AN: I hope no one wishes too much harm upon me for it taking this long to update. *sheepish grin* I'm so sorry I did! Thankfully though the next chapter won't be so far off since it was originally supposed to be included in this. I split it due to the headache it was giving me trying to read through the whole thing together. Not that it will give you all headaches haha, I just tend to read new chapters about four or five times through during any given edit session(of which there are many) and it gets to be a bit much when chapters exceed 15,000 words or so. ADD kicks in hardcore man haha.
Anyway thank you so much as always for all the awesome feedback here, in my PM box and on tumblr! I still can't believe so many of you have this story on alert, it boggles my mind to see that number consistently growing by the day. *blush* Hi all! Please feel free to drop me line if you ever have a question or just want to say hi back. :) Hope you all enjoy the chapter and thank you again for being so patient!
Chapter 21
Road Home, Part I
There's a strong scent of pine needles in the muggy dawn air as Brittany wakes. A winter storm having passed as she slept through the night is accountable for such a humid morn. She wonders briefly just how long it must have rained for the smell of it to linger so richly in the trees. She's tired though, and lets the thought pass in favor of a blank mind and relaxed body. Her eyes remain closed as she listens to the soft patter of drizzle against the shelter wall. Occasionally one or two drops are able to slip through the boughs of branches packed atop, but their appearance is negligible. The blanket draped across both women easily absorbs the water, keeping them unaware and dry. It's as calm a morning as they've had since arriving at the camp, even given the dip in temperature the storm has brought.
Brittany breathes the heavy air in deep, stretching her legs out as she stifles a yawn into the crook of her elbow. At her back she can feel the fading remnants of warmth along the ground, the kind she knows belonged to Noah. He must have crawled inside to escape the rain, she thinks. Though where he's gone to now she's not sure. To fetch breakfast? To gather dry firewood? To pursue Quinn? She's not worried though; in fact she is glad for his absence. Her skin already feels aflame and the prickle of sweat along her brow can attest to the fever so ready to break.
She's quite done with being so indisposed.
With a frustrated swipe of her hand across her forehead she removes whatever perspiration has collected during the morning hours. Nothing sounds better to her right now than to simply lie herself down outside this shelter and let the cold water from the heavens above wash over her. That would surely subdue this fever.
And give Santana unnecessary strife.
Brittany lets out a long breath as she finally opens her eyes. She cannot let Santana worry so, not after everything she's sacrificed for her. Turning to her side she stares over at the sleeping woman and wonders when the last time she woke before her was. She can't remember, nor does she think she needs to for the answer is clearly never. Santana is as much in need of rest as she is, possibly more so now. Brittany can see the fever cloth held loosely in Santana's hand; the one Santana always so carefully places over her heated forehead and neck. How late had she stayed up to care for her? How much longer can she carry on like this?
She sleeps now, sprawled on her stomach as much as she can be inside the cramped shelter. Dark hair is unwashed and tousled. The smell of dirt, smoke and sweat are thick upon her clothes. And her cheekbones… they're more prominent than ever before. Alarmingly so. She looks not at all the woman Brittany once knew.
Any yet she's still beautiful, even in ruin.
For all the misery she sees, Brittany still wants this moment to be real; forces herself to believe it with all her heart. She doesn't want to forget seeing Santana like this. Look at all she's given up for you, she tells herself. Look at what it's done to her…
She wants something tangible to remember, no matter how insignificant a flash in time it may be when it's all over. If all of this camp she's able to recall is this, it will be enough.
To her, it says everything.
Soon Noah will return from wherever it is he's wandered to, but right now Brittany has this moment. She's not sure what she wants to come of it exactly, but her body seems to have decided upon a response for her. Her fingers twitch, itching to reach forward across the small space separating her from Santana.
Slowly, not wishing to wake her just yet, Brittany slides her hand over the tattered blanket they've fashioned into their bed. Never once has such a small movement sounded so loud to her ears. It blares around her as if a torrent of commotion instead of a simple brush of fingertips against fabric. She stops, so sure Santana must have heard.
Santana doesn't stir though, not even a crinkle of her nose.
Brittany's gaze darts up toward Santana's ear, heart sinking as she recalls just why the woman may be unresponsive to sound. Will she ever hear from that ear again?
A drop of water falls down from the shelter covering, splashing against the back of Brittany's hand. It's the smallest of invasions yet sends a chill of shivers rolling down her arm. A momentary reprieve from the heat otherwise seeming to consume her.
Her hand does find its home, nestled just against Santana's jaw and the blanket. She can't tell whose skin is warmer, but brushes her knuckles along Santana's skin anyway. It must be her own, she knows, letting her fingers splay upward to caress a taut cheek. She misses the soft curve that would have once met her touch, worrying for what this new contour must mean for Santana's health. Brittany's used to skipping meals, sometimes even going a day or more without a bite to eat. Months spent living only off of watered down potato broth. Winters could be harsh upon farmers in Lima. But Santana's not accustomed to such conditions and Brittany's fairly sure that before coming to this war a meal was never once skipped at her home.
It ain't her home no more, she reminds herself ardently. And it never was.
And even though a small part of her feels need to bring thoughts of Santana's wretched father forward, Brittany is quick to push any memory of Dr. Lopez aside. He is dead and gone now, never to bother them again. He deserves no ounce of pity, nor a second spared in mourning. He deserves to be forgotten, she thinks. Always.
Even so, he's not completely banished from her thoughts. For despite all his many faults he did provide for Santana a life seldom few ever achieve. How could a small farm in Lima compare to the sophistication of a city like Cincinnati? How could Santana ever wish to stay with her, poor and hungry as her family is at times? How could she ever feel provided for when Brittany feels she can hardly provide for herself…
How will Lima ever be good enough?
The fear is one that has seldom shown its face to her for she's kept it purposely buried. Santana deserves the best in life, something Brittany knows she will never be able to give her once they return home. Happiness will only extend so far before the weight of life in Lima settles in.
Emily is dying…
Santana is starving…
Brittany closes her eyes tight to keep any more such thoughts at bay.
When she opens them again she makes a promise to herself. She may not be able to provide the life Santana was once accustomed to but she will damn well do her best to make sure she doesn't ever have to see Santana like this again. Not ever.
"I'll take care of you, San," she whispers to her with utmost conviction. Santana's eyebrows crease, dipping just a hair lower along her forehead. Brittany runs her thumb softly over the sharpest point of Santana's cheek, urging brown eyes to open. "I promise."
Santana makes a throaty noise in response, almost questioning in its cadence. Brittany can't help but grin at how endearing a sound it is. She watches as Santana slowly wakes; first a shift down of her shoulder as she rolls up to her side. Her eyes remain squeezed shut as she inhales deeply. Then they open lazily with a long hum followed by Brittany's favorite moment; the smile that pulls across Santana's lips once her gaze focuses upon blue eyes. It's sleepy, assured and most of all content. A perfect contrast to their circumstance.
A perfect way to forget all her troubles.
Santana turns her head slightly into Brittany's touch, nuzzling her cheek against Brittany's palm. She presses a light kiss to the center, lingering with a smile. Brittany feels a firm knot tie itself deep within her gut, her skin growing more heated in response. Santana's smile fades as she pulls back from Brittany's hand, expression unsettled. Not a second later she presses her lips harder into the center of Brittany's palm. Brittany grows confused yet keeps her hand still, knowing Santana would only become more concerned if she were to suddenly pull away.
"I swear I washed it," Brittany says quietly, hoping it's a mere issue of cleanliness. Though why Santana would need to kiss her to prove it she's uncertain.
Though to be honest, she also doesn't recall washing her hands at all.
And if she had it would have only been with water from the stream.
How she misses soap.
Santana shakes her head in answer as she places Brittany's hand back down to the ground. "You're too warm," she notes in a whisper as her eyes flit across the deep blush spread upon Brittany's face. Dark eyes meet Brittany's own, concerned. "And you're all flushed. Do you feel hot?"
Brittany does, more so now than when she first woke. She gives a nod, though knows the heat now is exacerbated by far more needful impulses. She nods again.
This time it's Santana's hand that comes to rest against Brittany's cheek. "Would you like me to get you a cool cloth?" she asks, touch tender.
Brittany shakes her head, not wishing for Santana to leave. They've not been alone in so long. Noah would be back any minute…
"Quinn is going to bring you some medicine soon," Santana tells her softly, brushing a small section of Brittany's hair back across her forehead. Brittany's eyes fall closed as Santana runs her fingers back behind Brittany's ear. "It should help bring your fever down."
"I don't feel so sick," Brittany murmurs, eyes slowly opening once more.
Santana's smile falters, a flicker of something passing in her gaze that Brittany can't place. The fingers tracing gentle patterns behind Brittany's ear still, slipping down to rest along her neck. There's a trace of disappointment in the way Santana let her hand fall so. Her next words echo the sentiment. "Then tell me," she whispers, leaning closer. "Is this real?"
Brittany wants to nod. Yes, this is real. How could it be anything but? She knows she's taken too long to answer when Santana's eyes grow somber, and the once hopeful crease at the corner of her mouth disappears. She's asked her this question so many times, Brittany's answer never seems to be quite enough. Will Santana even believe her now? A fog begins to form in Brittany's mind, vision tunneling the longer her response remains unspoken.
Santana slips back, eyes cast down to the blanket in an effort to hide her letdown.
Brittany thinks she was never so good with words anyway.
Lightheaded, she surges forward, and with a tug against the back of Santana's neck crashes their lips together. There's a yelp of surprise from Santana, muffled as Brittany's lips quickly fit against her top. If Santana had any qualms they are swiftly forgotten when, far more assured, Brittany pushes her down onto her back. The siding of the shelter rattles against the sudden impact, rainwater slipping down between the cracks to splash against Brittany's back. She cares not as it soaks through the fabric of her uniform shirt. The cool sensation is welcome, quelling her heated skin beneath and easing the burn rapidly building deep in her belly. She always feels like this when kissing Santana so thoroughly. All flashes of fires licking at a suddenly weightless heart. Unbounded and real.
She always forgets to breathe.
Somewhere in the back of Santana's mind she knows she shouldn't be immersed with Brittany in such a way, not while she's in need of time to recover. But to hell with all of that, she also thinks, squirming under the touch Brittany trails with a hand up her side. Her breath catches, swallowed in another kiss.
Brittany can definitely rest later.
Stopping is the last thing upon Brittany's mind; so intent she's become with searing this memory as real. Santana tastes of stale bread, all tepid and unpolished. She's hesitant in the way she deepens the kiss, almost embarrassed for what Brittany must think of her state. Though if Brittany minds her actions show it not, lips more than willing to part for a tongue to slip between. It feels strange, kissing Brittany in such a way without fear or care for what's to come. But all rational thought fled the moment her back hit the ground. She has only fragments of thoughts now, fears far removed.
The feelings which burn so hotly within her may spur the boldness of her movements but they're never truly the source of her actions. It's never just a kiss between them. Sometimes it's an apology or a promise, slow and lingering. Countless pardons made and desires returned. Hungers quenched, understanding reached. This is no different. A change of pressure from Brittany a sorry for all that has been wrought upon them. A nip of a bottom lip replies that it matters not. Santana draws Brittany nearer with a cup of flushed cheeks against her palms. We're okay.
And when Brittany pulls away she momentarily bemoans the end of their kiss, her expression appropriately dismayed by the loss. Until that same tongue drags a hot path down her neck and all abandon is gone with it.
Santana arches up from the ground, one arm thrown behind Brittany's shoulders as the other desperately tries to find purchase in the blanket they lie upon. Whatever noise wishes to spill from her lips is held back with a whimpered breath, her stomach a mess of flutters in all its empty glory.
Brittany eases her back down with a press of her hips against Santana's, this time a grunt of satisfaction more than making itself heard. Her mouth draws a path back up to Santana's ear, a gentle nibble placed against the healing skin. "You're real," Brittany answers her finally, easing any pain she may have caused with a soft kiss. "Real, real, real…"
Santana pulls her down sharply, hugging Brittany as near as she's able. Her eyes have predictably started to water with tears she feels too ashamed to acknowledge. Crying over such a simple admission? Truly? She's glad Brittany can't see her face, but more so glad the fever is finally starting to break. She's missed her Brittany; this one. She never wishes to let her go.
Brittany pushes up just enough to continue her trail back toward Santana's mouth, only the slightest of pauses paid when one of Santana's knees draws up between her thighs. She bites down a bit too hard on Santana's neck at that move, eliciting a hiss and fingernails driven into her arms in response.
"Sorry," she whispers, kissing the mark her teeth rendered against Santana's neck.
"I know you're hungry but my god, Britt," Santana says, unable to hold back a chuckle. "Cannibalism is so unbefitting you."
Brittany doesn't really understand why Santana finds her own statement so amusing. Cannon balls are certainly nothing to joke over. And entirely unbefitting of her indeed. Sometimes Brittany thinks Santana loses her mind a bit when she's with her like this. Brittany feels rather proud of the fact.
"How long till Noah returns?" Santana asks, breathless as she moves back up to her side. Brittany's kisses against her neck slow. Santana can feel the hum of thought Brittany makes against her skin, and with a groan sinks her hands into short hair to keep her in place.
"Don't. Know," Brittany says between each new press of her mouth against untouched skin. She hovers up over Santana's lips, just grazing them with her own. "Soon?"
Their eyes meet; Santana's dark and squinted in consideration, Brittany's clouded with want and anticipation. Santana's heart beats faster at the look.
It's quiet save for the sound of their mingled breaths and steady flow of the stream just beyond the shelter wall. So the ting of Santana's fingernails against Brittany's belt buckle rings piercingly clear. Brittany's stomach muscles clench, a shiver soon following when Santana's fingers brush just beneath the waistband of her slacks. Her eyes flutter shut and she inhales sharply, arching her hips closer in hopes Santana's hand dips further.
Santana kisses her soundly, pulling away just enough to admit her desire aloud. "I don't think I can wait till we're home." It's barely a whisper, spoken low and honestly.
Brittany's unable to speak, voice reduced to grunts and garbled English. She nods her agreement instead and hopes she answered right. Should it have been a shake?
Does tangling her feet between Santana's and tugging her arm lower count for anything?
She thinks she's being plainly obvious.
So it is with much relief that she feels Santana's hands work to undo the belt. Dark eyes are focused down when Brittany looks upon her. There's a look of concentration about Santana's features, hidden beneath her craving for this to continue. A heedless fear remains in the shadows of the back of her mind, reminding her that Noah is sure to return shortly with their morning meals and they must make haste. Her trepidation is gone when Brittany's lips are once more upon her own, slick and swollen and wonderful. Santana need not unfasten the sole button of Brittany's slacks, enough space having formed with the release of her belt. Without hesitation, she slides her hand beneath the loose waistband, fingertips quick to slip between the apex of Brittany's thighs. Searing heat meets her hand, along with a sharp pain in her face when Brittany's forehead collides with her nose.
It still stings as Brittany pushes her body closer, but the pain is negligible, practically forgotten as she quickly endeavors to bring Brittany a much-needed release.
Brittany hasn't even noticed her carelessness, too consumed with the feel of Santana's fingers brushing against her to care for anything more. She bucks against Santana's hand with a moan and throws a long leg across Santana's hip for better contact. Santana doesn't think she's ever seen Brittany look so intent upon anything as she does now with her hand trapped in precisely the way Brittany wishes it to be. Flashes of white spot Brittany's vision at the feel of one of Santana's fingers slowly tracing around her center.
Santana can't tell if it's the fever that's made Brittany so hot or if she simply burns like this for her.
"Santana," Brittany breathes out, her hip pushing down firmly against Santana's hand. Kissing her again, Santana adheres to the plea, her longest finger easily curling within the folds. Brittany pulls away from the kiss with a gasp, head thrown back as her hand digs into Santana's arm. She can't catch her breath, nor does she wish to. Her lungs are starved for air she feels she doesn't need so long as Santana continues the slow pace within her. She pants hard, erratic against Santana's ear, broken whispers of instruction uttered for every breath she's able to spare. If only she'd just, ah… "Yeah, there," she manages to rasp out.
"Ladies, I have procured us breakfast," Noah calls out as he plops down just a few feet beyond the shelter entrance.
Santana halts, breath held, waiting for the inevitable appearance of Noah's head peeking inside to find them so obviously entwined. Never to hear the end of it, she thinks with an inward groan. Brittany pauses too, heart pounding frantically against her chest and Santana's. She's unwilling to move, her leg still firmly locked in place across Santana's hip, two of Santana's fingers very much buried within her. The heat is unbearable, twisting inside her so thickly she clutches harder to Santana's arm in response. She catches Santana's eye, silently begging of her to continue. She knows Santana wishes to, can see it just there in the darkening of her gaze.
Slowly, quietly, she rolls her hips forward against Santana's palm. The heat radiating from within her belly dissipates, replaced instead with that inebriating shiver she's quickly grown addicted to the sensation of.
"Brittany," Santana hisses, and yet despite the admonishment in her tone she curls her fingers deeper. Brittany must bite back the groan and shudder that ripple through her. "Just a moment!" Santana quickly throws over her shoulder, hoping the words are enough to keep Noah away.
Brittany wants to cry out as she pushes her hips faster against Santana's motions, but pulls her lips between her teeth before she can utter a sound, face buried in Santana's hair. She clings tighter to Santana, eyes tautly shut and teeth bearing down hard into her bottom lip. Sweat breaks out across her skin, shirt sticking to her body. Santana's teeth rake against the hollow of her throat and Brittany's toes curl within her boots as she finally comes undone. She trembles in Santana's hold, heat escaping from within her in a heavy sheen of sweat upon her skin. Her legs convulse, twitching, one kicking against the shelter wall and sending the remaining rainwater atop them both.
"If what I think is going on in there, is truly going on in there without me…" Noah's voice warns in jest from just behind the entrance covering.
Santana lets out a growl, still holding Brittany to her as she snaps, "Keep away, Puckerman!"
Loud laughter carries into the shelter, retreating in sound as Noah settles himself back beside the fire ring. "Well, that about confirms it," Noah says between his fit of chuckles.
Brittany rolls onto her back, grinning despite herself. Her limbs feel tingly and weightless, mind a wonderful muddled mess all centered upon Santana. "I love you," she whispers in a slur. "So, so much."
Santana stares down at her for a moment, the softest of smiles upon her lips. She mouths the same back before hovering close to tell her, "Stay here as long as you need, Britt. I need to go… deal with, Noah."
Brittany gives her a crooked smile in return. "Remember when I told you… you make me feel like I've… a fever?" she asks between long drawn breaths.
Santana nods, recalling the memory. Her face heats remembering what else transpired afterward, and a smirk forms to her lips. "I could see about cooling you off," she says, gaze venturing down to the topmost buttons of Brittany's wrinkled shirt.
"Your breakfast is cooling off," Noah notes, now bored and put out in tone.
Santana purses her lips to keep the chuckle bubbling in her throat at bay. She raises a brow down at Brittany, a silent question of 'well?' upon her expression.
"Maybe later?" Brittany whispers, hopeful.
Santana leans down, answering her with a quick kiss.
Noah is staring impatiently at the shelter when Santana finally emerges. With a roll of his eyes he motions down to where he's laid her cornmeal, sullen as he slurps at his own tin cup.
"I can't believe you both," he mutters between small mouthfuls. "Five minutes I was gone."
"It was not five minutes," Santana's says without pause for thought, slighted. The tin cup stills in its path to her lips, eyes widening as she realizes how implicating her tone truly sounded.
Naturally, when she looks up, Noah is smirking at her from over the rim of his cup.
Santana lets out a groan and tosses a burnt stick at his head. "Bastard."
"I'm a man, Santana," he says with a chuckle. "I've needs."
"I've need to reintroduce my palm to your face but you don't see me making motions to see that desire met."
Noah waves the threat off. "I'm too far from you anyway."
"As if that's ever stopped me from hitting you before."
"No," Noah notes, grinning slyly. "But you wouldn't want to hurt your hand before your session with Britt later now, would you?"
Santana smirks back. "You may suffer the inability to bring yourself – and let's be honest here— a fleeting ounce of flesh indulgence when dealt a wounded hand, but I've two which are both perfectly apt."
"You do realize you're basically implying you'll be having sex with her again today, right?"
"That would be wonderful!" Brittany chimes in, still from within the shelter.
Santana feels her cheeks warm. "We were not having sex."
"The land of delusions you call home is somewhere I need to frequent," Noah tells her as he reclines back against a tree. He crosses his arms over his chest, staring over at Santana with a pout. "Because you were, and it was probably great, and I am entirely jealous."
"As you should be."
"So you admit it then?"
"Not ever," Santana grins, about to bring her tin cup back up to her mouth when Brittany crawls out from the shelter. She sets it down, reaching for Brittany's own only to stop when a blonde head lies itself down in her lap. Santana smiles down at her. "Hi, Britt."
"Can't even walk," Noah mutters beneath his breath, folding his arms tighter as he sips at his breakfast with far more hostility than it demands. "Unbelievable."
Santana throws him a silencing look from over her shoulder.
"I feel hot again," Brittany tells her, adjusting into a more comfortable position along the ground.
Noah pushes off from the tree. "I'll get her a cloth," he says, all past joking pushed aside. Santana had warned him countless times of the consequences that would come of leaving Brittany's rising temperature unchecked. She never quite made it to saying death, Noah already promising to do whatever he could for her the moment Santana needed a hand. He looks at her confirmation now.
Santana gives him a nod and genuine smile in thanks. He may grate upon her every nerve, but when it matters, he can always be trusted.
"I felt okay with you," Brittany whispers, brow furrowing over closed eyes. "Everything's spinning."
The fever, Santana thinks, forlorn. It hasn't quelled a bit. "Here," she whispers softly, rubbing a soothing pattern over Brittany's tense shoulders. "Relax and lie still, it'll pass."
Brittany squirms. "It's too warm out here."
Santana touches a hand to Brittany's cheek, alarmed to find her so heated. She looks up in search of Noah, only to find another man making his way toward her.
One she never wished to lay eyes upon again.
"Leave us!" she hollers out to Artie, incensed that he's sought her out.
"Miss Santana, I—" Artie begins to say only for Noah to plant himself firmly in Artie's path.
He looks down at Artie, perplexed by why Santana would sound so worked up over such a harmless-looking man. His expression hardens though as a thought comes to mind. "Is he the one who struck you?" he asks Santana, gaze set in a glare down toward the disabled man.
"No! No, he's not," Santana quickly supplies upon seeing the way Noah's fists begin to clench. She lets out a sigh. "Noah, it's fine."
"You all see him too?" Brittany asks, surprised. Then she leans up toward Santana to whisper, "I think he's come for our legs."
Santana feels she cannot deal with two such setbacks at once. To Brittany she offers a calm hand through shortened hair, to Artie a biting dismissal. "Leave cripple."
"I'm sorry to have bothered, I just wished to make amends," Artie explains, realizing the man upon the ground must be the one whom Santana stayed behind for. Of what he can see the man seems pained by something, his shirt drenched in places with what Artie presumes to be sweat. A fever, he knows, now wary of approaching. Artie forces his eyes back upon Santana, unsurprised to find her own gaze narrowed with distrust. "I've spoken with a sentry, near the southern wall. The company is stationed here for at least a fortnight more. He's agreed to find your nurse for you, if you still require her attention."
He is met with silence from Santana and the cracking of Noah's knuckles.
Knowing when his presence has expired he gives a tip of his cap toward her. "I'll take my leave now."
Santana watches as he pulls himself away, his useless legs heavily dragging behind him over the muddy ground. Brittany makes a noise in sympathy for him as she settles her head back down in Santana's lap. Santana doesn't share in her pity. There's only the slightest twitch of – what she feels is – unwarranted guilt bubbling in her stomach. For she can't help but wonder what he had to give up for that information. Not that it matters now that Quinn's found us, she also quickly amends to herself.
Brittany begins humming a familiar song, quiet and heavy-eyed.
Santana's anger and guilt are easily forgotten.
Artie Abrams too.
December 22nd, 1862
With the passing of the rains has now come a blanket of fresh snow. And as always the air warms just ever so slightly with its appearance. Santana's always struggled to understand why when the ground has frozen over that the temperature somehow rises. She's glad for it though, even the few degrees of difference makes for more comfortable nights spent curled at Brittany's side. And with Brittany's fever gone, she need not worry about wetting cloths in the stream during the dead of night. No more hallucinations, no more fever dreams.
They smile more now, even still trapped as they are.
Quinn has come every night since that first. Foremost, she returned with Quinine for Brittany. The next time, it was forceps for removing her stitches, in exchange for which she received a much-needed lesson in frostbite from Santana. Food never accompanies her; so unwilling she is to take more than the amount she's been stealing from the reserves in arrangement for their escape. Quinn feels horrid having to hand over whatever ration she was able to squander for a bribe to the Southern guard she's now begun to favor on her trips. Her friends are more in need of the meal than he. When she arrives at their small camp she tries not to stare with worry at the way they seem to lose weight by the day. Santana's already caught her a few times too many. The retort thrown her way afterward just as harsh as the lines now etched along her face. Their once fitted clothes drape loosely on their famished bodies. They're so very hungry yet too proud to ever admit so. Only Brittany seems in high spirits, greeting Quinn warmly upon every visit.
They share a smile before the smell of her unwashed body meets Quinn's nose.
She tries not too breathe in too deeply when she sits beside them all.
Upon Quinn's last visit she managed to smuggle a fresh bar of soap. It hardly helped to clean them much, the stream water too frigid for bathing properly and tin cups too small for heating enough to wash with. She helped Santana with her hair though; the woman adamant that if soap was to be used her hair was the first thing upon her body in need of attention.
She wears it braided now, not knowing when next she'll get the chance to wash again.
Brittany finds it becoming, always wanting to pull it down over Santana's shoulder whenever she tosses it behind her neck.
"It looks better this way," she always says as she moves it back, letting her fingers brush against Santana's neck as she does.
But Santana pushes it back after a few minutes anyway, just waiting for the moment when Brittany will notice and come adjust it again.
She sits beside Santana now after once such occurrence, absentmindedly twisting the end strands of the braid between her fingers. It's nearing supper time and soon they will need to kindle their evening fire to ward off the chill of night. But for now they idle the hour away as so many have done since they were forced into this camp. Santana's focused down upon the game of chess she and Noah have crudely drawn into the dirt. She moves a clump of snow forward, her pawn melting just a tinge more with the warm touch of her fingertip.
Brittany's never cared for the game but she managed to make a few horses for Santana upon request. They're a might headless now but nevertheless far more distinguishable than the lumps of snow and sticks Santana has made for her other pieces… and far more appealing than the rocks Noah uses for his. Chess reminds her home. Of evenings sat beside fires when the snow was too thick to head to town. She'd watch her father and Emily play for hours; never once tiring of the stories they'd all share. She misses them so much.
She's not paying attention to the game being played now or the petty name-calling that's ensued. Her eyes are riveted to her arm, unable to look away from the pale skin. Brittany hasn't seen her bare arm in weeks and now without the bandages she's grown so accustomed to wearing she feels a bit exposed. She is itchy beyond belief as well. The feel of her shirtsleeve feels foreign as it rubs right over the now sealed skin. Santana had been so meticulous in her work last night as she pulled the stitches out. It's still a bit tender to the touch, especially after having slept upon it in such a funny angle and Santana's head didn't help pressing against the crook of her elbow as it did.
Brittany hadn't the heart to move her.
But she's happy for the loss of the bandages, even if the reminder of the night she gained them is forever scarred across her skin. She releases Santana's hair to trace over the jagged mark.
"It looks like a river," she thinks aloud, tilting her head as she squints down at the scar. "A lousy one." She scratches at the raised and bumpy edges.
Santana's hand is quick to cover Brittany's, stilling any more harm she can do upon herself. "Don't," she warns softly. "You're still healing."
"But it itches so bad, San."
"That's normal," Santana explains to her, sliding another clump of snow nearer to one of Noah's pebbles. He fumes silently. With a smirk first thrown toward Noah, Santana turns to Brittany, her smile relaxed. "In another week or so it won't bother you at all."
Brittany lets her forehead drop down to Santana's shoulder with a groan. "I don't want to be here in another week," she mutters.
Noah looks up from the game, staring over at Santana with understanding. He can help no more with this wish than she. Quinn is the only one who can determine when they are to leave. Their fate is in her hands. Santana lets out a breath as she leans her head against Brittany's and rubs her thumb gently over one of Brittany's crossed knees.
"We're getting away from here as soon as we're able," Santana tells her.
Brittany pulls away to look at her. "When?" she asks, eyes darting between Santana's in search of the truth. It's always soon; any day now Brittany, don't worry Britt. We'll be home soon. She's tired of the uncertainty. She's tired of being here. "When, Santana?"
Santana blinks, biting her lip as she says, "soon."
Brittany's eyes squeeze shut against the word.
"Brittany," Santana sighs, reaching for her.
"I think I'll go fetch us supper," Noah mumbles, giving Santana an apologetic look before he stands to his feet and leaves for the ration distribution line.
"I know this isn't a hard camp to leave," Brittany says, motioning in the direction Noah walks. "I've seen the fence. Anyone could walk right past it!"
"It's not just that," Santana tells her, her tone quieted as she waits until Brittany's heated stare is back upon her. Blue softens, the hard line of Brittany's mouth easing as she sees the in dread brown eyes. "They'd shoot us before we can make it to the trees."
"I'm not sick no more," Brittany says, her smile faltering yet hopeful. "That's why we stayed wasn't it? So that I could be well enough to run?"
Santana's gaze drops down to her lap. "Part of it…"
"Then why else?"
"Quinn needs to collect enough food so the guards nearby turn a blind eye," Santana explains and instantly Brittany understands. For once Santana is not in control. She's trusting their lives to Quinn. Everything. "She's not enough yet. It's all upon her…"
Brittany leans forward, surprising Santana with a hard kiss. "I hate it here," she mumbles against full lips.
"We all do," Santana whispers back in similar fashion. With a few more pecks Brittany pulls away, smiling at her confidently. Santana tires to return it but instead quips, "Let's just hope Quinn's a much better thief than student."
"I was a terrible student once too," Brittany points out. "And you didn't give up on me."
Santana's grin turns shy as she admits, "I just wanted to be near you."
"I know," Brittany whispers. "You would get just like this back then too."
Santana let's out a huff and a laugh. "I did not. I was horrid to you."
"Your words were mean but your eyes said different," Brittany elaborates, walking her fingers across Santana's palm. She draws an apple over the warm skin and gazes up through her lashes at Santana. And there, plain as day, Santana's gaze has softened considerably at her touch. "Just like they are now."
Santana closes her hand around Brittany's, relenting to her with a smile. "So it would seem."
"I can't wait to go home with you," Brittany tells her, eyes bright.
"We will," Santana says, raising Brittany's hand to press a solid kiss to the back of her fingers. "I promise."
"I wish everyone could leave with us too," Brittany tells her as she tosses some dry firewood into the ash filled circle in preparation for the fire she and Noah will work to start upon his return. She perks, remembering, "Can the half man come?"
Half man? Santana asks herself. It only takes a beat for her to place the term to a face. Artie. Of course. Leave it to Brittany to recall that momentary instance where he dragged himself into their lives. She rather hoped Brittany had forgotten or, at the very least, believed it all a vivid dream. "He can't walk Britt, how do you expect him to—" Santana begins to say only for Brittany to interrupt.
"You didn't leave me when I couldn't."
Santana swallows hard. "I love you Brittany," she tells her thickly. "Of course I'd never leave you."
"Maybe Quinn could bring a horse for him? Or Noah could—"
Santana shoots up to her feet, shaking her head as she exclaims, "No, no, we're not asking more of Quinn! He cannot come Brittany!"
"He'll die if he stays here..." Brittany says quietly, pressing her finger down atop one of her snow horses. He melts beneath her fingertip.
"And we'll die he if comes with us," Santana whispers, insistent and scared.
Brittany hates that she's made Santana sound so utterly terrified. She stands as well, quick to wrap the shivering woman in a tight embrace. Santana buries her face against Brittany's neck, her hands clutching to her back as if they've already tried to run and failed. Calmly, Brittany brushes a warm kiss to Santana's temple. "Do you know what day today is?" she asks gently.
"Um…the 21st or 22nd, I think?" Santana answers, unsure as she allows herself to meld against Brittany's body. How simply being in her arms like this takes the fears away Santana will never quite understand. But she's so thankful for it.
Brittany hugs her close. She'd a feeling it was getting that time. "It's almost Christmas."
Christmas. The word echoes in Santana's mind, thoughts instantly returning to the cheer upon Brittany's face whenever she'd speak of the holiday. It was never celebrated in her home, not in the lively way Brittany spoke of Christmas in Lima. She was lucky to receive a greeting from her Mother, let alone any such sentiment from her Father. She'd sit in her room on Christmas night, staring out the window at the snow-covered street, watching the families walk door-to-door exchanging good tidings and song. It all seemed so ridiculous and… and worthless to her. Who'd ever wish to spend a night singing songs at a stranger's door?
Santana knows she'd be willing to till dawn now if only Brittany were to simply ask.
She pulls away just the fraction it takes to look up at the taller woman. "I promise you Brittany," she whispers. "Whatever it takes, we'll be gone from here before then."
"Spectacles."
Artie is both as unsurprised by her sudden appearance as he is the term she's used to greet him.
"I've a name Miss Santana," he tells her, not once looking up from his work of mending one of the tables used to hold their meals. He can hear her shuffling behind him before her feet enter into the edge of his vision. "Though I doubt you'd care much for—"
"Stop talking, cripple," she snaps. "I'm here to offer you freedom."
At that Artie pokes his head out from beneath the table. He squints up at her, wondering aloud, "From what, exactly?"
She rolls her eyes. "From this hell, obviously," she hisses down at him. She spares a look over her shoulder before crouching down to his level. "We've the means to manage a small party of us a way out. You included."
"That's… that's incredible!" Artie sputters, grinning broadly. "When? How?"
The glare Santana bores into him has any more questions stilling in his throat. "Speak any louder and the whole of camp will know!" she admonishes, groaning. "Christmas and the how is not of your concern. And frankly I am only asking as Bret wishes you to join us."
Artie smiles at her warmly and Santana feels need to pummel a few of the nails in his lap into the side of his head. "Please thank him for me," he tells her, genuinely touched. "Of course I wish to come… but there is another I can't go without."
Santana growls. "No, no one else!"
"But he's my good friend and I assure you he'll be an asset!" Artie says, hoping to convince her for he truly cannot abandon David. They've been through hell together in this camp; his life saved more than once by the bigger man. "He can carry me and we'll not breathe a word of this to anyone else. I swear it."
Santana knows he's right but nevertheless scowls at him as she says, "Just be ready when the times comes."
"The both of us you mean?" Artie asks, needing her to confirm. "We should both be ready?"
"I regret ever coming here," she mutters to herself. She looks back to him, exasperated and furious. "Yes, the god damned both of you."
"Thank you, Miss Santana! Truly, thank you!" Artie gushes, trying to scramble out from beneath the table to shake her hand, anything to show how grateful he truly is.
She backs away before he can even come close enough to touch her boot. He thankfully has the good sense to keep his mouth shut as she walks away. But Santana still feels she's just laid nooses about all their necks by inviting him anyway.
Quinn arrives late in the night, long after the last logs are put over the fire and Brittany succumbs to sleep from sheer boredom. She hastens in her steps as she nears the dying fire where her friends rest. As always she spots Noah first, he is most alert in his spot reclined against the usual tree. He's on his feet the moment his eyes lock upon her own.
Santana sits up from where she is sprawled along the ground soon after, expression relived now that Quinn's arrived. Though what little reprieve seeing her has brought quickly vanishes upon taking in the disheveled look about Quinn's person. Her usually-immaculate hair is a frayed disarray, cheeks and coat sleeves smudged with soot and dirt.
Noah helps her to sit, expression verging from concern to anger and back again so quickly it makes Quinn's head spin.
In rapid succession he asks her, "Has something happened? Someone hurt you? Are you hurt? If anyone so much as touched you I'll—"
Quinn's cheeks flush under the attention but she shakes her head, assuring him she's fine. "It's a bit of a disaster at camp right now is all," she tells them both. Neither Noah or Santana find solace in those words. Unrest in camp could surely not attest to such a state. They share a look of worry before turning back to Quinn. She sighs at the twin stares they fix upon her. "I swear it, both of you, I'm fine."
"Then what happened?" Noah asks.
"What a month of continuously shrinking rations will do to men tired of war and wishing to return home," Quinn tells them, brushing some of the dirt from off her dress. "One squabble turned into two, which turned into a brawl which, unfortunately, erupted into chaos."
"And you were in the center of it?" Santana asks, gauging her opinion upon Quinn's appearance now.
"I was nowhere near any of it," Quinn explains. "This is from trying to keep the wounded from still lashing out at each other once in hospital beds."
"I mean this as no offense to you Quinn," Santana says. "But you Southerners are entirely mad."
Quinn grins. "The day I can call myself a Northern woman will be the happiest day of my damn life."
"I'm just happy you're all right," Noah says, relaxing now with the knowledge Quinn is unharmed. "We were real worried for you."
"Only you both, it seems," Quinn notes, spotting Brittany's boots peeking out from within the shelter.
"It must be well past midnight, Quinn," Santana tells her, affronted. "She tried staying awake."
"You take jokes horridly," Quinn deadpans. "Though I'm sure Noah and everyone upon this Earth with a brain has told you the same."
"See Santana," Noah boasts. "Quinn thinks me smart."
"Quinn thinks you've a brain," Santana corrects him. "Not one word was said about the intelligence it supposedly holds."
Noah looks back toward Quinn, as if waiting for a rebuttal to Santana's words. Quinn gives him a shrug, comment quickly forgotten as she dives straight to the matter of her visit. "Seeing as we're running out of provisions soon I was thinking come another two weeks or so we could finally leave."
"A fortnight is too long," Santana answers, her gaze darting toward Brittany's boots. "It needs to be sooner."
Quinn purses her lips. "How much sooner?"
Santana locks eyes with her. "The 24th."
"W-what?" Quinn sputters, shocked. But Santana is clearly serious, her expression the grimmest Quinn's ever seen it. "That's too soon!"
"Have you enough?"
"Maybe? I don't know! I'd like more if possible but…" she trails off, momentarily counting all she's acquired within her head. She gives Santana a small, hopeful smile. "It could suffice."
"Good," Santana tells her before also informing her, "Because we've two more coming."
This time Quinn's voice raises several octaves. "What?! Who've you told? Santana!" she exclaims with a growl, leaning toward the resolute woman. If Santana thinks the Southern men mad than it's clearly because she's oblivious to the lunacy within her own mind, Quinn thinks. "No, it's impossible. There's nowhere near enough for even the dumbest of guard to turn his back with that many of us."
"Then whatever further he may ask of you," Santana admits quietly, resigned as her gaze drops down to the fire. "I'll…I'll consent."
Quinn's throat tightens, all her ire vanishing at Santana's softly spoke surrender. She looks up to Noah, hoping she's heard wrong. But she's not, for even he stares over at Santana in dismayed shock.
"Santana… you can't mean you'll—" he begins to say only to be drowned out by her curt reply.
"I said whatever they ask," she snarls, voice unhinged as she hugs her legs into her chest. "What's the day?"
"Tuesday. Why?" Quinn asks.
"The date, Quinn. What is the date?"
"The 23rd, if I recall."
"Tomorrow then," Santana implores. "We must leave tomorrow."
Quinn's expression softens as she scoots up to Santana's feet. Placing her hands over Santana's knees she beseeches of her, "Santana, see reason, you—"
Santana's eyes have begun to fill with tears as she looks back up at her. "We can't be here for Christmas, Quinn. Please."
"If what I have is not enough…"
"I told you I would consent," Santana says, choking upon her words. She swallows hard. "Don't make me say it aloud."
Quinn squeezes Santana's knees. "I don't want it to come to that either, but you're pushing your luck with this."
"Then let's hope your guard is desperate and stupid enough to accept your payoff."
Quinn reaches forward, wrapping Santana in as secure a hug as she's able. "We'll make it out of this war," she promises. Her eyes meet Noah's from over Santana's shoulder, pained still by Santana's disposition. She shakes her head slightly at him. No, she wills for him to read upon her lips. No one will hurt her. He nods, understanding and grateful. "Have faith," she whispers, needing them both to hear her words.
They'll need all they can muster to pull this off.
December 24th, 1862
Brittany and Santana take a walk with Noah the next day, hoping to familiarize themselves with the spot Quinn has been using to sneak into the camp. The deadline is nearer to the tree line than elsewhere in the camp, but only by about a dozen yards. Hardly a large distance when compared to the hundred that separates them from the safety of forest cover.
They don't dare touch the faded wood of the fence, getting close enough to see the marks left behind by bullets in the past.
Brittany holds tighter to Santana's hand when she notices them.
"Thinkin' of wanting your blood spilled ta our ground?"
The hairs along the back of Santana's neck rise at the familiar voice. Brittany notices the hand twined with hers twitch ever so suddenly. She turns her head around, meeting the beady eyes of a Southern guardsman. She need not even ask, knowing forthright this is the one who laid hand to Santana.
She tires to step forward; intent upon speaking her mind only for Santana to hold her firmly back.
"No," Santana whispers, keeping her gaze deftly held toward the trees. He will leave eventually, they just have to ignore whatever words he feels need to pathetically string together. No matter how much they irk and upset her. We'll be gone soon, she reminds herself.
Noah though, cannot keep his own mouth shut now realizing the same as Brittany. "Does striking a woman make you feel more a man?" he demands, approaching the soldier without pause. "Where I hail from it makes you a coward."
"Noah," Santana hisses, reaching for him but he's long stepped from her range.
"I see you've two cocks already fightin' for ya, eh Pierce," the soldier chuckles.
Brittany's eyes widen, heart stopping as she fears her true self revealed. Her eyes meet Santana's, panic stricken, only to grow immediately perplexed by the calm contained within the open brown. How could Santana care so little for what he's just said? How?! She wills her answer.
"Ignore him," Santana tells her, then finally turns upon her heel to grab hold of Noah. "Let's go," she says, dragging him from the soldier before anymore can be said.
"My offer still stands!" the guard hollers after them.
Santana swallows down the bile rising in her throat at his accompanying whistle.
Noah shakes free of Santana's hold once they're a good deal away, quickly rounding in front of her to demand, "What was that? Why did you haul us off? He deserved a good verbal beating! I'm not stupid enough to punch him!"
She doesn't answer him, knowing he full well he can sort the reason out for himself.
Brittany though, she needs to speak with.
"What just happened, Santana? I thought he meant me but it was you? He called you Pierce. I heard right, didn't I?" Brittany turns her gaze toward patient brown eyes, her confusion made clear in Santana's telling stare. "You… you've been using my name?" she asks, voice soft.
Santana gives her a small, shy nod.
Brittany squeezes her hand tight, unable to stop the large grin from spreading across her face.
If ever there was assurance that Lima would suffice, this is surely it.
"How can you be smiling Brittany?" Noah asks, feeling as though he is the only one still incensed by that encounter. "He hit Santana!"
"I know and I'm right and mad," Brittany tells him, completely understanding of his judgment of her currently. "But San's right, we can't do nothing."
"I'm goin' to kill him! That's what!"
"And what will that bring us Noah?" Santana counters. "Aside from the swift nooses or, if we're lucky, swift bullets?"
His anger quickly dissipates at the truth in her words. "I just don't want him hurting you none again."
"I've not left either of your sides because of it," Santana tells him. "He's nothing but words now. Poor ones at that. And besides, we'll be gone from here soon."
No one argues with her on that.
They return back to their camp where Artie sits beside another man Santana thinks must be the friend he'd mentioned. The Northerner is all shoulders and neck, tall as he stands to shake Noah and Brittany's hand in greeting. He offers a shy smile as he takes hers, giving his name, "David," and a nod before sitting back down once more.
"We just wanted to thank you again, for allowing us along," Artie says by way of explaining their presence here so soon in the day. He withdraws from his pocket a handful of money. "I know it ain't so much but we're hoping it'll help in whatever way you see fit to use it." The stare he gives her at that is both telling and full of apology.
Santana can't help but wonder if he'll ever stop trying to apologize for that day.
"Thank you," she says after a moment, collecting the money into her coat pocket. "It may prove useful indeed."
"Should we stay here till it's time, or?" Artie asks, pointing back off toward center of camp.
Santana gives a nod, "Yes, go rest and get all the sleep you can before nightfall. Meet back here soon after."
"This is really happening, isn't it?" he asks, not expecting a response. He's excited, nervous and feeling sick all at once. David can't stop grinning as Santana gives them yet another nod.
"We'll see you all tonight, then," David says, his voice surprisingly quiet and yet kind. With little effort he arranges Artie up onto his shoulders, standing tall with the disabled man's legs held securely in his arms "Thank you again, Miss Santana."
They head off and not a minute later she feels a warm kiss being laid to the top of her head. "Yes, thank you," Brittany whispers to her.
Santana leans back against her, closing her eyes and hoping tonight is not her last upon this Earth.
No one can move from their spots scattered around the fire, each silent, eyes riveted to the flames and thoughts about the escape they are soon to undertake. Santana trembles in anticipation, Brittany's hand held tightly in her own doing little to quell the uprising of nerves in her gut. So much could go wrong… Quinn could still not have enough for the bribe. Would the guard even wish to have her? What if he desires Quinn instead? Would she be willing? Would Noah keep his wits long enough in that instance not to have them all killed? Or Brittany for that matter? She hasn't even told her…
She groans inwardly at the absurdity of her derailing thoughts. Yet the fear is still a very real possibility. Anyone but the two from the mill, she pleads silently.
Brittany kisses her discreetly just at the bottom of her ear. "It's okay," she whispers softly, too quietly for anyone to hear aside from the ear it was meant for. No one even pays them an ounce of attention, too lost in their own thoughts of mortality. "Just don't let go, okay?"
Santana leans her head against the side of Brittany's, nodding despite the way her heart twists painfully in her chest. She squeezes tighter to Brittany's hand.
"I love you," Brittany tells her for what feels the hundredth time just this hour alone. It never fails to warm Santana's heart and bring the slightest of smiles to the corner of her lips.
"I love you too," she always tells her, even despite the meek and cracking cadence of her tone.
Quinn comes a few hours past the dead of night. Brittany pulls Santana up to shaky feet, draping the blanket around them snuggly and never once letting go of her hand. The group is quick to extinguish their fire and follow Quinn down the stream and back toward the nearest deadline. David carries Artie upon his back, steps somehow lighter than Noah's even given the extra weight.
"You've no idea how lucky you are to have picked tonight," Quinn tells Santana as they hastily make their way forward. "The regiment is mustering to head West right now."
"Another fight?" Santana asks, glad for the distraction.
"This time with those they're supposed to be engaging," Quinn explains quietly. "They'll be to Murfreesboro by dawn light."
"What does this mean for us?" Noah asks, confused as to how a battle could help them with their escape.
His answer comes in way of the horse Quinn has left tied to a deadline post beside a rather agitated and nervous looking Southern guard.
"The cavalry left the ones they felt unfit for the battlefront. I managed to sneak him away when everyone was running about readying," she grins, proud for having managed to steal the most worthwhile thing of all. Brittany walks up to the large mare, smiling gently at the horse as she runs a hand down its warm brown neck.
"You snuck her away," Brittany corrects, scratching just under the horse's jaw. "This one's a she."
"Whatever she is, you all need to be gettin'" the guard snaps at them, motioning for them to head toward the tree line. "If our boys come round like they're supposed to in a minute—"
"We're leaving," Quinn tells him, sliding her haversack from off her back and shoving it into the guard's hands. "As promised."
He tears open the canvas flap, grinning at the contents stuffed tightly inside. Noah manages to see at least a month's worth of cornmeal packages, dried meat and a tin of coffee before the guard slings the pack over his back. Quinn has more than lived up to her word. Santana has never looked more relieved.
Brittany unties the horse from the deadline and with Santana's hand still held within her own she brings the mare over to David and Artie. "I think she might be a little easier to ride," she tells them, positioning the horse right beside them.
"Here Artie," David says, hoisting Artie up onto the horse's back. His legs hang loosely at the mare's sides but within a few seconds both Brittany and David manage to secure his feet into the stirrups.
"Stop dwadlin'!" the Southern guard urges in a whisper.
Quinn and Noah are already a few yards ahead when Brittany gives a gentle yank on the horse's reins and leads her forward. She's too afraid to quicken her pace, so sure a brisk trot on such a quiet night would alert more Southern guards to their position. Santana continuously takes furtive glances over her shoulder to ensure the same, eyes darting in every which way across the snow-dusted field in search of even the slightest movement. She feels a sitting duck, a large sitting duck now beside an equally large horse.
"Almost there," Brittany whispers, pulling Santana closer against her side. They can just start to distinguish the trees from one another, safety only but a brisk minute's walk ahead.
They only make it a couple yards more when the sound of gunfire breaks into the night air.
The horse cries out loudly and what Santana thinks is a bullet hitting her shoulder turns out to be the reins that are whipped free from Brittany's hand.
"Run!" Quinn screams out from ahead just as another two shots pierce through the field.
Santana's heart races as she wills her legs into a sprint. The horse crosses her path, rearing with Artie desperately clinging to her back, obviously spooked by the loud rifle rounds.
Brittany pulls her back just before the horses massive legs can come down upon her head. They fall to the ground, her head colliding against Brittany's collarbone. Noise explodes around her not a second afterward, drowning out whatever words Brittany shouts to her deafened ear. She's lost in a torrent of noise and snow, her heart pounding loudest of all.
The horse lets out another cry as she rears to her hind legs and Artie is thrown from her back. There's the sickening crunch of bone as hoof meets leg. Santana's riveted to the ground, unable to move, watching in a blur as Brittany calls to the frightened creature, her plea's desperate for the horse to calm.
David's gargled shout fills her head as a bullet rips through his throat.
He crashes down to the ground beside her, eyes wide and lifeless, blood staining the snow a deep red. She scoots away from him in a panic, hands tripping upon a hidden divot in the field. Her back meets cold ground once more with a hard smack.
"Santana!" She can hear Noah screaming for her from the tree line.
She scrambles to rise to her feet, anxious to find Brittany, only to have a hand yank her back down to the ground. She twists within the strong hold and comes face to face with Artie.
"Stay down!" he tells her, frantically pointing back toward the deadline. There's a trail of blood in the snow from where he's pulled himself over, clearly his leg that was smashed beneath the horse's hooves. His face is pale, whitening more with every second that passes. He's already dead in her eyes. There's no saving him.
There's no saving them.
She can still hear the horse whining loudly into the night and snaps her head in the direction of her cries, relieved to see Brittany alive still trying to calm the beast.
She tries to stand and again Artie holds her down, weaker this time.
"Please, Santana," he pleads with her. "He made me promise… not to let…you get up…"
Santana stares at him, understanding of his words but not believing Brittany able to have imparted them. Not like this! She must have though… Brittany could never let a horse suffer such a fate, not if she could stop it. And with the bullets flying overhead it is safest on the ground.
Santana feels her stomach clenching, wishing to empty to the snow.
The gunshots blare louder in her working ear. Guards are approaching fast. Santana focuses past Artie's shoulder toward them. She counts two of them, her heart stopping as familiar gaunt silhouettes register within her mind. The mill men.
"SANTANA!" Noah hollers, desperate. "BRET!"
"I've got her!" Brittany shouts, quickly turning the horse toward the far open field and away from her fallen friends. Another gunshot blasts into the air, the bullet quick to imbed into the mare's hind. She lets out a deafening whine, her head thrown back with pain as she whips in Brittany's direction and sends her hurtling down to the ground several feet away.
"Got 'im!" one of the guards exclaims, breathless as he makes his way across the field.
Santana spares a look down toward Artie, an apology in her eyes before she wretches free of his hold and scrambles low across the ground to Brittany's side. The horse's footsteps fade down across the field as she hurries to try and help Brittany back up to her feet. A bullet whizzes just past her head, sending a shudder down her spine.
"I told him to keep you down," Brittany says, dazed as Santana hauls her up against her side.
There's a scream from the tree line, "NO!"
And then a kick lands square into her lower back.
She's thrown down to the ground along with Brittany, body instantly covered with snow. A boot presses hard into her shoulders, keeping her pinned as the unpleasant feel of a heated rifle end is pressed against the back of her head.
"Attemptin' to leave us now, are ya?" the guard asks, smacking his lips as he spits out a portion of the tobacco in his mouth.
"You an your husband 'ere?" the other says in similar position above Brittany. Her eyes find Santana's, clear and wide. Terrified. "He ain't so much. Real skinny feller huh."
"Bet 'is dick is real skinny too," the guard hisses, leaning down closer. "I'll fill ya up better 'en he ever will."
Brittany lets out a snarl, thrashing underneath the hold of her guard. "Don't touch her!"
Santana shakes her head as much as she's able, pleading silently for Brittany to stop. She's never seen blue eyes so enraged, nor so full of tears.
Another gunshot echoes across the field, quieter than the rifle rounds. The guard to Brittany's back chokes before falling back, dead, the coat over his chest quickly pooling with blood. Before Brittany can even move another gunshot follows, this time the guard atop Santana collapses to her side.
Santana stares, stunned at the small bullet hole buried into his temple.
Brittany pulls her away with a hard tug, hugging her close as she presses desperate kisses across her face and jaw. They're still sat in the snow as the crunch of feet into the ice meets their ears. One pair of boots stops beside them, another two still rushing over.
Brittany never wants to let go Santana, so unwilling to even now. She dare not look up.
Santana does, stunned to find Stanley standing just above them, pistol in hand. She doesn't think she's ever missed him more than she does this very moment.
"You best get up," he says, tone his usual detached void. He prods her with a push of his boot.
Noah and Quinn arrive just as she's helping Brittany up to her feet. Noah's arms instantly wrap around both woman as he breathes words of relief against their heads.
"Let's go, before more come round," Stanley tells them, motioning with his pistol for them to head back toward the tree line.
Quinn looks as if she wants to say something to him but holds back as his stony expression turns upon her. Without word he points again toward the safety of cover.
"Artie?" Brittany asks as Santana takes firm hold of her hand.
Santana spares a look over her shoulder. His body lies motionless in the snow just a few yards off. She gives a shake of her head, squeezing Brittany's hand. Noah picks up the fallen saddlebag from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder as they quickly make their way to the trees. He watches closely as Quinn takes furtive looks from the corner of her eye to Stanley, unable to make out the expression in her gaze. Stanley's own expression is set in a mask of agitated indifference. The only sign of his anger is expressed in the tight line of his now cleanly-shaven jaw.
He gives a push to Santana's back, hurrying her forward as they pass the first few trees of the outlying forest. They don't stop until the camp field is shrouded from sight.
At which point Stanley explodes. "What are you doing here, Quinn?! What are you hopin' for?"
"I don't know!" Quinn shouts back, still so confused by his sudden appearance. She's torn between thanking him and meeting the fire in his voice with her own biting words. As she stares up at him, she realizes he's probably been following her all night. It is so like him to keep checks upon her like this. She sighs. "I don't… I just can't be here anymore."
"So you're deserting?" he demands. "That's your answer?"
In the distance, the faint sounds of the camp coming to life carries into the trees. More guards will have already found their fallen comrades. They'll be sure to search the tree line soon. They are sure to find them. "Quinn, we need to go," Santana whispers urgently to her.
Stanley points his pistol at Santana's chest. "She's not goin' anywhere with you."
Brittany moves in front of her. Noah is quick to join her side.
"You think I won't shoot you boy?" Stanley asks her, laughing. "Or you, Puckerman?"
"Bret, please," Santana pleads, reaching for Brittany's hand.
"Quinn wants to come home with us," Brittany tells Stanley, voice firm. "You could come too," she offers.
"I'm not a traitor," Stanley spits out with a scowl.
"Please Stanley, put the pistol down at least," Quinn beseeches.
His eyes meet hers, softening ever so slightly. He doesn't lower the gun. "You never wanted…" his voice wavers, catching as he speaks. He leaves the rest left unsaid, face heating even admitting such in front of these people. Of course she'd not want you, he thinks bitterly to himself.
Quinn shakes her head slowly. "I'm so sorry."
Santana slowly turns her head toward Quinn, boring a hole through the side of her head with the heat of her glare. A heartbroken man holds a gun pointed to their chests and she feels this is the time to be turning down his affections? Knowing better than to say a word of protest, Santana silently seethes by Quinn's side. She'll settle with smacking her to hell and back if they survive this.
The pistol in Stanley's hand shakes in time with the tremors of his arms. His lips purse, breath held sharply as he wills himself to do what must be done for the better of the Confederacy. He grits his teeth, finger just pressing against the trigger.
Brittany reaches back, fumbling for Santana's hand. Their fingers twine quickly, shouts of Southern guards approaching in the nearby field.
Stanley fires off a shot with a pained holler.
Bark explodes out in a small array from the nearest tree at their side.
"Go on then," Stanley says, backing away. He fires again, this time at an opposite tree.
Santana throws her arms around Brittany, hugging her from behind. Quinn ignores them, stepping forward toward Stanley only to stop when he fires off his last bullet into the tree branch beside her head.
"Go!" Stanley cries out, far more emotion strained into his voice than Quinn feels he's ever shown.
Santana need not be told twice. Ensuring Brittany's hand will not slip from her own with the quivers they both fight to control, they take off toward the thickest of trees. They stop when Noah and Quinn's footsteps don't follow at their backs.
Quinn is still staring at Stanley, the look upon her face lost to all except the man so unwilling to meet her eye. She says nothing though, not even when Noah takes her gently by the arm and tugs her away.
Together, the four run off into the trees, disappearing from Stanley's sight.
He collapses to bended knee just as a dozen or so Southern guards make it into the tree line.
When they ask which direction the group has fled, he feels a sense of loss and pride as he points them toward the wrong compass bearing.
They run until their legs are about to collapse and their lungs burn from the cold. Brittany is the first to start feeling the pain, weeks of bed rest leaving her winded after only a few short minutes. She bends, hands clutching her knees as she tries to draw air deep into her stinging chest. A fit of coughs overcomes her and Santana is right at her side, urging her up.
"Just a bit farther, Britt," she tells her, wrapping an arm behind Brittany's back.
Brittany wheezes, shaking her head as another more forceful cough rips out from her throat.
"Here," Noah says, scooping her up into his arms. She's lighter than ever before, but his legs still protest the added weight, arms straining to hold her steady against him.
"Is she all right?" Quinn asks, worried for the way Brittany curls into his chest. She pales. "Was she shot?"
"No," Santana tells her quickly, eliciting a heavy sigh of relief from Quinn. "She's exhausted, it's only been a few days since the last of her fever went."
"We should be far enough now to slow," Noah says, craning his neck behind him to look through the trees. His eyes catch upon their footprints, stomach sinking. "The snow," he catches Santana's eye and nods down to ground.
Without word Santana pulls the blanket off from over her shoulders. She and Quinn take a side each and retrace their path, dusting the blanket over the snow as they hurry to hide their tracks.
"They've hounds you know," Quinn mentions quietly as they work. "This won't matter."
Santana doesn't stop. "If it spares us even an hour it is worth it."
Once enough of their steps have been covered they walk back toward Noah, careful to ensure the new ones they make are wiped away as well. Brittany is shivering in his arms and Santana instantly slips free from her coat to drape it across Brittany's body.
"San…" Brittany whispers, trying to push the coat away.
Santana tucks it around her snuggly.
"I'll be fine," she says by way of reply when both Noah and Quinn give her looks of concern. She throws the blanket over her shoulders, suppressing the chill that encompasses her. The ice is quick to melt upon meeting the heat of her body. It won't provide her much warmth she knows, but at least she will be moving. Brittany needs the coat more.
They stand staring into the surrounding trees, each unsure of which direction to head next.
"North," Brittany mumbles, motioning tiredly toward the right as she leans her head against Noah's shoulder. Her legs ache and head won't stop spinning. She feels like retching.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "Yes, obviously we are to head North. Let us work out which way that is."
Brittany manages to open her eyes enough to send Quinn a peeved look. Using the last of her strength she points more obviously to the right. "North."
Quinn doesn't dare allow herself to turn in Santana's direction, already knowing the disbelieving glare the woman must have set upon her.
"I can't believe you doubt her," Santana mutters to Quinn as Noah leads them ahead. "She's a courier."
"How was I to know?" Quinn snaps back. "She hasn't exactly been here this past month."
"She's better now," Santana retorts.
"I cannot believe we are arguing after just surviving the worst night of my existence."
"This hardly counts for hardship," Santana says as she crosses her arms tightly over her chest. "None of us are hurt. We're lucky."
"Two of your men died!"
"They knew the risk!"
"Have you no heart!"
"Stop fighting!" Brittany shouts to them both, hoarse. She breathes heavily, slumping once more in Noah's arms.
For a while neither woman at Noah's back says a word. The quiet of the forest surrounds them, more apparent now with everything silenced beneath a thick layer of snow. It lulls Brittany into a state of half-awareness. Both Santana and Quinn are right, in their own ways, she thinks. But Quinn's last accusation was far uncalled.
"San's good," she says, wishing her voice were stronger.
"She is," Noah affirms, sparing a pointed look back at Quinn.
Quinn has the decency to know when she's being fairly berated. The blush upon her cheeks attests to her acceptance. She feels need to speak her mind anyway. The events have barely caught up with her, just beginning to reform in her mind. The feelings though, those more than strike her hard. "You didn't have to watch it all unfold, Santana" she admits quietly, hands stuffed deep into the pocket of her coat. Her eyes remain upon her feet as they walk onward. "I've never felt more useless. You were just lying there and Brittany was… she came so close to dying like those two men."
Santana steps closer, walking at her side. "It was better you and Noah stayed in the trees."
"I held him back, Santana," Quinn says, voice thick with unshed tears. "He wanted to run out for you both… I … he would have died."
Santana threads her arm through Quinn's, locking her elbow against the other woman's. "Thank you for keeping him safe," she whispers. "For everything."
Quinn sniffles, leaning into Santana's side, glad when she doesn't pull away.
No more is said as they continue through the forest. They've a long ways to go till home yet.