AN: Hi everyone! First off huge thanks to all of you leaving reviews and reading. It's great to see how many of you are still enjoying my story. I'm having a blast writing it and have officially locked down everything leading up to the end. Expect the last chapter to be 24. Not much more to go, but a lot to be done! :) Now to answer some anon comments:
To those that are concerned about the story going too dark, it won't. Or at least I don't think so. Things are bad right now, and I won't lie there are some darker moments coming in future chapters. But if your concerns stem from the insinuations dropped by a few characters about what happens to women at the camp, than don't worry. Being plenty warned has also made them all plenty prepared.
To the other concerned that Brittany has been asleep for too long, don't worry she's starting to come to. Though keep in mind it's only been about 2 days since the camp was ambushed and she's suffered a lot of blood loss and now an infection. She won't be up and about for a bit.
And for those asking about Burt and Michael you'll find out where they are, but not for a few chapters still. Lucy's fate on the other hand, indeterminable. But being a crafty snake I'd imagined she slithered to safety. ;)
Now to the hard part. I have good/bad news to share with you all, depending on how you see it. I have just scored a majorly awesome freelance gig (not writing related) that I am psyched to now officially be working on for a nice chunk of change! The downside to this is I already work full time and this gig will be taking up a good portion of the time I would otherwise spend writing this story. I could forgo having a life for the next 2 months to stay on the schedule I have for White Shadows but that would be like depriving a Kardashian of a camera. Simply not doable.
I don't want to go too long between updates though and moving my schedule to an update every other week was already pushing it. If I could ask you all to be patient with me I hope I can still churn these chapters out in a reasonable-ish time. Maybe a week longer than usual? I'm sorry I can't stick to my schedule anymore! Please feel free to check in on my progress if you feel I'm taking too long. I'll keep posting updates on my profile here and on tumblr for those interested. Apologies all around! I promise though this story will be finished. I mean, hell, I spent a good part of the weekend writing up bits and pieces of the remaining chapters. We'll see this through till the end, even if it'll take a little longer to get there than once expected! :) Thank you everyone!
Chapter 20
Shelter
Brittany jostles awake after the cart hits a particularly nasty divot in the road. Her hand immediately slides to relive the tenderness now swelling on the side of her head but the pain inexplicably passes after a few seconds. She doesn't have to think too hard upon why it fades so quickly. This has to be at least the fifth time today she's been woken in such an abrupt manner.
Yet the second in which she's felt nothing in way of discomfort.
Even though she swears the feel and scrape of the cart's wood bed beneath her palms is real, she knows she's not truly conscious. The sky is too blue; smells far too crisp with the promise of a spring still so far off. Everything is too perfect. Even the wound on her arm throbs in too orderly a fashion, the timing of the pulses resonating in her chest feel too numb for this to be her waking world.
She hugs her arm closer to her chest and waits for her mind to wake from this nightmare.
Dreams used to be such a wondrous thing to her.
They were fantastical escapes filled with the bizarre and remarkable. Adventures with Emily through the tallest corn forests in search of frog kings. Riding bareback atop Apple alongside familiar streams, faster and faster till the water and grass became nothing save for beautifully smeared swatches of color. And lest she not forget her current favorite, trysts with Santana in secluded tents beneath purple skies.
She misses the simplicity and joy of those dreams, their magic especially. She'd always wake with a smile, eyes still closed to hold the last fading images to her minds eye for as long as possible. It's such a far cry from the dreams she's been plagued with these past few days. They've become indistinguishable from her waking life.
She's having trouble deciphering what is real and what she's imagined. There are instances when she knows she's entered into the fantastical. The telltale appearance of unicorns tied to cart wagons and talking ducks administering her new bandage wrappings tend to hint wildly at that. It's the dreams that are so lucid she can't distinguish them from reality that frighten her. How many times has she woken to new bandages only to find them still bloodied not a few hours later? How many conversations with Santana have passed? Did they truly argue over whom should be wearing the coat? Did Santana sing for her as she requested?
Of everything that's been said between them… what was even real?
Brittany can't remember and her head spikes terribly with pain whenever she tries to think harder upon the matter. Her blood cannot be rid of this infection soon enough, she thinks, curling further into herself in the back of the cart. She watches as Santana struggles to remain upright, nearly sleepwalking as she trudges along behind the cart. Her arms are stretched far ahead of her, skin rubbed red and raw from the rope bound around her wrists. The cart surges forward over another dip and Santana is yanked closer toward the back gate by the force.
A wince pulls across her tired face as she stumbles to correct her stride.
Brittany's heart twists, knowing she can offer nothing in way of help.
She shifts her focus past Santana, unwilling to watch her suffer so. The sky is orange; whether it is dawn or dusk Brittany cannot tell. Wasn't it just blue? she ponders, worried.
Another jostle of the cart sends her head smacking back against a crate.
When she opens her eyes the once-orange sky is now the deepest of blues. And Santana… she walks just as slowly as before, just as pained.
Brittany hates not knowing which is real.
She feels as if she prefers her nightmares to this new plight. And oh, how she's had them.
There are visions that haunt her, rousing her from sleep in the dead of night with a pounding heart. They aren't the fanciful fears of her subconscious come to life, not these dreams. She's lived them, relives them night after night. Feels the heat of the Northern camp flames rising so high into the sky they seem to lick at the stars. Wants to wretch at the horrifying smell of burning horsehide. Feels her heart stop at the sound of Santana's scream…
She always wakes from those with a start, reaching for where she hopes Santana rests close by. And poor Santana, so exhausted from the days travel, never stirs as Brittany tries to calm her rapidly beating heart. She recalls only waking once to find Santana not curled against her side.
But she also thinks it must be imagined. Santana was sitting beside a small fire which Noah was tending to. He was distracted though; taking glances every so often to the blonde woman by Santana's side. Brittany felt as if she'd lived this before, swore she could feel the worn leather of the journal in the blonde's hands as if it were in her own. This was her. It must have been. Why else was she unable to see the blonde's face? Wasn't that the pinnacle rule of such a voyeuristic experience? She's had enough dreams where she's been Lord Tubbington to know this to be true.
Perhaps it was a time that could have been…
After all, lessons beside a fire with Santana were some of her favorite memories.
She only remembers but a vague snippet of that dream; another must have come to replace it. But it's the one she remembers most vividly as she lies uncomfortably in the back of the cart and watches as Noah encourages Santana to hold strong.
Brittany is so very tired of sleeping.
And so very tired of not being strong enough. She is always there for Santana, always, and not being able to even walk by Santana's side is hurting her far worse than any infection ever could.
I will get better, she wills herself. There's no choice in the matter. She made a promise once to keep Santana safe from harm and she's intent on seeing that pledge through.
No matter what.
She must fall asleep again for the next time she wakes it's much, much later in the day. The cart has stopped and Santana is desperately whispering something against the side of her face. She can't understand a word though, not when Santana is speaking to her in such hurried Spanish. Disappointment doesn't even begin to describe how pitiful she feels for succumbing to the grips of the infection once again. How can she ever be well enough to keep Santana safe when she herself can't even remain awake, let alone decipher if she's truly conscious or not? Warm lips press against a spot just below her ear and Brittany can feel them trembling, her own parting in attempt to express concern.
But her throat is dry, tongue heavy where is rests against the top of her mouth. She tries reaching for Santana and her fingers graze against the blanket hanging loosely from Santana's shoulders.
"I'm right here," she can hear Santana whisper as a sure hand twines with her own. Trying to squeeze back is futile and Brittany's stomach plummets, knowing she can no more lift a finger than she can even manage to open her eyes. She forces them to open though, her vision far too cloudy to make out anything aside from Santana's close presence. But the relief she can feel in Santana's grip is enough to swell her with pride.
She remains awake long enough to feel Noah pick her up from inside the cart, giving him a wobbly smile as she leans her head against his shoulder. He'll keep Santana safe…
His steps begin to lull her to sleep, and she's not sure if she's entered her dreams or not. But she must, she thinks, for unfinished walls does not a prison camp make.
Remembering Quinn's warning, Santana stays close to Noah's side as they near the meadow containing the mill camp. Although, she finds it hard to think upon any concerns for her wellbeing when the camp they are being led to can hardly be called a camp at all. There's no barrier in place to keep the captives from escaping. The start of a wall was obviously abandoned long ago if the grass growing around the log piles is any indication. It spans a few dozen yards before tapering off suddenly once it reaches the stream. On either side a guard is posted and by the looks of it each wearied, miserable and cold.
The ones to her back guiding them onward give her an impatient prod when her pace slows. She forces her steps to hasten and looks ahead into what will be her new home for the foreseeable future.
The meadow is scarce of trees; scarce of life in general. The grass has long since died, the remains of small shrubs now bare and hacked down for firewood and tinder. There are no tents, just scatterings of shanties and shaded coverings made of sticks and boughs of dead pine leaves. Men lay beneath, wrapped tightly in their coats, some fortunate enough to have been given blankets. Not one of the men is in good health, nor is there an inkling of attention shown toward providing them even the most rudimentary care.
She must look away, incensed by the very sight of such neglect.
Settled a ways inside the meadow stands the burned ruins of an old millhouse. The roof has long since collapsed, just a few stacks of bricks and charred beams keep what remains of the walls upright. A blacked pile of wood discarded in the stream is all that survives of the once large wheel. The only solid structure still intact is the stone fireplace, in use now, smoke pouring from it's lip.
It's not at all the picture she imagined of the camp and she's not sure if what she dreaded is worse than what she is seeing now.
Neither can she make sense of the multitude of hitching posts lined in a large circle around the span of the encampment. It's an odd way to form a border, let alone a deterrent from escape. Anyone with working legs could easily hop over or slide themselves beneath. It must be a ruse, she thinks, watching as a few Southern soldiers patrol the perimeter. She can't help thinking back to Quinn's word.
Perhaps they are just horses waiting to be tied and shot.
It's at least a hundred yards or more until the tree line thickens from where the border of the camp rests. Running is not an option, not with someone as weak as Brittany and Southern soldiers as itching for action as those patrolling the boundary. They'll have to wait for the caravan come January.
If one is even to come, Santana amends resentfully.
The soldiers at her back give a final shove to her shoulder as they push her and Noah through a small gap between two hitching posts. She turns instantly, unsurprised to find them retreating back toward the caravan. All save for Stanley, of course, who looks down into the camp with unveiled scrutiny.
"Why haven't you run off like your brothers?" Santana sneers up at him.
"Quinn asked me to ensure you made it safely," he replies evenly, still not looking down upon her. His gaze narrows as he focuses upon something just over Santana's shoulder. When she turns to follow his line of sight she finds a few Southern guards leaning against the wall of the old mill. Even from a distance she can see the sunken skin of their cheeks and the glaze of malnourishment coating their eyes. If this is the physical state of the soldiers, she fears what it will mean for their own welfare. Despite their hardship the two soldiers stare at Stanley with utter scorn. Disdain Santana has a feeling is born of jealously. Stanley's next words have her attention back upon him. "Do not leave your friend's side, you hear me?"
The warning is strange passing from his lips, but the meaning is well inferred. His eyes meet hers for a brief moment, still as jaded and hard as ever. They soften ever so slightly as he gives her a curt nod. It is the most she thinks she'll ever receive from him in ways of concern. So it is much to her surprise when he slips a folded note into her hand. She need not ask, knowing the letter is from Quinn. With another nod to Noah Stanley makes his way back toward the road where the caravan waits.
Noah is staring down at her hand, brow knotted in puzzlement as she turns to face him. She's amazed he seems not at all strained by Brittany's weight but can tell soon he will need to set her down. They've been walking all day to reach this hellmouth; both are exhausted, cold and hungry.
"What do you reckon it says?" Noah asks her quietly as he adjusts Brittany in his arms.
Santana unfolds the letter, anxious to find Quinn's neat script filling the page. But instead there is only one hurried line. "If ever you should need help, ask after me," Santana reads aloud.
The small spark of hope seems to wane in Noah's eyes. Even he expected more.
There will be no asking after Quinn, not in a place like this where those in far more need of help are being disregarded.
Santana doesn't know whether to laugh or begin crying at such a circumstance. How has it come to this? She wonders bitterly, scanning the camp before them. How has she managed to lead them to such a place of no return?
She can't even look at Brittany as she steps past Noah and further into the prison.
Quinn's note is crumbled tightly in her fist. She takes another step and without remorse it's allowed to fall to the barren ground.
"Santana?" Noah ventures, calling for her softly, evidently troubled.
She doesn't turn though. The sky is growing darker and they will need somewhere to sleep protected from whatever weather may descend upon this hell. She's never had to build anything in her life.
She doesn't know where to begin… what to do.
"We should…?" Her usual smooth tone is shaken, a vulnerable quality layered amidst the front of nerve.
Brittany would take Santana's hand about now, Noah knows. She'd tell her that everything will be all right…
Santana never does quite believe him when he tells her the same.
He'll have to show her otherwise.
"We should find somewhere to sleep," he says as he comes to stand beside her. Santana looks up at him, nodding her consent with frightened eyes. He gives her a small smile. "Follow me."
It doesn't take him long to find a suitable shelter. And right beside the stream to boot. Secluded a ways from the millhouse a small leaning structure sits prized for the taking. Some Northern men must have erected it a while back, it consists of nothing more than a couple armfuls of old lumber from the mill propped against an equally old fence railing. A few tattered old blankets tied to the posts keep the chill from entering.
There's a coughing sound from within.
And it is, unfortunately, occupied.
It also doesn't take Noah long to convince the two sick men inside to leave given the show of fists he displays along with a quick, yet Santana notes, gentle threat. Brittany would protest if she were conscious and Santana is thankful that she isn't awake to witness this. The men put up no resistance, one gladly willing to relinquish the shelter once his eyes land upon Santana. Even in times of suffering it seems chivalry is not completely lost. She wishes she could muster the pity to feel remorse at what amounts to nothing less than robbing a man of his home, but she can't. She's no strength left to do anything aside from lie herself down beside Brittany in the cramped space.
Noah pokes his head down inside the shelter, watching for a moment as Santana carefully brushes the hair back from over Brittany's forehead. He clears his throat, smiling ever so slightly at the way Santana glances toward him before focusing back upon Brittany. He can still remember the way she would spring back as if burnt being caught in such a position with his friend. If anything he's glad for her conviction now. When Brittany wakes, she'll be in need of that strength.
"I'll see about getting us a fire started," he tells Santana finally and waits for the vague nods she gives him. He won't wander too far. He wants to always keep them within his sight. There's a small inkling of worry in his gut at the ease to which she's consented to being left alone though. Therefore he must venture softly, "Will you be all right here?"
"As right as can be," is her response, followed by an even more hollow, "I'm sure wherever you go you'll be able to hear my scream."
He swallows down the mass of unease now lodged in his throat. Her words, loathsome as they are, ring true. "I'll be real quick, okay?"
She doesn't answer back though, not whilst pulling Brittany close and burying her face against the thick coat. Santana doesn't move until she can hear Noah's steps fading down the stream. Even then she remains tucked into Brittany's side, nose still pressed against her surgeon's coat. It smells of the cedar wood used in the crates; the scent is soothing despite the annoyance the boxes once brought her. Even more soothing is the way she can feel Brittany's soft breath play against the top of her ear.
She can almost forget where they are when she wraps herself so fully in Brittany's arms.
"This is smaller than my tent," Brittany comments, her tone quieted and rough from nonuse.
Santana's eyes snap open as she pulls back, nearly smacking the back of her head against the slope of the wood beams. She catches herself before she's able, one hand still clutched tightly to the coat lapels on Brittany's chest. Her eyes are quick to dart between Brittany's, searching for the telltale signs of disorientation. But blue eyes are steadily locked upon her own, almost wistful in their gaze.
"You're not really you…" Brittany whispers, smiling sadly.
Santana ignores the way her chest constricts at such an admission. Brittany hasn't been quite herself in these moments but she selfishly still clings to them anyway. Sometimes Brittany's lucid, perfectly capable of conversation for a few fleeting moments before delusions set in and her body forces her asleep before more damage can be wrought. This seems to be one of those times, just like the others where Brittany wakes swearing she's still dreaming. It hurts knowing there is nothing she can do to keep Brittany's imagination from wrecking havoc upon her dreams. She doesn't know which is worse, the infection or the hallucinations Brittany suffers because of it.
Santana tucks her arm beneath her head and reaches forward with her other, tracing a soft line over Brittany's brow. The touch smoothens the knotted skin of Brittany's forehead and Santana feels she's won a small victory against Brittany's turmoil. "Are you hungry?" she asks, knowing Brittany must be starving.
"I ate already…" Brittany answers, before her brow knots once more and she adds quietly, "I think."
Santana shakes her head slowly, worried. "You haven't eaten since this morning, Britt."
"I had bread," Brittany asserts. Santana must know that, she was the one who handed it to her… and there, just on the tip of her tongue, she can still taste the wheat.
"No," Santana shifts closer until their foreheads press against the others. "No, you had cornmeal."
"I don't remember…" Brittany whispers, anxious. Her eyes grow watery, blue so very piercing. "I can't remember what's… w-what's real, San," she whimpers.
Santana is quick to throw her arm over Brittany's side and pull her close. She can feel the hot tears in Brittany's eyes slick against her neck, the sniffle that shortly follows only causing her hold upon Brittany to tighten. "You'll get better, I promise," she tells her earnestly. "And before you know it we'll be exchanged and home soon after."
"Tell me… when I wake," Brittany pleads, sleep pulling her away.
Santana closes her eyes to stop herself from crying as well. "You are awake."
Sleep came very little to Santana that night, even with the warmth of the fire Noah was able to light for them. He slept soundly just outside the small shelter, wrapped in their sole blanket. Brittany fidgeted in her sleep within, the smallest of cries forced from her lips whenever a rather violent dream struck her. Santana held her close throughout, knowing come morn she would need to seek Quinn out. The toxins in Brittany's blood haven't quelled, not in the least. She's in need of medicine or at the very least a muscle relaxer.
Santana's only solace in terms of Brittany's care came from unwrapping the bandages to find the wound healing well. It is now only a matter of Brittany fighting what remains of the vile infection.
Yet the fever she has woken with this morn bodes poorly for a swift recovery.
She needs Quinn's help, desperately.
"Watch her for me, will you Noah?" Santana asks as she sets aside her empty tin cup of cornmeal. It consisted of but a few bites, leaving her hungry still. She can already see Noah poking the shallows of the stream in hopes of stirring awake whatever may be resting in the muck. She doubts there's a fish in there that's large enough to even amount to a snack for a squirrel.
Noah looks up at her, tossing his stick down into their dying fire. A few sparks swirl into the air, but their fury wanes just as quickly as his frustration. "You can't head out there alone," he says, rising to his feet.
"I just need to find someone willing to—"
"Oh, they'll be willing," he insists, blocking her against the shelter entrance. "You remember what Stanley said. You shouldn't leave my side."
"And we can't leave her here alone," Santana tells him, trying to push past him. "I'll be fine Noah, trust me."
"Then I'll go," he says, insistent. "What do you need? I'll get it for you. Bandages? Medicine? Blankets?"
"I need Quinn."
"Even better!" He grins. "I'll see if I can get word to her. Don't move from here," he tells her, guiding her back down to the ground. "Stay low and quiet, all right?"
"Noah, she needs…" Santana begins to say but he's already taking off down the stream in search of a Southern guard.
He returns minutes later and the irritation upon his face is all she needs to know his endeavor was a failure. Noah was never quite so good with words, let alone able to coerce anyone into doing even the simplest of tasks for him. Perhaps a naïve young woman or two but certainly not the hardened soldiers charged with keeping order in the camp. As he plops down to the ground on his back beside her, defeated, she picks Brittany's head up gently from where it rests in her lap.
"Santana?" he asks, confused when she places Brittany's head down on his stomach. She hands him one of the cornmeal tins now filled with chilled stream water.
"I've been dipping the blanket in it and then laying the corner over her forehead," she explains as she forces the blanket into his hands. "She's a fever, so make sure not to let the blanket set on her head too long."
"Why are you giving this all to me?" he asks, before realization dawns on him as she stands to her feet. He sits up, careful not to disturb Brittany. "The soldiers don't care none for us!"
"I'll make them think otherwise."
"Santana!"
She doesn't turn back once she takes the first step away, nor as she hears Noah's desperate calls echo down the stream. She knows he won't chase after her. Not if it means leaving Brittany alone.
It's easy enough to follow the line of hitching posts back toward where they entered the previous night. The passing Southern guards patrolling the outlaying fields leer at her as she makes her way around. She manages to ignore those she knows would prove useless in their word, trying instead to spot a Stanley amongst their lot. For once she wishes he were around, he would surely have gone to fetch Quinn for her.
"I wouldn't get too close if I were you, Miss."
Santana turns at the voice, confused for a moment when she finds no one standing to her back. That is until movement catches her eye near the ground and she's surprised for an entirely different reason. A spectacled man is sprawled on the ground, holding himself upright by slender yet sturdy arms. She's no idea why he greets her from such a position, though many answers begin to spring to her mind as he moves forward upon his hands, dragging his prone legs behind him.
He gives her a solemn look, nodding for her to back away from the hitching post. "It's best you not mess with the deadline unless you want a bullet to your head."
Santana springs away from the fence line, understanding now the hungry look upon the surlier of Southern guards faces. When was the last time any of them ever used their guns?
"I'm Artie Abrams," the man introduces kindly as he raises a hand. "Ohio 108th."
Santana's eyes are riveted to his motionless legs. "Heine's disease?" she asks, though Artie swears the question is more a command.
His brow furrows behind his spectacles. He's not diseased… at least he's quite sure he's not. "What? I don't—"
"Your paraplegia," Santana interrupts sharply, pointing down to his legs. "Was it caused by Heine's disease?"
"I don't... know what that is."
Santana's gaze locks upon his own, annoyed. "Wasting disease, spinal inflammation, weakness, paralysis." Her eyes narrow as she adds with a snarl, "contagious."
Artie brightens. "You're a nurse? We could use one."
"Do you have Heine's disease?" Santana demands as she tries to put distance between herself and Artie.
"No, I'm pretty sure I'm healthy as can be," Artie says, still grinning as he gives his chest a solid thump. He motions down toward his legs. "Got a bullet buried somewhere in my back though, it's why I can't walk no more."
Santana instantly relaxes at his words. While she can argue against his declaration of health, as the young man clearly looks as if he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks, she can more than accept a bullet is case for his condition. She hasn't seen an instance so severe herself, but has read mention of such an unfortunate end coming to those unlucky enough to be struck in such a sensitive location. Though Artie seems not at all discouraged by his fate; if anything his smile widens as he holds his hand back out to her.
"Now that you won't be so disinclined to reject my hand," he tells her and she hastily gives his hand a shake. "Pleasure to meet you miss."
"Santana," she offers, trying her best not to stare. It is rather rude after all, even if she is medically curious. "Ohio 106th."
"I gather there must be more of you, seeing as you're fit as a fiddle," he says, trying his best not to stare as well. He can't remember the last time he's seen a woman, let alone one as pretty as the one before him. For once he's grateful for his condition, for at this height he's sure Santana is unable to smell him. And if there is one thing he's quite sure has come from being stuck in this camp without soap, it's that he must reek to the highest of heavens.
"Two more," Santana tells him, deciding Artie harmless enough to share that bit of information with. "But just one ill."
Artie has always prided himself on his sharp intellect and agreeable sociability. The two went hand in hand quite well when it came to settling grievances between his fellow men as well as consorting with the ladies. He, naturally, preferred the latter events in all cases. He always knew just how to perceive a tick of the eye for a lie and the significance of even the faintest purse of woman's lips. It is why he rightfully infers just what that ill soldier must mean to this nurse, especially as she's not been able to meet his eye since. Let alone the glaring fact that she's agreed to come to such an unspeakable place. He doesn't think he'd agree to come here for anyone knowing what he knows of this hell now.
Not even his imagined future wife.
Though being keen Artie also knows it's not his place to mention such relations, especially in the off chance (though he highly doubts it) his suspicions are unfounded. This one is right and taken, he thinks, the pretty ones always are.
"Well," he says after a moment, his smile still as gracious as before. "He's clearly in good hands."
Santana ignores the flattery. "Is there a stock here?" she asks. "Anything to help the ill and wounded? And why haven't you been given a chair?"
Artie gives a long sigh. "Most aren't given a meal let alone the luxury of mobility. As for your question I'm afraid we've nothing here you may be in need of, not even a lick of tape. We make do though," he tells her, pointing off toward one of the larger shaded shelters. "I helped get that one made a few months back to—"
"A few months back?" Santana sputters out. "You've been here since then?"
"Longer, I'm afraid," Artie replies, somber.
Santana shakes her head, disbelieving. "But what of the caravan they promised? We're to be taken for exchange next month!"
"And what would you imagine I'd fetch? Or any of the men here?" He counters, miffed by her outrage. What had this woman expected? "We're purposely forgotten."
Santana feels what little hope she clung so desperately to is beginning to rapidly slip from her fingers. "So no one has come to attend to the sick? Not once?"
Artie squints up at her, wondering how best to phrase what he wishes to say next. Santana's eyes narrow with impatience and so he candidly her tells her, "Not unless you've something to offer."
Santana bites her lip. So there is a means to reach Quinn, she thinks. "Whom would I speak with about this?"
"I can take you to the man, if you'd like?" Artie offers, though hesitantly Santana notes. "Lieutenant Bryans. He's the quartermaster here. In service terms that means he sees to our supplies, meals and—"
"I know the duties of a quartermaster," Santana snaps. "Spare me the lecture. Where is he?"
"Up in the mill usually, especially on a cold day like today. It's probably best you not go alone, the guards up there have been known to be rather rough and...uncompromising."
"Misogynists?"
"I think the correct term would be bastards."
Santana grins. "Bastards I can more than handle. Lead the way cripple."
Artie amends his earlier thought. The pretty ones are always taken, but they come at a hefty cost.
"Morning, sir, sir," Artie nods to both guards just outside the mill doorway. They make no sign of acknowledgement, simply remaining in their reclined positions beside the doorway. Santana recognizes them as the same from night previous; their gaunt expressions even more repulsive up close. "I've a friend here who wishes to speak with the good Lieutenant."
One of the guards spits out a bite of his tobacco, uncaring as it lands upon Artie's right leg.
"Excellent aim as usual," Artie notes, trying not to be deterred by the man's disregard. At least it wasn't upon his glasses this time.
"L'tenant!" the other shouts, licking at his discolored teeth as he appraises Santana. "Abrams is 'ere with a fine 'lil lass!"
Santana narrows her eyes at him, irritated, which only serves to grant her a wink from the solider.
"Unless she's come with a fresh leg of game I'm not in any mood to be grantin' you yanks any favors!" is the gruff holler they are greeted with from inside the mill.
The solider that spit upon Artie shrugs, reply accepted.
"You've not even heard her—" Artie begins to say only to have that same soldier's foot cut off any further words as he's kicked down to his back.
"Leave him!" Santana growls, pushing the solider away from Artie. She struggles past the other to gain entrance to the mill but his hold is firm and she's tossed back just as easily. "Just hear my appeal, please!" she shouts into the mill entrance, hoping the Lieutenant is listening regardless. "Where is the company that arrived here yesterday stationed now? There's a nurse I need to speak with!"
"I'd be more 'en glad to fetch your nurse ma'am," the other solider tells her as he grabs her roughly by the arm. His breath washes across her face, her stomach wishing to expel her breakfast at the vile stench. "And a fine thing such as you, you must more 'en know the price."
Santana's able to wretch her arm free and shove the laughing soldier aside. But he rounds on her instantly; a snarl smeared across his chapped lips as he backhands her hard across the face. Santana recoils at the hit, her eyes slamming shut against the fresh wave of pain erupting along the side of her healing head. She can hear both soldiers laughing as she wipes the blood from her lip.
Artie yanks her back toward him by the hem of her skirt and tosses a few coins near the soldier's feet.
"There, your price paid!" he says, as he adjusts the glasses back on his nose. "We'll leave now."
"You don't need no nurse!" the solider continues to shout at their retreating backs through his fit of chuckles. "My cock'll do you right swell!"
Santana wants nothing more than to turn around and burry her boot straight into that man's crotch. "Bastard," she mutters instead, blood hot in her veins.
"I'm sorry I ever brought you there," Artie tells her once they're a good deals away. "I just thought, perhaps—"
"That I'd be willing?" Santana barks down at him. "Do I look a whore to you?"
"No! I just… I…" Artie stumbles over his words, shamefaced.
"Don't ever assume to help me again."
"I'm sorry!"
"I care not for your pathetic apologies," Santana tells him, needing to unleash her anger upon someone before she returns back to Brittany. Her hands are shaking and she tells herself it is from temper. But the queasy stirrings in her gut are only ever present when she's scared. She will not cry in front of this man. I will not, she wills herself, biting back the sting in her throat. She turns down to Artie, eyes blazing as she hisses, "You knew what he wanted and yet let me speak my request anyway! If I ever so much as see you hobbling my way don't be surprised if my boot finds it's way to your mouth. Lucky for me it won't take much effort to ensure I find my mark."
"I only wanted to help you!"
"And how you've helped indeed!" Santana cries out, knowing her eyes have finally betrayed her and are now filled with tears. "Are you waiting for my thanks? Is that why you stare at me so pitifully? Well to that end, thank you, pygmy saint of diminutive size and wits, for now I will have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my time here lest I wish to wake to his bastard dick shoved in my face!"
Artie doesn't try to stop her as she takes off down the deadline. When she disappears around a few shelters he wonders more if he'll ever even see her alive again.
Noah is the first to greet her when she arrives back at the shelter. He's on his feet in an instant, eyes wide as they take in the shiner upon the side of her face. "Santana, what happened?" he asks, reaching for her. "Are you all right, has someone—"
"Not now Puckerman, please." She shoves him aside as she falls down to her knees in front of the shelter. Brittany rests inside, half awake as Santana crawls toward her. Lazy arms lift, inviting the bruised woman in. Santana sucks in a ragged breath as she allows herself to fold against Brittany's side and warm arms encircle her close. "Hi, Britt." God, she thinks, even her words sound choked.
"Hi San…" Brittany whispers, placing a soft kiss to her temple. "You sound scared but … you should be all right soon."
She thinks this isn't real, Santana laments as she buries her face deep into the groove of Brittany's neck. "I'm so sorry, Brittany," she breathes out.
"Why?" Brittany asks quietly, confused at the apology. Santana's done no wrong. She turns her head to see Santana better, a pang of guilt striking her gut when her eyes register the fresh bruise spreading across Santana's face. She hates this dream. "Who hurt you? Santana?"
"We'll have to stay here a little longer, okay?" Santana says quietly, knowing better than to answer that question. "That's why I'm sorry."
"But someone—"
"Just sleep Britt, all is well," Santana whispers, tucking herself more comfortably in Brittany's hold. "Is your arm bothering you?"
"No, this is," Brittany insists, trying to sit up. There's not much space in the shelter to allow for her height but she hunches, feeling woozy for a moment. It passes as her gaze settles on the swelling skin along Santana's cheek, replaced instead with the familiar heat of ire.
"It's nothing, I promise," Santana says before Brittany can even say a word otherwise. She recognizes that look in the blue eyes, the one that always makes her knees a bit weak knowing Brittany more than means to set right out and find the man responsible. "Please, let it go."
Blue eyes soften at the request as they meet Santana's. "I don't want this to be real."
Santana tugs Brittany back down beside her. "Then it's not."
"How can you be sure?" Brittany asks as Santana settles her head back atop her chest.
"Because nothing hurts," Santana lies.
It makes well enough sense to Brittany, and she accepts it for truth. What reason has Santana for fibbing anymore? she thinks. But she'll hold tight to this dream Santana anyway, not wishing for her to feel so scared anymore. She kisses her again, happy when Santana melts further against her and even goes so far as to tangle a leg between her own. If she closes her eyes Brittany can pretend this is her tent they lie in, perhaps the sky beyond a splash of purple just like in those dreams she relishes so much. The sounds are different though, but she's an idea to make it all better. "Sing for me?"
"I don't think I've a voice left," is the small reply she's met by.
"You do. It's my dream isn't it?" Brittany says through a yawn. "Please…it's been so long."
Let Brittany live in her delusion, Santana tells herself. Just for a little longer. She nods against Brittany's chest, and wets her lips before starting the familiar song. "Tell me the tales that to me were so dear. Long, long ago. Long, long ago."
Brittany hums in time with the song for as long as she's able. Her voice quiets after a few lines and her breath evens with sleep shortly after. Santana keeps singing anyway, even as tears begin forming in her eyes anew. She doesn't think she's ever been held so safely and yet felt so utterly trapped.
December 18th, 1862
Quinn hasn't heard word from the mill camp in over a week now. There have been murmurs among the nurses, tales of escape and how easily it was for the Northern men to bribe favors of the desperate Southern guard. So why hadn't one of them come with word from Santana? The woman is clever enough to coerce a bribe and Quinn knows she's in need of provisions; she's seen the shipping lists for the mill camp. Not one ounce of morphine let alone one roll of bandages is upon the requests from the quartermaster. She wonders briefly if ever it was listed and yet never supplied. No one in the hospital seems to care there are men suffering not a mile away. Not even with their cabinets plenty filled with stocks readily deployable.
So she amasses a small amount. A roll of bandages one day, a blanket another. Taking a suture thread spool here and some cornmeal there. Just enough for no one to question but no more and certainly no less.
It is easy enough to leave the hospital with her supplies bundled in the blanket and head back down into her company's camp for the evening hours. Avoiding Stanley of course proves difficult but the promise of sharing supper upon her return from a very long bath seems to fluster and appease him enough. She grabs a few extra rolls of bread as she passes the cooks tents, knowing whichever Southern guard at the mill camp she encounters first will bend to her request for safe entrance and departure at the promise of a full belly.
And she's right. She barely even manages to speak her appeal when the guard grabs the bread from her hands and hungrily bites down into it as if this has been his first real meal in weeks. Which, she thinks, is quite possibly true. The mill camp is the last to receive any rations and at that the last to be thought of for future shipments. And with winter now upon the army and companies disbanding, their usual caravans would be few and far in-between.
The guard even willingly imparts to her where he knows Santana and her lot has made refuge. Quinn doesn't know if it's a good omen or a bad one that this man knows where Santana sleeps.
It was just a little after dusk when she left her tent to make the mile trek out to the mill camp. The dark of night is more than welcome now as she slinks along the edge of the deadline in search of the fence shelter she's been told lies just a ways down the stream. The rest of the camp is asleep, small fires just starting to wane without more wood being fed to keep them ablaze.
There's but one fire that she can see ahead beside the stream, so sure it is the one belonging to her friends. Friends, she thinks with a pause. How has she come to regarding them in such light? She's not once spoken to Brittany aside from that one disastrous time the blonde woke and believed she was talking to a mirror image of herself. It'd been amusing at first, until Brittany insisted Santana do something to fix her ugly hair. Quinn felt rather offended at that remark; there was nothing ugly about her hair. There is nothing ugly about her at all.
And Noah, he could hardly be called a friend, what with his incessant flirting.
That only left Santana.
Quinn can see her now, the fire playing across her face from where she sits up against a tree trunk. There's a soft smile upon her lips, one Quinn knows is only reserved for the woman resting down in her lap. There's something amiss in the friendship she's observed between the two women, something Quinn cannot place. Affection, to be sure, but much more than she's seen displayed between other close friends. She doesn't think too much on it, never having had such a close friend in all her life. But the way Brittany reaches up to brush her fingers across a healing bruise upon Santana's cheek speaks differently.
Perhaps women in the North were far more open with their affections for one another? Definitely less reserved than her Southern acquaintances. She's received enough gaudy letters filled with words of compliment and esteem from cousins she's barely spent three minutes time with in New York to know all Northern women must be mad. Santana and Brittany are obviously no exception.
Women you now supposedly consider friends, she reminds herself. Yet they are, she knows, even reluctant as she is to admit it. She approaches quietly, not wishing to startle them.
Noah lies sprawled humming a song as he traces notes in the stars above. She half expects him to be the first to spot her but is surprised when another voice speaks her name instead.
"Quinn?" Santana calls out, astonished. She sits up straighter, a relived smile shakily spreading across her lips. Quinn hurries over as Noah springs up, elated.
"How'd you manage to get here?" he asks, grinning as he helps her to settle beside Santana. Santana looks as if she wants nothing more than for Quinn to answer that very question. Her brown eyes rove across Quinn's frame, searching for something Quinn can't even begin to reason.
"I'm right as rain Santana," Quinn chuckles, hoping to ease the other woman's obvious concern. She pats the blanket in her arms before gently tossing it up into Noah's waiting hands. "And I'll bring more the next time, whatever you need. The guards are easily bribed."
"However you managed to get here this time, count yourself lucky," Santana says, a tinge of alarm still evident in her tone. Her voice hardens though, far more the brusque Santana Quinn's grown accustomed to as she tells her, "You shouldn't try again. Those bastards only want one thing."
They each answer at once.
"Food."
"Sex."
"What?" they also each echo as they turn to face one another.
"Santana," Quinn gasps, horrified. "Has someone tried—"
"You don't think I haven't protected her?" Noah butts in through a mouthful of bread, slighted. "Both of 'em? Ain't no one touching my ladies. Except for, you know, that one time this one here went off on her own," he mutters, pointing over toward Santana with the remaining roll. Santana need not look his way to see the disappointment obvious in his expression. They've had this argument countless times throughout the week and she is sick of feeling guilty for it.
This time it is Quinn focusing Noah's look upon her. "I thought I told you to stick by him at all times. You're lucky that's all that's happened to you!"
"I can handle myself," Santana hisses, swatting away the hand Quinn tries to rise to inspect the bruise further. "And lest you forget I am a doctor so I can also check my own injuries, thank you."
Quinn balks. "You've no issue when Brittany does the same."
Santana's face heats at the remark but Quinn's attention is drawn down to Santana's lap by a burst of giggles from Brittany. Brittany tries to sit up but to no avail. She plops and settles back down in Santana's lap, swiping at the thoughts cluttering her mind as she tells Quinn seriously, "San only ever likes me touching her."
"She's feverish, isn't she?" Quinn finally asks after watching Brittany squirm and chuckle for a moment.
Santana let's out a sigh. "Yes, and we've no means to quell her temperature. Noah and I take shifts keeping her cool in the night, which you think would be easy given that it's so chill here come nightfall. You didn't happen to bring any Quinine with you, did you?" Santana asks hopefully.
Quinn squints, puzzled. "Why would Brittany need it? She's not infected with malaria."
Santana resists rolling her eyes as she tries to calm Brittany back down in her lap. "Your lesson for tonight," Santana quips, pressing another cold cloth to Brittany's forehead. "Quinine has been known to reduce temperatures. Temperatures produced with the onslaught of fever. Fever being one of the main symptoms of malaria."
"I didn't much appreciate all the acidity you dripped your explanation in," Quinn counters. "I did after all risk my neck to come see you tonight."
"Apologies," Santana grumbles, knowing Quinn to be right. She lets out a tired breath. "To be honest we could have used you here days ago."
"I thought you would have called for me sooner. It's why I came tonight, I was worried. Don't look so surprised."
"I don't look surprised… do I?"
"I'm most certainly glad you've come," Noah chimes in.
Santana snorts. "You're glad for anything upon two legs that wanders your way with a vagina."
"Not true," Noah says as he turns to Quinn with a smile. "Only exceptional beauties."
Quinn purses her lips, eyes narrowing at him before she turns back to Santana. "So Quinine you say? Perhaps I can bring some on my next trip."
"My hair looks horrible still," Brittany mentions, reaching up to brush aside some of the hair falling over Quinn's shoulder. Quinn slaps Brittany's wandering hand away, earning her a well-deserved glare from Santana. She's feverish Quinn! "You really must do something San, it's so unsightly."
"Don't pay her any attention Miss Quinn," Noah tells her. "You look a sight as always."
"Unsightly, Noah," Santana corrects him, stifling her laughter. "I believe that's what you said, right Britt?"
"So ugly," Brittany affirms, eyes falling closed.
"Why did I even bother risking my life to come here again?" Quinn wonders aloud.
"I'm sorry," Santana tells her, though it's also said between a few fading chuckles. Quinn's patience wears thinner. "Truly, I'm sorry, you know how people get when they're feverish like this."
"No one ever claims me to be hideous."
"Just your hair though," Santana points out.
"Which is not hideous," Noah adds.
"So your next trip," Santana says, wanting the conversation to move back upon the most pressing of matters. Brittany's wellbeing. "When can you return?"
"Tomorrow perhaps?" Quinn offers, eliciting wide eyes in response from Santana. "Had I known you needed me I'd have come sooner. All it took was a bread roll to gain entry."
If possible Santana's eyes grow wider yet. "That's all it took?"
"Surprisingly, yes."
"A man in want of a full belly will do damn near anything," Noah tells them. "Believe me."
Santana's mind begins churning thoughts far faster than she's able to process them. If but only one roll is all it takes to enter camp…"Do you think perhaps it would work in the reverse?" she asks, voice rising with hope.
Quinn blinks at her. "Pardon?"
A smile has formed across Santana's lips that Noah's not seen in weeks. "If say I were to give them food in exchange for a blind eye, would they let us go?"
Quinn worries her lip between her teeth, but there's a spark of understanding in her eyes. "It would have to be a hell of a feast."
"But it's possible, yes?" Santana ventures, growing excited. "What do they feed you all at the outpost?"
"You're looking at it here," Quinn tells her, motioning down toward the contents of the blanket. Two stale bread rolls and a small package of cornmeal. "This is it."
"Could you—"
"Santana, what you are asking is impossible. It'd take weeks for me to gather enough—"
Santana cuts her off. "Then start tomorrow."
Quinn stares at her a moment, considering. It could work, she thinks. It really could. "If I do this for you I want—"
"Something in return, of course," Santana says with a roll of her wrist. "Name it."
Quinn already knows the answer before she speaks it aloud. But it surprises her to hear it passing from her lips regardless. "I want to come with you."
It's something she's thought of for a while now, what it would be like to simply vacate her position and flee to the North. She's nothing to stay for, no reason not to run. And to think of the opportunities she could have in the North! Schools for women like her in search of better futures, men whom won't assume her sole goal is to be made a wife. Granted, there are probably a great deal of those but she feels she could tolerate them if she were sat beside them in the same lecture. They can't deny her the right to learn. Not in the North.
"That would be deserting, Quinn," Santana tells her, though Quinn notes, in a much softer tone than she anticipated. "And correct me if I'm wrong but isn't that punishable by death for you all?"
"Only if you're caught," Quinn grins, confident. Her mind is made up on this matter. "And let me remind you I am facing the same every day I pilfer more stocks for you."
Santana leans back against the tree trunk. "You don't need my permission to follow us North."
"I want a new life, Santana. I want to be a true nurse. I can't have that if I stay. But with you…"
Santana groans and Quinn finds it impossible that one person can look so frustrated yet all the while stroke another's hair with such regard. "You presume I have a practice. I've nothing in the North aside from a home."
"That's more than I," Quinn admits quietly, eyes meeting Santana's. "To be quite honest, you're the only friend I've ever known…"
It is the most pathetic of admissions, Santana thinks, staring back at Quinn with a criticizing eye. At least Quinn has the decency to look ashamed, her cheeks tinged with embarrassment as she stares down at Brittany. All remains quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the small crunches of bread Noah chews carefully. Santana is just waiting for Quinn to say something, to smirk up at her and declare the admission the most absurd of lies. Quinn is never quite so literal, let alone so… unguarded. But she is, Santana realizes, watching as Quinn reaches out, tucking a wayward section of Brittany's hair back across her ear. She's been so good to them. And would it truly be so bad for Quinn to remain a part of their life?
Aside from the woman being in dire need of a hair trim Santana thinks not.
"Have you always been this melodramatic?" Santana asks with a small smile. Quinn laughs, shaking her head.
She's not so surprised this time when Santana reaches forward and gives her a hug. And unlike before this one is not out of relief, nor some semblance of Northern cordial obligations. This is an embrace simply for her. Santana's next words only reinforce that fact further.
"You've a home with us."
Quinn allows herself to hug Santana back. "Thank you," she whispers.
"I should be saying the same to you," Santana says as they break apart. "You're the one risking everything to come see us. Thank you."
"Wow, sincerity," Quinn quips, though smiles kindly. "How rare."
"I'd like to thank you too, Quinn," Noah says, and for once his tone is not that of a man in want of attention. He nods down to Brittany, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. "You're helpin' her when you've not anything to get in return. That's mighty good of you."
And for once his flattery warms her cheeks. "Santana and I haven't finished our lessons is all," Quinn supplies in way of explanation.
"You want to be a doctor too?" Noah asks, impressed.
Santana watches the exchange curiously and with surprise. Noah is actually being entirely… polite.
Quinn shakes her head, this time her blush evident. "Just a nurse is all. Maybe a midwife someday but that's a long ways from now so who's to know."
"You like babes, eh?" Noah asks and Santana must withhold the exasperated sigh she wishes to expel. Sometimes Noah is entirely far too predictable. "I can't wait to be a father myself, you know, when the right woman comes along and—"
"You can just stop there," Quinn tells him, earning a great measure of respect in Santana's eyes. "You were doing quite well for yourself and then ruined all chance with such trite."
Santana smirks. "How about I detail childbirth for you Quinn, since midwifery interests you so?"
As if on cue Noah scoots forward, reaching for Brittany. "I think I'll go get her to bed and watch over her for a while."
Santana hadn't been joking about instructing Quinn in childbirth, a fact that Noah knows he's only brought upon himself. He also thinks she goes through it once more after just to add more salt to his wounded pride.
It's not till much later when Quinn begins to say her goodbyes with the promise of returning again soon with Brittany's medication.
Noah scrambles out from the shelter, quick to extend a hand down to Quinn. Whether it is her own obliviousness or purposeful Quinn stands without a look spared toward him. He seems not bothered by it as he offers to walk her back toward the deadline, even going so far as to broaden his already large grin and swell his chest high atop his ribs.
Santana doesn't think she's ever seen a display quite so transparently pitiable.
As if by sheer providence Quinn's gaze darts down to meet her own, a look of exasperation contained within as she rolls her eyes and straightens her posture. But her annoyance is mild at best, Santana notes, especially with the way Quinn's lips quirk ever so slightly up. And as with Brittany, the fair-skinned woman is unable to hide the slight blush upon her cheeks.
"I'd appreciate that," Quinn says to him, yet her attention is solely upon ensuring all the dirt has been brushed down from her skirt. She looks up toward him for a brief moment; hands still dusting off the bits of broken twigs from her dress. She's every intention of giving him a smile in thanks but must instead quell the laugh that wishes to spill forth at Noah's overtly confident stance. It seems even men of the North were just as shameless as those in the South.
Though she admits, at least Noah's brazen manner comes from within the heart of, so far as she can tell, a good man. She can't resist though as she gives his chest a few pats otherwise reserved for a touch she'd lie upon a kitten's head and tells him, "The bravado, while amusing, needs to never be displayed again."
"This is what a man looks like," Noah boasts as he extends his elbow out for her to take. His chest is still stuck out proudly and Santana knows his muscles must be starving for much needed relief. The pain must be negligible, or worthwhile, for he shows not a bit of strain in his voice nor upon his brow. If anything his grin grows ever more confidant as he tells Quinn, "You're just not used to it, what with all them sissy Southern boys about."
"Said the peacock to his wilting plume," Quinn says, amused as she links their arms and throws another exasperated look back down to Santana. But Santana simply waves her away with a few wiggled fingers, knowing better than to believe Quinn's expression.
Once they are a good deals away Brittany crawls out from within their rail shelter, not wasting a second as she lies back down beside the fire and plops her head square into Santana's lap.
"I thought she'd never get," Brittany whispers, sighing with content as she flexes her chilled feet closer toward the welcome flames. She must be feeling better, Santana smiles.
"Quinn's not so bad," Santana tells her, hands already running softly through Brittany's hair. "Sometimes irritating, impatient, curt—"
"You?" Brittany interjects with a telling smirk.
Santana gives Brittany's nose a quick flick as she laughs. "Okay, yes, perhaps we're a bit alike."
"And I wasn't talkin' about being happy for her to leave," Brittany corrects herself. "I heard you teaching her about babies. I like Quinn enough but I was getting real lonely in there all by myself. Noah was too busy trying not to pay attention to what you all were saying to even talk to me. He kept putting the cloth in my mouth by accident."
"I'm sorry, I should have sent her away sooner."
"No, you were helping her," Brittany smiles. "You used to help me just like that."
"That feels so long ago…"
Brittany reaches up, her touch more sure as she cups Santana's face in the palm of her hand. "This is just like then."
Santana looks down at her, eyes filled with longing. "Just because we're sitting by a fire doesn't make this in any way the same."
"But it is. Just us talking and—"
"You're sick and I'm..."
"Afraid?" Brittany offers, smiling sadly. "One of us was always hurting in some way and you were afraid for a long time too."
Santana closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath. The feel of Brittany's hand against her cheek is calming but, "This isn't the same."
"It's different but I don't care," Brittany tells her, tucking some of Santana's hair back behind her ear.
"We're in a verified prison camp," Santana whispers.
Brittany gives a gentle tug down on Santana's neck so she can whisper, "And I said I don't care."
Santana shakes her head as she wraps a hand gently around Brittany's wrist. Brittany tries not to look down at the touch. Every time she sees the damage done to Santana's skin by the rope binds she feels her heart take up residence in her throat. "You should Britt. We could—"
"Die?" Brittany whispers, earning her an alarmed stare from Santana. "I'm not stupid San, I know where we are."
"And do you truly not care?"
Brittany thinks upon it for a moment, terrifying Santana with her pause. "I do..." she begins to say, needing those brown eyes not to water so. She rubs her thumb against Santana's cheek, giving her a small smile. "But whatever may scare me about tomorrow or being here hurts less because I know you're here, and Noah."
The words are spoken with such confidence Santana can do nothing more than accept them fully into her heart. She wipes the small collection of sweat over Brittany's hairline, knowing the fever has yet to break despite this lucid moment. She wants this Brittany back, so much so. Her mouth begins to form the familiar words she feels she's spoken to Brittany everyday. I miss you just on the tip of her tongue when Brittany speaks again, shattering the small hope that once bloomed in her chest.
"Even if this isn't real, you're still always here."
How Santana wishes it all a dream.