AN: Hi everyone! Sorry for the small delay, entirely my fault. Special thanks to my temp beta Tars for doing such an amazing job! :D And thank you to all who volunteered! Also thank you to those who emailed with concerns about my story perhaps being one of the many M-rated fics that could be deleted. If that should happen check my tumblr (the link is in my profile), I'll definitely still be posting the story so no worries. I haven't figured out just where to go yet in the event it is removed but am hoping those of us in the Brittana section will be safe! :)
Chapter 18
Men and Monsters
Santana has been awake for only a few minutes yet swears she's been writhing on the ground for hours. She doesn't recall the last time she's hurt so. It's as if every joint in her body has conspired to swell and ache, every muscle just skirting near the brink of cramping. She resists opening her eyes to the morning light; fearing the sharp sting of pain that will erupt in her temples and exacerbate the wound on her head. The gash throbs even now, a dreadful pound against her skull that beats in time with her heart.
Everything hurts.
And her stomach… she's never gone so long without a meal and is feeling the sheer force of its anger as she curls further into herself along the ground. Of all her pains, the hunger is the worst. No amount of twisting, or wishes for her thoughts to turn elsewhere will cease starvation. She knows the hunger will ravage her in time. Destroy her just as that blade did Brittany's arm.
She trembles at the mere memory and before any additional visions of that night can surface her stomach clenches. Santana smothers her groan with a quick purse of her lips as she bends her legs up closer. Beneath the blanket, her knee bumps against Brittany's, stirring sleep from blue eyes.
"San?" Brittany whispers softly, brushing the very tips of her fingers against Santana's clenched fist. Santana's stomach contracts at her touch, both warmed and pained. Brittany can feel the hand beneath hers shuddering and wants to slide closer to draw Santana near… but her limbs are unresponsive, thoughts still muddled with fatigue as she takes hold of Santana's hand instead. Her grip is weak, barely a pressure upon Santana's heated skin. However the gesture is welcome, bringing with it the briefest relief that ebbs Santana's aches.
Santana squints her eyes open as she turns her hand to twine with Brittany's, desperate to hide the twitch of her muscles in a firm grip. Brittany blinks at her, tired and fretful. She has so much she wishes to ask but the words are stuck on her tongue, too heavy to spill forth. Where are they? Why does her arm hurt so? What's happened? Where is….
Her thoughts pause as recent dreams come to the forefront of her mind. Images of fires, Michael's face lost among the many, Burt thrown from her side, Santana bleeding on the ground… Brittany's eyes flit toward dark hair and her mouth parts as she stares at the wound she so hoped was only a horrid flicker in cruel dream.
Yet the smell of the blood is too real, Santana's skin against her own too warm. The gash is buried beneath tangled hair but Brittany can clearly see the way it rises up from the slope of Santana's head. Her throat tightens the longer her gaze lingers. Santana is hurting and she looks so ill… so frail.
Santana can see Brittany wishes to speak, concern so vivid in her gaze. She manages a small, strained smile as she tells her, "I'm okay…" but her voice is pained, splintered by a moan. She slams her eyes shut against the light, wincing as her stomach knots deep in her gut.
"Santana?" She can hear Noah whisper for her. The sunlight against her eyelids dims as he hovers just over Brittany's shoulder to look down at her. There's a light touch against her brow as calloused fingers brush some matted hair from her forehead. Her skin is hot beneath his touch and a worrisome crease forms along his brow. "Are you—"
"I'm fine," she grits out before he can even complete his thought.
Noah shuffles some as he positions himself upright. "You're sweating and it's near freezing out here."
Santana merely lets out another groan in response, mindful to keep it verging upon exasperation and not ache. But the ache prevails and her jaw clenches as she stiffens against another gut wrenching cramp.
Brittany's fingers attempt to squeeze those in her grasp and Santana feels her heart sink at the effort. She's so weak, Santana laments, fearing what the day will bring for them without further aide. She is also quickly reminded that Brittany is alive. She is with me. It takes all her will power not to start crying when she feels Brittany's cool thumb trace along her skin.
"It's okay," Brittany whispers, drawing in a deep breath as she forces herself to remain awake. "We'll be… all right…"
By the time Santana brings her hand to Brittany's cheek, blue eyes have closed and she's fallen fast asleep.
"Here," Noah says quietly, tucking the blanket more snugly around both women. Santana doesn't move as he does so, nor do her eyes leave Brittany's face. The hint of color upon her cheeks from the previous night still lingers; however the blush appears more of a faded remnant of life than the hope it once brought. It's swallowed so wholly by the pale sheen of Brittany's skin that it's barely acknowledgeable. Even her lips have lost their usual ruddy hue, dulled to a dark shade of alabaster and exhibiting a texture Santana can only attribute to the same as the bandages wrapped about her arm.
Her eyes travel down to the wound, quick to inspect her work of the preceding night. Despite the unbearable discomfort in her gut, Santana forces herself to sit upright, earning her yet another stream of concerned words from Noah, which she quickly silences with an impatient look. He remains tight-lipped behind Brittany, but watches her closely. Santana is sick, of that much he is sure. The extent of which he assumes has a great deal to do with that wound she keeps flinching about every time she tilts her head. And then there's the matter of her grumbling stomach. When had she last eaten?
But he says nothing, remaining quiet as Santana carefully unwraps Brittany's arm to check upon the healing injury.
The bandages are stiff with dried blood and Santana must slow her pace, too afraid of aggravating the fresh sutures beneath. Brittany is very much in need of fresh wrappings if infection is to be kept from her arm. Santana can't help but think upon the dying man in the Southern medical tent; the one whose side was inflamed from a simple bullet wound. He must be dead now, she thinks; him and the many others in need of care. One nurse is not enough, not even one as apt as Quinn.
Santana unfurls the last of the bandages only to drop them from her hands at the sight of Brittany's bare arm. The skin is raised and red around the sutures, blood clotted so thickly in parts it's hard for Santana to see. But it's clear infection has more than settled into the wound. Santana's head pounds furiously as she throws the blankets off Brittany's body. Brittany's legs are curled up close and locked at the ankle, a sure sign that even in sleep her arm pains her.
Santana has nothing to help ease her suffering.
Nothing to stop the infection from spreading more. Not a drop of alcohol to wipe clean the surgery site, not even a source of water pure enough to risk pouring against the burning skin.
"She'll be okay," Noah tells her, though even his voice is heavy with reservation.
She won't, Santana wants to scream at him but the truth of those words weighs too heavily on her heart. Her doubts echo in her ears, fogging her thoughts and wishing to pull her into blackness. Noah steadies her with a strong hand, eyes pleading her for an answer.
There is but one and Santana is hesitant to even voice it aloud. What if she is only to worsen? She's lost so much blood the infection will only spread that much faster! Santana hasn't the time to rationalize her instinct.
And she refuses not to try.
She cannot let Brittany die like the man in Quinn's tent.
The water should be cold enough… clean enough…
"Pick her up," she urges Noah as she braces herself against the tree and stands to her feet. "The river," she breathes out, digging her fingers into the bark to keep her head from spinning so violently. Her stomach surges up to her throat, nausea threatening to overwhelm her.
"Santana?" He asks, reaching for her.
"Go!" She shouts at him, swallowing down whatever horror rising within her.
Noah wastes not a second as he quickly scoops Brittany into his arms. She's slack in his hold, head sagging listlessly to and fro, as he swiftly makes his way down to the riverbank. Santana keeps in step behind him, stumbling along beneath the pressure now manifesting in her head. Noah runs steadfast, sidestepping men and the remaining piles of snow scattered along the ground. Santana's vision tunnels as she breathes hard. Ahead Noah multiplies in her line of sight.
Her feet tangle in the snarled branches of a dead fern, body instantly pitching forward toward the ground. She braces herself for the fall but it never comes. Two arms grab solidly to her sides, one just beneath her right arm as the other wraps strongly about her waist. She's hoisted back to her feet, ready to brush off the support when the faces of the two men beside her register within her mind.
They're old patients. The one with the thick brow from a month back, flu she recalls. The other missing a few teeth from a horses kick to the mouth a few week prior. He smiles down at her, stitches in his split lip straining against the pull.
"Whoever done hurt your head so," the other gruffly begins to say as he releases his hold from her waist to place a steadying hand upon her shoulder. "Consider 'im a dead man."
Santana doesn't know quite what to say in response, still surprised they've even bothered to help at all. She nods anyway, earning her a broad grin from the thick-browed man. The cavalry soldier gently releases her arm, turning down toward his coat where he extracts a small canteen.
"I know it ain't what you're used to," he says quietly in way of explanation as he hands her the metal flask; a small amount of liquid inside splashes against the tin in the exchange. "But maybe it'll help Bret."
There's no need even to ask what once fully filled the flask for she can smell the whiskey contained therein upon the soldier's breath. Santana knows full well what she wishes to say to the young soldier with the broken smile. A thousands thanks seems not close enough but she can't even muster a nod let alone the thought needed for a word in gratitude. He must think her a fool as tears begin to spill from her eyes. But if he does he shows it not, simply smiling at her as best he can as he and his companion step aside to let her carry on her way.
Holding the flask tight to her chest Santana grips to his arm with her other, all her appreciation conveyed in the firm hold. She lets go not a second later, mind far more focused now as she takes off down to the river.
Noah has already lowered himself to the ground by the time Santana runs up beside him. His feet have sunk clear into the riverbed, only the ankle of his boots visible from where he squats with Brittany held in his lap. It won't be long till his feet grow frostbitten submerged in such glacial muck, she must work fast.
Santana swirls the whiskey in the flask, listening for the amount. There's not enough liquid to clean Brittany's wound completely but a good amount to work with once the river water has washed away the bulk of the clots. She knows this is not the best of solutions but it is the only one they've been afforded. Keeping the wound clean and free from further infection is what will keep Brittany from slipping away…
Britt will be fine, she repeats to herself as she squats down in front of Noah. Her hand instantly comes forward to brush some of Brittany's hair from over her forehead. Just as before it remains swept toward the side, a look Santana is still so unused to seeing but ever so grateful for. No Southern soldier has looked twice at Brittany. From the shoreline, Santana can see a few of the guards watching her curiously, but none makes a move to stop her. She washes her hands quickly, the water so cold it sears at her skin as if it were flame. She's relived by the sensation; no disease could ever thrive in water so frigid.
Noah holds out Brittany's bare arm, careful not to let her slip from his grasp.
"I'm sorry, Santana," he tells her as she works to brush water over the edges of the crusted wound. The congealed blood begins to loosen and drip down Brittany's arm. Noah turns from the sight. "If I had just cleaned it properly—"
"This isn't your fault," Santana says, never once ceasing in her work despite the blotches of white now entering her vision. Her stomach churns and for a fraction of a moment, she must stop before her muscles lock against the tension. Just a bit more, she wills herself, knowing how exposed Brittany is now to deeper infection. She pushes her pain aside, working faster to clean the clotted blood away from the stitches. She berates herself at the sight of the hastily done sutures, Brittany's scar sure to be an ugly line marred across her otherwise smooth skin. But she's little time to dwell on her toil from the night previous. Not with her stomach growing nauseous from exertion.
She pours the small amount of whiskey over the wound, relieved when the rest of the blood melts away and all that remains is Brittany's jagged skin. It's still swollen in places, infection probably festering just beneath the surface. But Santana wishes not to risk opening Brittany's lesion to more, not without fresh sutures to close it. She laments ever helping so many last night. Had she kept but even the smallest amount of thread…
She only hopes Brittany will be able to overcome the infection that remains.
Noah helps her to wrap Brittany's arm with the torn sleeve of his uniform. The linen is far cleaner than any part of her dress, and blessedly dry. To keep the wound breathing and free of moisture is what will ensure it heals. She tries not to think what she would have done had she access to even the most rudimentary of medical tents. Or had she the courage to pilfer anything from under Quinn's watch.
What is done is done, but she still feels a coward as they walk back up to the tree line.
By the time they've returned to settle by their spot a few officers from the Southern force have approached upon horseback. In a matter of a few minutes, Santana finds herself standing in a line beside Noah amidst all their fellow captives, Brittany held once more in his arms.
She can't hear what's being shouted to them, her hearing muted against the sound of her rapidly pounding heart. Noah must repeat everything back to her as she leans against his side for support. Her eyes never stray from Brittany's face.
"They're marching us out," he tells her, expression grim as he readjusts Brittany in his hold.
Come dusk they will be settling into fields just a few miles east of Hartsville where Santana knows the Southern regiment's encampment lies.
She thinks she'll succumb to starvation before she even sees the first tent.
They make it to the camp well past nightfall and even past the expectations of the many soldiers stationed to receive them. Half are drunk if not slinking away to join in the rowdy cheers of the celebration happening just a few yards down in the camp. The few dozen sober men that remain are enough to corral the exhausted Northern soldiers toward their internment field. Many heads are bowed, feet dragging along the snow-dusted ground as the men trudge onward. Santana is barely conscious, held in the arms of large Northern soldier whom walks beside Noah. Her pains long lost to the delirium that set in two miles into the march.
She collapsed to the ground, fatigued and wasted. Vague flashes of memory surface now, concerned faces hovering overhead, Noah's voice as he pleaded for her aid. The rest of the journey was spent in a semi-lucid void, stomach pains too strong to push aside and concerns for Brittany too peeked to allow sleep to fully take her.
She doesn't think the man holding her now was the one to pick her up. How many had helped to carry her?
Her head sags against the soldier's chest as she looks to her right where Noah walks. He wears a mask of indifference on his face as he passes some of the Southern soldiers. Brittany is carried on his back, her arms slung loosely over his shoulders. She hasn't stirred all day, not once since she spoke to Santana this morning.
She continues sleeping through the reciting of their names, head resting against Santana's thighs as they lie along the cold ground. A few Northern men turn toward Santana with interest upon hearing the change in her surname. But Noah throws them each a challenging look, their attention quickly drawn back to the roll call.
Brittany sleeps through the meager supper they are provided. Barely a few spoonfuls of the driest cornmeal. It scratches at Santana's throat as she forces herself to swallow it down, her stomach quick to accept the small offer. Noah never touches his own bowl, simply pouring his rations into Santana's knowing she needs it far more than he does.
She gives him a shaky smile in thanks.
Neither touches the portion reserved for Brittany.
Brittany sleeps on, even as a light snow begins to fall a little after supper and the soldiers huddle close to their comrades for warmth. They gaze longingly at the fires down in the camp, watching as the Southern soldiers shed their jackets as they dance and sweat beside their victory flames. Santana pays them no attention, though she can sense the scowl upon Noah's face from where he sits behind Brittany wrapped in one of their blankets. He mutters curses every so often, most to deaf ears as Santana is solely focused upon tracing every contour of Brittany's face with a soft touch.
Perhaps she'll wake as she did last time, she hopes though knows it was her voice that stirred sleep from heavy eyes. There are too many men nearby to risk speaking so openly now.
She pulls the blankets further atop them, shielding them from the softly falling snow. It's still cold within their nest, but a bearable temperature with their bodies entwined so closely together. Santana leans across the small space separating them to press a light kiss to Brittany's nose; which scrunches as she pulls away, blue eyes fluttering open lazily.
"Hi," Santana mouths, her heart racing excitedly to see Brittany awake and for once no pain reflected in her eyes.
The corner of Brittany's mouth quirks up ever so slightly as the beginnings of a smile tries to form.
"Are you hungry?" Santana asks her gently, brushing her fingers across Brittany's cheek.
"Bret's up?" Noah asks, elated as he peers down at the two lumps beneath the blanket to his side. Santana peels back the fabric just enough to lock eyes with him and give a nod. He's relieved to see the smile in her gaze, even if he can't see the way it must spread across her face. He was so worried for her on the march and is glad she's more in spirit now with a bit of food in her belly. "Does he want supper?"
Brittany gives a slight shake of her head despite the way she licks her lips as if nothing would please her more.
Santana knows more than to accept her reply, especially after that display. Brittany is so easy to read. "I can help you eat, Britt."
"I feel too sick," Brittany tells her, voice nothing but a breath of sound. Her eyes close. "Woozy… not flux sick."
Santana presses her forehead to Brittany's, ignoring the spike of pain in her temple as she tells her thickly, "You have an infection and will feel sick for a few days but eating will help."
"I don't want to vomit on you," Brittany confesses weakly.
Santana chuckles, brushing a soft kiss high on Brittany's cheek. "I promise I won't mind."
"Can I…" Brittany begins to ask, her breathing deepening again. "Can I later?"
"Yeah," Santana whispers. "Whenever you're ready."
"I'll keep it safe for you," Noah tells her with a smile. "No one will touch your cornmeal. Though warning, it's the foulest thing I ever put in my damn mouth."
"Did you find… Michael and Burt?" Brittany asks as sleep begins to take hold of her mind.
Noah shrinks down, a sigh withheld. Santana is equally quiet.
Brittany wonders briefly if she's fallen asleep or if perhaps the world has gone as quiet as her thoughts. Santana swirls in her vision ahead, but even unfocused as she's become Brittany can make out the sad look upon her face. She doesn't wish for Santana to look so troubled… Burt and Michael must be close by…
They must.
No one answers her question though.
"What do you reckon they want with us?" Noah asks after a while, voice soured with his hate for the Southern regiment. "Why else bring us here?"
"Sometimes I watch ducks from my window," Brittany whispers, tired as she nuzzles closer into Santana. "So they don't fly away…"
Arms wrap behind Brittany's back as Santana pulls her closer until her head rests against her shoulder. Her wounded arm lies draped across Santana's chest, the muscles pulsating in their usual steady and painful rhythm. She wishes sleep would take her so it will cease hurting her so.
"Is he still feverish?" Noah asks, troubled.
Santana smiles, shaking her head as she hugs Brittany tight. "No, he's just fine."
"But what he said—" Noah begins to counter.
"Makes absolute sense," Santana interrupts quietly, knowing Brittany has succumbed to dreams once more. Her even breaths brush warmly against Santana's neck, heart beating calmly beneath her breasts. Santana relaxes some with Brittany held so attentively in her arms. "Think on it for a moment."
Noah shrinks down for the second time this night, quieted.
"I hope you've fallen asleep over there," Santana speaks up after a few minutes, amused. "Otherwise this prolonged silence is mortifying."
"I know what he meant," he mutters. "I just don't like it none."
Santana lets out sigh. "We're captives, what could there ever be to like?"
"Nothing, but they're playin' with us I tell you. We get food but no one to look at our wounded. Don't it strike you funny?"
"It does," she admits, for it's something that's bothered her as well. "But there's nothing can be done."
Noah carries on as if she hasn't spoken. "And you need someone to check on that head of yours," he says, tone serious. "You spend so much time worryin' for Bret you forget about you."
Santana huddles closer to Brittany. "I'm fine."
"You're not, Santana," Noah whispers and she can imagine the concern as evident upon his face as it is in his voice. The next time he speaks his voice has lowered as he bends close. "What if you've an infection too and get just as sick as Britt? Who'll take care of you?"
Santana hasn't the time to answer, nor dwell on the terrifying truth of his worries for a voice booms out over the interment field, shaking all thoughts from her mind. "YANKS! Wake up boys!"
Santana slips Brittany from her arms as she sits up from the ground, the blanket pooling to her lap. From down the end of the field approaches a company of men from the Southern camp, some with torches wielded high in their hands, others rifles ready at arm. The snow continues to fall, denser now than earlier. Santana hugs her arms to her chest as the winter air bites unrelentingly at her cheeks. At the head of the company strides a stout hulk of a man, his body all shoulders and gait purposeful.
Her eyes flit over the insignia on his jacket. A general. The regiments' leader.
"Come out those overcoats you yanks!" He shouts as he approaches, waving for his men to file down ahead of him. The Southern soldiers boast his orders aloud as they spill down through the ranks of Northern men. Most men are roused from sleep by tugs against their collars; their coats pulled up over their heads if not ripped from off their backs.
It is only then Santana realizes the Southern army is without winter coats of their own.
She is livid.
"They can't take our coats!" Santana cries out to Noah. "This is madness!"
"Don't fight them none if they want yours," he tells her, noticing from the corner of his eye the fate of those Northern men brave enough to stand against this wrong. Rifle licks square to the back of their heads. He pulls the blanket from off his shoulders, folding it quickly before sitting down atop it. "Do the same!" He whispers to her urgently.
Santana scrambles to pull the blanket from over Brittany's shoulders, heart tugging in her chest as Brittany instantly curls into herself for warmth. She can't bear witnessing her coat being stripped off by Southern hands.
"Help me get hers undone," she tells Noah, hands shaking as she turns Brittany onto her back. Together they quickly work the coat from off her body. The fires of the Southern men grow brighter, closer, as they do so. Once Brittany is undone from her coat Santana wriggles free of hers as Noah slips his own down his shoulders. A few Southern men come down the line where they rest, plucking the coats from the outstretched hands of Northerners. Santana and Noah simply hold out the coats as well, pleased when the soldiers do little more than swipe them from their hands and throw them into the piles held in their arms.
It's all over in a matter of minutes.
Biting laughter splits the air as the Southern men don their new winter attire and arms loaded with coats return back to their celebrations.
Noah's scowl cuts deep into his face as he stares now at the Southern men sitting warmed by their fires in thick Northern overcoats. It is all a laugh, he thinks bitterly to himself, for he knows just an hour prior they were shedding their own jackets as they danced.
Them greybacks may need those coats come morning, he thinks, but tonight they have fires at their backs whilst he and all those around him have nothing.
The Northern men will freeze.
He keeps staring after them, even as Santana pulls out the blanket and tucks herself snugly back into Brittany's side.
All monsters, Santana thinks, shivering as hugs Brittany close. Every one of them.
"Hello, Mrs. Pierce," a voice trills down from above.
Santana's eyes shoot open, sleep long forgotten as she stares up toward the man who calls for her. She's unsurprised to find the nameless soldier that stole her the prior night. And like before she sees not the smile he dons beneath his mustache, only the mockery of it shining clear in his dark eyes.
"Haven't you taken enough?" she snarls up at him.
"Lieutenant Miller asked me to come fetch ya," he tells her, motioning for her to stand. "So get up."
"I'm in no condition to tend whomever he wishes me to see," she whispers harshly, eyes darting over toward Noah to ensure he remains sleeping. Naturally, he is as wide-awake as she, glaring right back up at the soldier. Santana turns back toward the proud man, her anger from earlier resurfacing as she spits out, "I could barely hold my spoon let alone be made to hold a scalpel!"
The soldier's eyes grow hard, no longer filled with their usual mirth. He bends low quickly and yanks her up to unsteady feet. Noah rises instantly; ready to launch himself into the man but Santana wretches her arm free from the soldier and shoves Noah back before he's able to endanger himself. She falls to her knees as her mind grows hazy, exhaustion once more creeping into the corners of her conscious thought.
"Please," she mutters, bracing herself along the ground with a shaky arm. "Please, leave me."
"I'll get you a proper supper," The soldier tells her, voice devoid of any inclination of emotion. "And as before you'll be returned."
"I want my coat back," Santana says, eyes narrowed as she burns a look up at him. "All our coats back."
"I'm sorry," the soldier says, shrugging as he helps her to her feet. She swats away his hands but just as before he takes firm grip to her arm regardless. "We need them."
"You best bring her back to us," Noah growls, mindful to keep his distance lest a pistol be pointed to his chest.
"She will be," the soldier replies before giving a tug of Santana's arm and forcing her to follow him from the field.
Santana cannot believe she's being led away again. It is just as painful the second time, more so now than before. She steals glances back toward Noah and Brittany from over her shoulder, only the slightest bit relieved to see Noah pulling Brittany close into his arms to ensure she not freeze without Santana at her side.
As she's led into the camp Santana vows not to act a coward this time.
Whatever she's able to take she will, consequences be damned.
No one pays them any mind as she's walked through the lanes, a stark contrast to the reception she received at the previous Southern outpost. And whereas the Northern camp exhibited a sense of order there is the distinctive feel of chaos to the layout of the Southern encampment. Missing are the narrow lanes of soldier tents, those lucky enough to even have a roof above their heads no matter the material find spaces between trees to pitch their home. There's a variety of structures; logs piled in slopes, canvas stretched between poles. Anywhere a man is able to gain sleep protected from the snow something has been put in place.
Yet the closer they draw into the center of camp, the more order reigns once again. Tents are dirtied but immaculate in structure, the armory not just a sole tent but smartly spread among five or more throughout the crossing lanes. Santana can see the General whom ordered them from their coats sitting just outside his tent, feet propped up on a chair as he plays a round of cards with fellow leaders. They pass a cook's tent, the smell of slow roasting meat invading her every sense and sparking her mouth to salivate. Her attention is ripped away as she's forced down onto a bench.
A passing medic has his bowl stolen straight from his hands by Santana's captor. Whatever words he wishes to shout out still on his tongue as he meets the taller man's eyes. With a shaky nod he ducks back inside the cook's tent to fetch himself another meal.
"Eat," the soldier instructs, throwing the overflowing bowl of steaming soup down on the table in front of her. It sloshes against the table, good portions dripping down to sear against her dress. The heat is a welcome distraction from the cold so wrapped about her bones. And the soup smells devilishly wonderful. Santana hates herself for thinking so.
She pushes it away.
The soldier leans down, sliding it slowly back in front of her as he whispers, "I could just take you to the lieutenant if that's what you wish."
Santana continues glaring up at him even as she picks up the spoon. There's a flash of an expression across the soldier's face, satisfaction she thinks. The arrogant bastard.
She eats slowly just to spite him.
"Santana?"
Santana halts the next spoonful of soup to her mouth as Quinn's voice spills into her broken ear. Even muted as it sounded she'd recognize that airy tone anywhere. The nurse approaches, looking anxious and entirely surprised to see her.
"Miss Fabray," the soldier greets her with a tip of his cap. Santana doesn't think she's ever heard him sound so… cordial. "You should be gettin' back to your quarters."
Quinn pays him no mind, instead coming to sit beside Santana on the bench. Uncomfortably close, Santana notes, purposely sliding away from the agitated woman. Quinn scoots nearer anyway.
"Could I a word with her?" Quinn asks the soldier, pointedly staring to a spot just over his shoulder. The soldier bristles at being addressed so flippantly. "Please Stanley?
"I'm to escort her to Lieutenant Miller," Stanley replies. Santana finds him name wildly unfitting. A John or perhaps a Thomas. Stanley's aren't so… threatening.
"And you will," Quinn tells him, smiling sweetly. "Once she's finished eating, correct?"
"She's—" Stanley begins to say.
"I can handle her," Quinn tells him, indignant. "She's not going to run."
"I'll be just there," Stanley acquiesces after a moment, nodding to where Quinn was previously looking. And it's evidently clear to Santana he must bend to Quinn's whim on countless occasions. As he walks a good deal away Santana can't help but wonder whom else Quinn has charmed about her fingers. Santana stares over at the woman, a new-found, though fleeting respect formed of this observation.
There's a soft prod of something against Santana's thigh. Discreetly she looks down to find Quinn holding a small loaf of bread. "For your friends," she whispers as Santana takes the bread and stuffs it deep into her skirt pocket. "I saw those meals they were prepping for you all. They were barely enough for a mouse let alone a man."
"Thank you," Santana murmurs, appreciative as she picks up her spoon again to resume eating.
Quinn gives a small nod before waving toward Stanley. "She's all yours!"
Stanley makes his way back over looking for all purposes like a berated dog even in his imposing form. He leans casually against a tent pole beside Santana as Quinn picks herself up from the bench.
"Didn't seem like you got much outta this one," he notes, deadpan as Quinn brushes down her nurses apron.
"Just idle woman chatter," she says, giving him a winning grin. "Thank you for indulging me."
Santana swears his ears grow red in reaction.
They watch Quinn walk away, both appreciative, yet Santana knows Stanley is for an entirely different reason.
The medical tent of the Southern regiment is a cesspool of dysfunction and disease. Not one patient sleeps soundly on their cot; all seem to be in various fits of pain, suffering silently with leather belts held between their teeth to quell their cries. Their eyes are quick to shift and lock upon the nearest medic whom passes, gazes begging for relief from their misery. Santana follows behind Stanley as he pulls her through the throngs of men toward a partitioned corner near the side of the tent. She finds it hard to breathe, the tent so congested with bodies the air has grown humid and reeks of death.
Quinn hurries up to Santana's side, walking beside her as if she too is escorting her toward the lieutenant. A fact that very much perturbs Stanley if the curious glances toward Quinn as they walk on are any indication.
"Miss Fabray, you're not on duty this evening," Stanley reminds her but Quinn pays him no heed.
"It's too loud to sleep tonight," she tells him. "Thought I could be of more help in here."
"These are not matters for you to concern yourself with," he warns but again Quinn waves off his words.
"I was there with Santana for the procedure," she reminds him, voice edged with tetchiness. "If anyone is to claim she's not done her job I will vouch for her efforts."
The Colonel, Santana thinks, stomach rising up to her throat. He must be dead.
She feels her meal may resurface now as she's pushed inside the curtain partition. The lieutenant is already waiting, standing impatiently beside a man Santana assumes from the blood smeared across the sleeves of his coat must be the regiment's surgeon. She wonders if he's the same drunkard Quinn spoke of, and is given her answer as he plucks from within his double-breasted coat a small flask.
He takes a swig, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. His eyes roam over her form, a suspicious sneer crossing his features as he licks his lips. Santana squares her shoulders against his appraising.
"I assume by now you're aware of why you stand before us," Lieutenant Miller's voice is clip, his anger repressed with a tight grind of his teeth.
"The colonel has died," Santana says. She can feel Quinn come to stand just behind her right side and a soft touch is soon laid to her lower back.
"You were ordered to save him!" Lieutenant Miller bellows at her as he advances.
"And I did!" Santana counters, heated as she motions toward the surgeon. "It is not my fault your doctor let him deteriorate so!"
"I—" the surgeon grows flustered and tries to speak up only to be drowned out by Lieutenant Miller's furious cry.
"You speak lies!"
"I saved his life last night! I cannot help it if transport has—" a hard smack is delivered to Santana's cheek, enough force behind the hit to send her crashing into Quinn's side. Slender arms are quick to steady her as she sucks air deep into her lungs. Her hands shake with unbridled temper as she clings to Quinn's shoulders and rights herself. There's a familiar sensation of blood filling her ear and a trickle of warmth along her neck as it drips down her skin. Quinn's eyes are wide as they meet her own, a flash of panic painted in shades of deep green. They turn hard as they focus past Santana's head.
"She's not responsible for the colonel's death," Quinn tells them, meeting Lieutenant Miller's enraged gaze evenly and with a calm even he is surprised to see upon her face.
"Miss Fabray, your word is needless," he spits. "Step aside."
"Let her prove she can help," Quinn pleads, letting go of Santana in order to step ahead and keep her from Lieutenant Miller's sight. "We've so many here still in need of aid and I can attest to her skill. Major Eckhart, please," she appeals to the surgeon whom stares at both women with a quizzical knot in his brow.
"There are many lying in their own filth," Major Eckhart says after a moment, waving dismissively, and Santana notes, a might tipsily out the curtain. He leers at her. "I trust you can clean an ass."
"You wish to keep a bullet from your head tonight woman?" Lieutenant Miller sneers, peering over Quinn's shoulder. His eyes lock with Santana's, a smirk forming upon his lips. "Clean their shit."
"You too, Miss Fabray," Major Eckhart adds, eyes narrowing at Quinn. "You know more 'en to speak out of turn."
Quinn pulls her lips taut but nods in accordance.
Stanley is assigned to watch over them as they work.
Both women are grateful he says nothing in way to shame them more.
Quinn helps her to clean after, filling an empty bucket out behind the medical tent with nearby stream water. She sets an oil lamp to the ground beside to keep the cold air from touching upon the already frigid water. Santana bends down by the bucket, hastily scrubbing at her skin, desperate to rid the grime and human waste from her hands. Quinn refills the bucket at least thrice until Santana's satisfied she's not a single infectious spot left upon her. Her arms are rubbed red and raw, cuticles swollen from the sheer force of her determination.
Quinn squats down beside her as she begins to clean her own arms.
"You should never have said anything," Santana tells her quietly, sitting on the ground with her legs draw up to her chest. Quinn ceases her washing, turning her head over her shoulder to quirk a brow in question up at the shaken woman.
"Would you rather have been shot?" Quinn counters, unbelieving of such a statement. Santana is not a stupid woman; she's proved that… but this meek version of her sitting here now? Quinn does not recognize her.
Santana digs her chin down into the fold of her arms atop her knees. "No," she mutters.
"Then don't say such stupid things," Quinn tells her, returning to her cleanse.
"I could have spoken for myself," Santana counters, voice layered with frustration.
"Yes and you've a bleeding ear to thank for that," Quinn points out.
Santana let's out a groan, legs falling to cross in front of her as she appeals, "Look, the truth of the matter is I do need your help. The bread, the suture thread from last night, all of it."
"You're welcome," Quinn says, smiling wryly as she looks back toward Santana. "Is it truly so hard for you to say thank you?"
Santana doesn't answer at first and Quinn's once haughty demeanor shifts toward concern upon the nervous look in Santana's gaze.
"What is it?" she asks softly.
Santana is hesitant to speak the truth. With Stanley hovering about them inside the tent it was impossible to have taken a moment to steal a few much needed supplies... and now that they've completed their work she's sure to be returned. Empty handed.
She cannot return with nothing.
"I need more," Santana admits quietly. "I was hoping to take some supplies tonight."
Quinn squints at her. "What kind of supplies?"
"Fresh bandages, some morphine pills if I could find any, a field kit or more suture thread and—"
Quinn holds up a hand to stop her. "That's more than just a loaf of bread."
"My friend's arm has grown infected," Santana implores, and for once Quinn can clearly see the concern this woman holds for her companions. Sore hands fidget with the bunched material of her dress whilst deep lines carve paths across dark brows. She fears Quinn's reply… her rejection. "Please," Santana's voice has gone impossibly soft. "This is my only chance to see something can be done for he-him," she catches herself before too much is revealed, heart pounding relentlessly in her chest anyway.
Quinn ponders on the plea, knowing what her answer is to be but thinking upon how best to voice it. She wants to help, truly does wish to bring less pain to those suffering. She is, after all, here to aid those in need. Sides be damned. But Quinn is also selfish by nature, something she's known of herself for quite some time. And here sits an opportunity in front of her, one with large beseeching brown eyes and a desire she can see will cause her to agree to anything if Quinn will so much as simply nod her head.
She cannot let this moment pass and thus nods her acceptance. "I'll see what I can do," she tells her. "If you could do something for me in return?"
Quinn grins as Santana rushes out, "Anything, simply name it."
"I wish to be taught medicine," Quinn says, smiling hopefully. Santana sputters, choking on the absurdity of the request. "Cease laughing so! Women are frowned upon as even a medic's assistant but here you are on par with the best of surgeons!"
It's a flattering declaration, but still fronted by the most impossible of desires. "You expect me to teach you the entirety of human medical science in a five minute chat?"
"No! Obviously that's impossible," Quinn tells her, blushing as she realizes how poorly she worded her wish. "But even just knowing how to spot an infection, or what the difference between the fevers are?"
"I cannot teach you that now, you know your insufferable man-pup Stanley will be coming for me soon."
"I can come to the field in the early dawn," Quinn says, scooting forward on the ground and wearing that intolerably hopeful smile on her face. "My man-pup will escort me."
"How are you so sure he will?"
"He will," Quinn grins, it's a rather malicious look that crosses her otherwise innocent features. Her gaze shifts toward Santana's bloodstained ear. "And may I please for the love of god tend to that thing festering on the side of your head?"
Santana lifts her fingers to the wound, wincing even at the slightest touch placed against the sensitive swelling. "It's not so horrid."
"Anymore atrocious and I may need to chop your head off before gangrene sets in."
Santana stares over at Quinn, incredulous. "Are you truly so stupid or was that some disastrous attempt at humor?"
Quinn stares at her with equal skepticism. "I'm finding it harder and harder to believe these so called friends of yours even exist, what with your endearing personality."
Santana scoffs. "I'm an amazing friend."
"Do speak louder," Quinn says with a languid roll of her eyes as she tosses the soiled water toward a nearby tree. "I'm afraid I couldn't quite catch that over the arrogance you drowned it in."
"Do you wish to learn medicine or not?" Santana asks her, incensed as Quinn gathers some fresh water from the stream.
"Do you wish for your friends to receive aid or not?" Quinn snaps back, dropping down to Santana's side with the bucket in hand. She retrieves a fresh linen cloth from her apron pocket and dips it into the water.
"For someone who is so adamant they aren't a monster, es una grande."
Quinn presses the cloth gingerly against Santana's injury. "Stop talking," she grumbles.
They exchange no further words as Quinn tends to her wound.
Santana is stirred from sleep in the early dawn hours, the sky still dark and stars bright in the clear heavens. Quinn hovers overhead, breath fogging against her lips as she motions for Santana to sit up. Santana is reluctant to leave what little warmth she is able to garner from sleeping by Brittany's side, but knows if Quinn has come, it is because she's kept her promise. Shivering she carefully untangles herself from Brittany, cheeks warm as she realizes Quinn is watching her every move with great interest.
If Quinn notices anything of the embrace they once held ach other, she says nothing, waiting for Santana to rise.
Once she's sure Brittany and Noah will not stir, she turns to Quinn.
"Here," Quinn whispers, quickly handing Santana a bundled coat. As the material slides across Santana's hands, the fabric strikes something familiar in her mind. There may be little light falling down on them from the stars but she knows the coat she holds is her own. And what more, from what she can feel, Quinn has tucked a small amount of supplies inside the pockets. Santana's thankful look is lost on Quinn whom peers over her shoulder to where Stanley stands with his back facing them just a ways down the crowded field. Relived he's listened to her instruction she turns back to Santana. "I was able to find yours and then grabbed what I could. A roll of bandages, some morphine pills, pieces of dried meat—"
"Wait," Santana halts her hasty stream of words, the unnerved look in Quinn's eyes finally giving her pause. She's not just nervous about Stanley; something else entirely has her on edge. "What's happened?"
Quinn lets out a shaky breath and steadies her hands by tucking her hair back behind her ears. "The regiment is disbanding for winter so my company is headed south, we've a good hospital down there for our injured," she explains and yet Santana fails to see why such news would be hard to deliver. Though it would explain why she keeps shooting looks over her shoulder to the camp. Best ensuring no one is awake readying for departure and sees her, Santana thinks. Quinn's expression grows more enthused as she continues; "I've heard word they are taking you all north today, to the parole camp in Virginia. You should be traded within the month!" she grins.
"We're to march today?" Santana asks quietly, still not wishing for Noah or Brittany to rise. "To the North?"
Quinn smirks. "Did I not fix you up nice and proper?" she asks with a soft laugh. "Yes, you're going back north."
Santana does not return her enthusiasm. She glances down to Brittany, her throat tightening as she dares to think upon what will happen to her if they are to head north… where winter is sure to be less forgiving. "Without coats? Or food?" Santana hisses out, knowing full well the General probably ordered this march for that very reason alone. No use keeping the Northern men here, sharing in his regiment's rations. Send the boys home, he probably bellowed to his captains. And of those that fall at least we'll gain a good set of boots. Santana feels sick at the very notion. "How do they expect half these men to survive that trip?"
"I don't know…" Quinn answers softly, quickly recognizing the dire situation soon at hand. She nods down toward Santana's coat. "I thought these might help."
"Not at all," Santana snarls, though amends. This march isn't Quinn's doing. "Sorry, thank you."
"I wish there was more I could do," Quinn tells her, stealing one last look over her shoulder to where Stanley is now watching her nervously. "I best be going before they begin waking you all," she says, turning back to Santana. A small smile pulls to her lips. "I'm glad to have met you, Santana. Perhaps without all… this we could have even been friends."
"I could… tolerate that," Santana says warily.
Quinn's grin broadens. "Keep safe."
Santana can't genuinely return the gesture. "You as well."
Quinn heads back to camp with Stanley, no one the wiser of her early visit. Santana remains awake, watching the sun slowly rise up over the Southern camp. Her coat is slung over her shoulders and does little to keep the chill from her chest but she cares not. Her back is warm and Brittany rests soundly at her side. She breathes the cold air deep into her lungs, not at all bothered by the sting that burns down her throat.
She must get used to the cold, she thinks. For once Brittany wakes she will forgo her coat in order to keep her better half warm. From the distance, Santana can vaguely hear the sound of heavy approaching footsteps.
A few dozen Southern soldiers walk toward the internment as they did the night before, arms ladled with bowls for the Northern captive's morning meal. The last meal they will receive until they set foot back in northern territory, she thinks.
Looking around at the men as they wake and accept their rations Santana cannot help but notice how many wounded are among the captives. She assisted but only the smallest fraction of them that night beside the riverbank in Hartsville. She sees many suffering broken arms, others nursing twisted ankles, concussions rendered in those with their heads squeezed between their knees, and fever in the ones lying upon the ground with bowls untouched at their sides… so many are sick and weakened, so many broken and battered.
They won't survive such a journey.
"May I garner the attention of those able-bodied enough to stand?" A Southern officer shouts down to the mass of Northern bodies from atop his horse. "You are all to be taken to Virginia where you will be placed and accounted for within a camp better suited to your needs! Parole will be offered weekly with promise of release after a month! If you are able to march stand now and fall in line!"
"And if we can't?" A Northern man yells out, obviously suffering from an abrasion to the side of his head.
The officer's reply comes quick, "Wounded will be transported to our medical outpost a few days journey south! Bear in mind with winter upon us the next caravan north will not be till January! You have a choice in this matter; a decision will not be made for you!"
"Santana, I'll carry her," Noah tells her as the Northern men begin to murmur amongst themselves. From out the corner of her eye she can see most already standing to their feet and forming ranks ready for departure. "Come on, let's fall in."
"She won't make it," Santana whispers, shaking her head. "She needs help, Noah. True help."
"She'll be fine!" He whispers urgently.
"Have you forgotten what a winter in the north means?" She hisses up at him. "A quarter of those men will die along the road of exposure or frostbite and they've more blood in their bodies and stronger hearts than her. I can't risk her life like that Noah…"
Noah wraps Santana in a tight hug just as tears begin spilling from her eyes. "We'll keep her warm, you know we will."
"And who will keep us warm?" she asks, pulling away to look into his eyes. "If you wish to leave I… I un-understand."
He seems hesitant, eyes darting toward the lines of Northern men that grow longer by the second. Everyone is leaving; no one wishes to be moved south.
To them the risk is worthwhile.
"Santana, are you sure?" he asks her, eyes never once straying from her own. She knows the unspoken question of his words.
It is why she gives a single nod.
There is no choice to be had, Santana thinks. Not if Brittany is to live.
And with heavy hearts she and Noah remain behind with Brittany, watching as their fellow men disappear north over the hillside.