the horse an affectionate pat on his hind. He immediately makes his way toward the back trough, where a bit of hay still remains uneaten and Brittany closes the enclosure, wishing him a goodnight.

She breaks into a run once the clasp is secure, sprinting headlong toward her tent. Her footsteps, though quick, are muted against the loose dirt. Inside her chest she can feel her heart pumping fast, not from exertion but the unanswered questions she fears receiving closure to now. Santana is all right, she repeats to herself when her vision begins to cloud with tears. She must be. The quiet of the night is deafening, suffocating even as she slams to her knees outside her tent. Squatting low she reaches out and pushes the flaps aside, quickly ducking her head into the space.

She is relieved, utterly lightheaded, to find Santana within yet she is stunned to discover the doctor peacefully sound asleep on her bedroll. Brittany is momentarily baffled by the sight of Santana buried comfortably beneath a thick pile of blankets looking as if it's where she's always belonged. If anything Brittany imagined Santana as wide-awake as she is, waiting for her, haversacks packed and ready for a swift departure. Not tonight it seems, Brittany thinks, pondering on what occurred – or more aptly now, what did not occur – during their time apart. Santana would not be so at ease if things had gone poorly. But how could they have gone right?

Nevertheless, Brittany does not question what she's returned to. She is pleased for the tranquility expressed on Santana's dozing face. She's missed her something fierce and doesn't want to wake her so she's careful to slip off her dirty boots outside the tent. Her coat is shed next, laid atop the other that covers Santana before she finds the edge to the blankets and carefully slides herself beneath.

It's warm in the nest the bedroll has become, Santana's body heat more than welcome as it washes across Brittany's chilled skin.

"Britt…?" Santana mumbles, incoherent as Brittany cuddles up in front of her, looping an arm over Santana's waist.

"Found you," Brittany whispers, brushing her lips lightly over Santana's nose.

The sleepy smile that starts to break across Santana's face at her touch warms every frostbitten part of Brittany to her very core, and pushes the rest of her worries far from thought. All is right. She pulls Santana into her embrace, dark eyes still reluctant to open even as Santana nuzzles into Brittany's neck. A hand comes up from deep within the blankets, Santana's eyes are still closed as she drags Brittany's cap off and lets it fall to the ground behind the pillow of scarves. Her fingers lazily untangle the blonde braid; Brittany lets out a soft hum, almost a purr as Santana runs her hands softly through her hair.

Santana inhales deeply, relaxing further in Brittany's arms. She smells of horses and sweat and yet Santana thinks nothing could smell more wonderful. She's so glad Brittany's home.

"We don't have to go," Santana murmurs. "He's not going to say anything… everything's all right…"

"Are you sure?" Brittany asks quietly, wishing Santana would open her eyes. "And Noah too?" But Santana remains relaxed against her, her nod barely distinguishable. If Santana is so at ease, her words must be true. Brittany smiles, the last of her worries melting away. She was so ready to grab the woman and take off for Lima if need be and now that they needn't move she feels the same exhaustion plaguing the men of camp settling in. Her heart warms as she feels one of Santana's legs settle between her own.

When Santana's breathing begins to deepen Brittany doesn't wish to lose her to her dreams just yet. "I wanted to get you a gift," Brittany confesses softly, tracing a soothing and slow pattern up and down Santana's side. "But I forgot I had no money."

"Don' wan'…. nothin'," Santana mumbles, burying herself deeper in Brittany's body. She can feel Brittany chuckling; the affectionate sound resonates against her cheek.

"You don't want anything," Brittany corrects in jest, kissing Santana's forehead. Santana lets out a huff, another incoherent string of words issue from her mouth. Brittany leans her head down, pressing her forehead gently against Santana's. "I'm sorry I can't give you a Christmas," she whispers.

Santana's eyes open ever so slightly at the lament in Brittany's hushed voice. Far more awake now Santana brings a hand forward, palm fitting over a snow-kissed cheek. She runs her thumb in a light stroke over the cool skin, smiling softly as she whispers back, "I don't need a Christmas."

Brittany sighs, leaning into her touch. "It's your first without—" she begins but stops herself before too much is said. She can still see the flicker of fresh pain in Santana's eyes as the hand upon her cheek stills. She frowns. "I just want it to be good."

"It will be," Santana tells her. She slips her hand behind Brittany's head, pulling her close and kissing her soundly. As they part she whispers against warm lips, "I've you."

Brittany can't help the smile the breaks across her face. With a breathy chuckle she pulls Santana atop her, prompting a small squeal from the woman at the surprising move. But Santana is quick to melt into the arms Brittany wraps tightly around her, her head coming to rest just atop her chest. "I've missed you." Brittany's voice sounds deeper, gruffer somehow from where she rests.

It causes a flutter of sensation to erupt in Santana's stomach as she too replies in kind. "I've as well. Shall I count the ways?" she smirks, feeling particularly playful.

"No, that's all right," Brittany replies, confused as to why Santana would even ask. She must know by now how math terribly frustrates her. "Counting is dull and you probably have a lot so I'd most likely fall asleep. Like I do when I can't sleep so I count fish rolling down a hill. They go so slow, San. It's terribly boring."

Santana knows it was a long shot; Brittany is obviously not very well read and certainly not in sonnets. But she chuckles anyway, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. "I've missed you and all your charmingly convoluted reflections," she whispers. A small smile pulls at her lips afterward and she shifts in Brittany's arms, hoping to quickly slide into a more comfortable position atop the woman. She doesn't want to smother her after all, especially knowing how weary she must be from her journey. Her legs fall between Brittany's, feet quick to seek a pocket of heat. The hard metal of Brittany's belt bites into the skin of her hip as she does and Santana lets out a soft groan as she rolls to her side.

"Am I not comfortable?" Brittany asks quietly, hoping for a response in the negative.

"You are," Santana says, smirking as she taps a few of her fingers to Brittany's belt buckle. "This? Not quite as much."

"Oh," Brittany smiles sheepishly, releasing her hold upon Santana to find only one hand able to make it to her belt. The other trapped somewhere behind Santana's back. The brass of her buckle is cumbersome on most days, though she's grown accustomed to wearing the men's version now. She still misses her suspenders, preferring the snug fit of them to the leather now being pulled from around her waist. At least suspenders don't hurt, she muses, tossing the belt aside.

She's about to tug Santana back down atop her but stops when Santana stifles a giggle with a bite of her lip. "And what have we here Miss Bret?" she asks, prodding at the bulge in Brittany's slacks.

Brittany lets out a huff of breath; her hand quick to disappear beneath the waistband of her drawers. As she brings her hand forward Santana is none surprised to find a rolled up sock clutched between Brittany's fingers. "It's my cock sock," Brittany explains simply.

"Clearly," Santana deadpans. Her face scrunches though as she asks, "Please tell me you don't actually… wear those on your feet too."

Brittany rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "I told you this is a cock sock, San. Not a feet sock."

Santana props herself up on an elbow, plucking the rolled up sock from Brittany' hand. It's warm, her cheeks darkening as realization dawns on her as to why. She puts it aside quickly, a question spewed forth in hopes Brittany does not notice her blush. "You wear it every day?"

"Yes, every day. Along with the men's drawers too, you know, just in case," Brittany explains surreptitiously as if Santana should understand the meaning behind her vague choice of words. But Santana does not, simply attributing it to yet another of Brittany's oddly endearing habits. Naturally, wearing men's slacks would mean needing men's drawers; it is as simple to her as that. Brittany tucks some stray sections of Santana's hair behind her far ear. She can see the hint of embarrassment, though it verges on amusement now, in Santana's expression. She chuckles. "It's not very comfortable. I can see why Noah's always scratching himself."

Santana let's out a snort. "That's just because he bathes so seldom."

"They don't have warm water like us," Brittany points out. "It hurts for him to bathe."

"Michael seems to not have a problem keeping clean."

"Michael hurts in other ways," Brittany says softly. "Have you spoken to him… about his baby?"

Santana lets her chin fall, her hair once more falling to frame her face. "No…" she answers quietly, knowing she's no excuse to have not asked after him. She can feel Brittany pushing her hair aside, disappointed eyes already focused upon her own. "Brittany, please don't look at me so."

"They get broken hearts too, San," Brittany tells her, her touch down Santana's neck as calming as it is alluring. "I talk to Noah, about Finn sometimes."

Santana lets out a groan, allowing her body to crash down beside Brittany's. Her forehead presses against Brittany's shoulder and Brittany can feel the shake of her head along her arm. "Michael's having a difficult enough time with the idea of us," Santana says. She turns her head, looking up at Brittany. "I don't think bringing up his dead daughter will help matters any."

"He hasn't anyone else to talk to," Brittany whispers.

"When the time is right I shall," Santana sighs before the same small elated smile she donned before spreads across her lips again. "I'm just far too happy you're here and that all is well to think much more upon anything at the moment."

"It was my Ma," Brittany says, her voice filled with faith. "She's looking after us."

"Yeah," Santana whispers, not wishing for the wistful smile upon Brittany's lips to fade. She feels a lump firmly lodge in her throat when Brittany turns her head and looks down upon her. There is such hope in the blue eyes, so bright now even in the dark of the tent. She watches as that brightness gives way to a deeper shade, a color that muddles with the night and causes Santana to swallow hard.

"You're all I thought of while I was away," Brittany tells her, the tone of her voice eliciting a rousing shiver of sensations to ripple down Santana's spine. One of her legs twitches, though which she isn't sure, and it especially gives a spasm when she feels Brittany's calf rub against one of her own. Brittany, to her credit, simply smiles at Santana's reaction. She scoots closer, turning to her side. She wishes to ask the same of her, to hear just how much Santana craved her touch, but her eyes flitter over what remains of the bruise he laid to her face. It's yellowed, the skin still damaged, cut above her eye a might swollen. Brittany reaches forward, brushing her fingertips gently over the mark.

"I'm all right, Britt," Santana whispers, understanding the silent question in Brittany's touch.

Brittany's eyes meet hers, pained. "I'm so sorry I didn't stop him in time."

Santana blames her not. She blames no one for what transpired in that cabin aside from the man who wrought misfortune upon himself. And he is someone she wishes not to waste another second thinking of. She bridges the small gap between them, quick to quell anymore of Brittany's worries with a disarming kiss. It takes Brittany a moment to respond, too caught up in the longed-for feel of Santana's lips melding against her own to fully reciprocate. She feels Santana make to move away, the small shift in the bedroll a loud scream of sound in her ears. Brittany's hand is swift to cup against Santana's jaw, her lips begging for the warmth pressed against her own to part. The simple move is all it takes for Santana to press harder against her; Brittany's back once more meeting the thin material of her bedroll.

Santana lies half atop her, one leg still tangled between Brittany's as she forces herself up to her elbows, kissing Brittany deeper. The scratches the wood floor cut in her elbows protest, new skin stinging as it's stretched beyond its healed limits. Santana pushes the slight discomfort aside; she is not about to stop over scabbed elbows. Her hair falls from behind her ear, shrouding them as she bends her neck low. Their kiss never breaks, if anything it grows more heated even as the space between their bodies fills with the chill air still lingering in the tent. A warm hand presses against the edge of her ribs, grabbing a fistful of her nightdress and pulling the material up. The hem is already brushing against her calves and up to her thighs when she breaks the kiss, panting heavily.

"Brittany," Santana breathes out, rolling her weight to one arm and pressing her hand over Brittany's with her other. She stares down at Brittany, unsurprised to find blue eyes clouded with longing, her own very much reflecting the same want. What does surprise her is when Brittany releases her hold, threading their fingers together instead as she sits up. Santana moves with her, very much straddling one of Brittany's thighs once she's settled. Her skirt is bunched between them, Brittany resting their twined hands down on the folds of material.

When Brittany looks up at her this time, patient and apologetic, Santana regrets ever stopping her. It's a look Brittany can read clearly upon her face. Smiling softly, her breaths still shallow, she reaches her hand up and traces her fingers over Santana's left brow. She lets them run through unruly hair, stopping only once she's reached the back of Santana's neck. A gentle tug has Santana leaning forward, eyes falling close as her forehead presses against Brittany's.

And when Brittany asks in breathless simplicity, "Can soon be now?" Santana knows she need not exhale a word in reply. Fitting Brittany's face in her hands she answers by drawing her into a burning kiss.

The smile Santana can feel against her lips renders her heart a mess of wild beats. She doesn't even know how Brittany's managed to work her hands beneath her nightdress until she feels hot palms against the skin of her stomach. She lets out a yelp at the surprising touch, one that is quick to morph to a moan as blood rushes down past her belly and Brittany pulls them back to the bedroll.

"If someone were to hear us," Santana manages to breathe out as Brittany's mouth burns a slow path down her neck, hands working the nightdress further up Santana's body. "Heavens, Britt I—"

"Shhh," Brittany whispers. Santana can feel the lips upon her neck curling into a smirk as Brittany chuckles out, coy, "someone could hear."

Santana doesn't know how a teasing touch so quickly disintegrated into teasing words. She appreciates it none, pushing up to her hands intent on throwing such a look down at the woman beneath her but it hardly ever manifests. Not with Brittany looking at her as she is, sprawled, shirt somehow now half-opened and with a satisfied smile crawling slowly across her lips.

"I am very, very, very much in love with you right now," Brittany drawls, biting her lip as her eyes rove over Santana's own.

Santana can't speak at the confession, feeling only more spurred by want as she moves back down. Forearms flat against the bedroll, she bends and presses a lingering kiss to Brittany's mouth. She pulls back with a bite upon Brittany's bottom lip, Brittany letting out a soft moan in protest before those same lips are upon the hollow of her throat. Santana rolls her shoulders forward, hair tickling Brittany's neck, a giggle and squirm following from the woman beneath her as she kisses down to her chest. Brittany's skin is warm and Santana unable to resist as she runs her tongue in a short path across one of Brittany's breasts. Brittany tastes of what Santana imagines anyone would after riding upon horseback for two days. Somehow of dirt and old hay and she makes note not to taste of Brittany's skin after such journeys until she's able to have a proper bath.

She's no less aroused, shifting to free a hand more than willing to replace her tongue. Brittany cares not for fingers, not when Santana's mouth felt so much more pleasurable. Arching her back up she tangles a hand in dark hair and guides Santana's mouth back to her breast.

"Uhhh, Brittany," Santana groans, picking her head up and quirking a brow down at the panting woman. "You must know you taste like a barn."

"And you taste of… of bandages," Brittany offers between bated breaths, cheeks flushed red. "I like it..."

They stare at one another, Santana squinting in question and Brittany daring her to speak otherwise. After a moment Santana's eyes soften, a smile upon her lips as she dips down and lightly rakes her teeth over one of Brittany's nipples. The taste the second time bothers her none at all. "Hmm, next time, I think we try this your way."

"Wha—?" Brittany gasps, her mind not quite able to process Santana's comment, nor anything aside from the feel of Santana's lips upon her breast.

Santana gives tug to Brittany's slacks, her mouth still where Brittany wishes her most as she helps her to wriggle free from the men's clothing. As Brittany kicks the drawers from her feet Santana moves back atop her. She presses a chaste kiss to her lips, grinning when she pulls away and whispers but one word. "Tub."

"Tubbington?" Brittany asks, puzzled by what he could have to do with sex. Hopefully nothing, ever, at all. I'll lock him in Pa's room if I must.

"Good god, no," Santana chuckles, rolling her eyes. "I meant a bath."

"Oh," Brittany says, her ears burning pink. "That's what I meant too."

"Did you?" Santana teases.

"You're not being very quiet," Brittany notes in jest and takes hold of Santana's nightdress once more, pulling it up this time until the skirt and slip beneath are bunched over her hips. Santana is struck silent by the move, arms shaking as she struggles to remain holding herself upright. She's half exposed, the feel of the coarse blanket scratches, foreign, against her backside and thighs. Her fingers dig into the bedroll, eyes no longer playful as they lock upon Brittany's own. Brittany can see the flicker of distress pass in the gaze above. Santana is very quiet now, upsettingly so. "Is this all right?"

"I-I've…" Santana begins to say, voice lost.

Brittany lets go, propping herself to her elbows instead. "You were so brave not a minute ago," she whispers, placing a soft kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth.

Santana closes her eyes, letting out a long breath. She's no reason to be so suddenly uneasy, reminding herself for god's sake her nipple was just between your teeth! But the thought does little to untie the veritable knot of anxiety her stomach has become. She wants this, she tells herself, has had countless dreams of this very moment. Granted, they were far more romantic and she far more suave. This is a tiny tent, the bed barely big enough for one let alone them both. The snores of the men neighboring easily permeate through the thin fabric, a choice backdrop to their evening if there ever was one. It is not ideal, her feet are starting to grow chill and she's acutely aware whatever material Brittany's blanket is made from may result in a rash upon her ass come dawn.

She opens her eyes, finding Brittany staring up at her with that same tender patience she always reserves just for her. Santana doesn't wish for her to wait any longer and nor does she think she can either. This bed may not be of her imaginings, or the sounds about them soothing let alone the hour of the night perfect, but Brittany is. She's more than her visions. She's real, she's here. She wants soon to be now. And frankly, Santana realizes, to hell with all the rest.

"It's okay, Britt," she tells her.

"Then can I?" Brittany asks, waiting for Santana's answer. It comes in the form of a nod, assured and small. Brittany kisses her then, not yet moving her hands, simply hoping to draw the bold woman from moments before back out through her kiss. Santana astonishes her when she pulls away and in one fluid motion slips the nightdress and undergarment up over her head. They can hear it landing upon a pile of Santana's journals and books; some pencils resting atop roll to the ground in return.

All at once neither is able to move, Brittany fixated at the sight of Santana's bare form and Santana unable to look away from Brittany's darkening gaze.

"Should I…?" Santana makes to move aside but Brittany's hands find firm purchase on her hips, keeping her in place balanced above.

"I want you here," Brittany whispers heavily, breathing deeply, so desperate to keep herself still and not give into her desire to press up and feel Santana's skin against her own. She's never seen her like this, not once glimpsed of the body always contained beneath the modest garb of the union nurse dress. Her hand is hesitant as it moves up, her fingers tentative in their touch. She's a mark like mine, Brittany thinks, smiling as her fingers brush over a dark spot just along the front of Santana's shoulder. She ventures them downward, over the swell of her breasts and plane of her stomach. The muscles beneath Santana's skin grow taught beneath her fingers, gooseflesh rising along her arms.

"Brittany," Santana all but rasps out, lowering herself some, unable to support her full weight upon her arms any longer. Her body trembles as Brittany's hands move lower still and she buries her forehead in the groove of Brittany's collarbone. Her hands find purchase in the bedroll by Brittany's sides; elbows digging in deep as well when warm fingers finally slip between her legs. Her back arches up, pelvis involuntarily pitching forward seeking friction.

Santana's hips roll against Brittany's right hand, desperate to find release in the searching touch. "There," she breathes out, eyes squeezing shut when Brittany's fingers flitter across a bundle of nerves. Her body shudders, a moan suppressed with a hard kiss. Brittany's fingers disappear a moment later, the rush of pleasure subsiding. Santana groans, "No, there… up…"

"It's all… backwards," Brittany tells her between kisses, drawing a leg up between Santana's own.

Santana can't help but let out a laugh, placing a wet kiss to the side of Brittany's nose.

"Here," she shifts upon her knees and Brittany's hand slides back into place against her center. Brittany gives an experimental graze of her thumb.

"Oh, there," Brittany grins, pleased when Santana is barely able to nod, her breaths once more labored. She curls two of her fingers forward, Santana letting out a whimper that Brittany quickly swallows with a kiss. "I won't forget," Brittany whispers against her mouth, Santana only hearing the unspoken next time of her words. The promise of more heats her blood, the air of the tent heavy and the smell of fresh sweat strong.

This time Brittany focuses solely on Santana's face. She pulls her knee up higher, planting her heel and toes into the bedroll, giving Santana the purchase she needs. A rhythm is struck, slow in it's pace at first, quickening with the rise and fall of Santana's chest. Santana's hands grip harder to the bedroll as she moves against Brittany's hand, her back arching on occasion until Brittany pulls her down before any noise can tear out her throat.

Her eyes, Brittany notices, remain squeezed tightly shut, holding back, unwilling to let go.

Brittany pulls Santana's head low, wanting those brown eyes upon her. It takes some coaxing, a kiss and a nudge of Brittany's nose until they open, heavy-lidded and filled with an emotion Brittany knows only she has ever been privy to, and hopes to only ever be so. They're exposed, so utterly bare in a way even her skin cannot ever be. And without a doubt, no matter how many times she may have fumbled, Brittany knows only she can ever elicit such a look of devotion from the woman above her. Such utter need. Love.

Brittany rises up, stomach muscles straining against the pull as she captures Santana's lips between her own. She won't ever forget this. She simply can't.

It is worth everything to her.

She applies more pressure with her thumb, fingers slick as they move within Santana. A push of her leg against her hand and Santana's face is pressing into her neck, the heat between her legs clenching tight around long fingers. A hot, shuddering exhale is released against her skin, a strangled moan issuing forth shortly after. Santana's skin is painted with thin layer of sweat as her arms give out and she falls atop Brittany's body. Brittany can feel Santana breathing hard; feel her own heart pounding just as powerfully against her ribcage.

She lets the other woman calm, drawing the blankets snuggly about them both. It is warm in the tent, heady, their bodies sticky beneath the coverings. Santana never wishes to move, content to forever rest atop Brittany as she is, spent and feeling as though her mind has yet to return to it's rightful place within her head. It's not a horrid predicament, and in fact if she could prolong this high she would. All the better the next time, she thinks, grinning lazily as she curls against Brittany's body. She's too tired to move now, that want that was burning so fervently within her now quenched. An inkling of it remains, slowly fueling itself back to life.

She hopes Brittany's not too upset with her, knowing how much the woman has been craving similar release. Just give me a moment, she thinks to herself. Though the way in which Brittany holds her, close and yet relaxed, her fingers drawing soft patterns along her arm and back, Santana knows she's contented to remain where she is. God, how she loves her so.

And Brittany is, she is more than content to hold Santana as she surrenders to sleep. The patterns she traces on Santana's skin are a memory of the motions that brought the woman such utter pleasure. She wants to try them again, more assured this time in her touch. And even though Santana's skin tastes of bandages she's sure the wet heat of her center will not disappoint. Not even the fatigue loosening her muscles from her arduous day can bring her mind to stop thinking about how she will lay with Santana next.

Which brings another, quite different, matter to her thoughts.

"San?" Brittany calls for her quietly, not wishing to disturb her from the beginnings of sleep. But what she has to say is of vital importance and she knows Santana will sleep better knowing so.

"Hmm?" is the drowsy response she's given along with a sloppy kiss laid against her neck.

Brittany smiles, hugging Santana close. "I just want you to know that Lucy's hibernating," she tells her. "If you feel anything it's just me."

Santana's eyes open at the remark and she stares blankly at the tent wall for a moment. Her heart begins to feel warm, a smile forming to her lips as she picks her head up and looks down upon Brittany. "I love you an utterly unfathomable amount."

"You can count them all for me if you'd like," Brittany grins. "I love you so much I think I'd not fall asleep listening."

"I thought counting bored you," Santana chuckles.

"Not love counting," Brittany replies. "Love counting sounds amazing."

Santana's once amused expression turns serious. "If I do this for you, you can't tell Puckerman," she tells her, voice low, a secret of whispered words. "Or Michael. Make that anyone."

"Why would I?" Brittany asks, confused by her need for discretion. These numbers surely couldn't be that private.

"You've made it a habit of these things not staying so secret," Santana mentions with a rather pointed look. After a beat she lets out a sigh. "Just please Britt, let this be between us."

And thus Brittany must inquire, her own tone conspiratory, "Does it involve being naked?"

"We kind of already are," Santana chuckles. She brushes a kiss to Brittany's lips, settling her chin down atop folded arms over Brittany's chest. "Anyway, there's this poem, it's entirely mediocre and foolishly sentimental and yet for some reason I think of you and it's of love, yes, and in a matter of speaking counting but it's—"

"Is the poem as long as your explanation for why you're so embarrassed to recite it to me?" Brittany interrupts, smirking.

Santana's cheeks darken. "I'm not embarrassed," she mutters. "It's just very… un-me."

Brittany presses a light kiss to her forearm. "I'd very much like to hear it," she whispers. "Recite it for me?"

"That is the point of all this," Santana says with a roll of her eyes.

"You're dillydallying," Brittany teases.

And so Santana recites the poem, reluctant at first until she realizes Brittany is listening intently upon her every word. For a poem supposedly about counting there are hardly any numbers, Brittany thinks. She doesn't much understand it, the words a might outdated but the rhyme nice. What she does understand is the tone Santana's voice drops to, the small, subtle quiver in her words. Her gaze never strays from her own, so intent the verses carry from her heart to the one below. There's a small pocket of tears collecting in her eyes the softer her voice grows. And when she finishes, reaching up to catch their fall Brittany stops her, wiping them from her cheeks carefully instead.

She asks Santana if she will recite it again.

And Santana consents.

She'll gladly recite the silly thing as many times as Brittany wishes.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.