White Shadows

by Good Afternoon

AU. 1862, the North has started the draft. Santana follows her father to war, intent on proving her worth as a doctor. Brittany enlists in place of her father, intent on keeping her family safe. In this broken land, they find a home in each other.

22. Road Home, Part II

AN: Sorry for the delay! But as you can see this chapter ended up being way longer than anticipated haha. Thank you as always for all the great feedback and hope you all enjoy. :)

Chapter 22

Road Home, Part II

Brittany was ten the first time she snuck out from her window to escape the summer heat which seemed to smother her in her bed. Emily hadn't been born yet, her mother's belly was swollen with the imminent arrival of the youngest Pierce. She could hear her father's snores from down the hall, exhausted from another day's worth of twice his normal labor now that his wife was bedridden upon Dr. Nelson's orders. Brittany was herself tired from having to help him carry out her mother's chores about the farm, but she was also far too excited about soon becoming a sister to feel truly wearied. But the heat! That was more than tiresome. She remembers thinking she didn't have to be so quiet as she tumbled out from her window ledge and landed sprawled on her back with a loud thump into the grass below. They'd never hear her leaving over the loud ruckus her father was making.

The humid night air outside felt no better upon her cheeks than it did from within her bedroom, but she wasn't interested in merely just being outdoors. She'd a goal, naturally, one that involved wadding neck-deep into the lake water until the sweat from her body was gone and the itch against the back of her thighs disappeared.

She never anticipated it becoming habitual, but after her mother's death it was an especially needed escape. It was more than the heat she ran from on those nights; Emily's cries were just as piercing as the memory of the woman no longer there to care for her. Sometimes the mere thought of another day to come without her mother was enough to bring tears she'd thought had long since dried back to her eyes. There was an ever-present ache in her chest that grew bigger with each new morn. Sometimes she feared the hole carved into her heart would never mend, just as her father's eyes would never fill with happiness again. She'd hide deep within her blankets, uncaring that she'd surely sweat straight through her nightclothes, the sheets and the mattress beneath. She just wanted her mother to return. For her family to be right again.

From down the hall in her parents' room, Emily would cry harder, prompting a string of hollered curses from Hendrick. He was so very tired… and still so distraught. Brittany knew nothing of caring for a child; it wasn't the same as tending to the animals. She couldn't pick up Emily as she would a piglet; a fact her father quickly scolded her for when she tired. Placing hay in her crib was also not a means to calm her, likewise with Lord Tubbington. Hendrick would shout at her, mostly in Dutch, and with words Brittany had not yet learned, but she could feel the hurt layered within them. Sometimes his anger was so palpable she could feel it clenching her throat, her breaths falling short as she stumbled away from him.

She'd run to the lake on those nights, diving straight into the water in hopes it would erase all the days memories as easily as it washed the dirt from her skin. She missed her mother desperately. She didn't understand how it could be that her father still stood and yet seemed to have gone with her Ma as well. Is that how death worked? It took a little bit of everyone else away too?

Hours could be spent on any given night that summer just simply staring up into the dark sky, letting the cool lake water wash over her skin whilst she focused her thoughts heavenward in prayers and pleas to her mother.

Let Emily not cry anymore.

Let Pa find where he lost his heart.

Let us all be all right.

She thinks of those nights now, even fatigued as she is slumped in Noah's arms. The night sky above is the same as the one over the lake, a slightly different canvas spotted with the same stars. Her mother is still there, she knows, still watching over them all. She whispers a silent thanks to her now. They'd made it from that field by miracle and chance alone.

So impossible a feat it had seemed at the time.

Just as impossible as life had felt that summer so long ago. When she was sure her future was to be riddled with nothing more than unhappiness. It wasn't until the following summer that she saw her father smile for the first time since her mother's death. She'd laid a cluster of freshly-picked daisies beside Emily; the smell of her soiled linen cloth was finally too much to bear. Before she could even utter an apology for breaking the rule of lying anything in Emily's crib he pulled her into a hug, the first in such a long time. She cried against him, so thrilled for her prayers having finally been answered.

She'd no reason to sneak to the lake anymore after that, but it was her place of solace and she knew her mother could hear here from there. When Emily was old enough, and the summer nights too hot, they would run out across the fields together once they were sure Hendrick was fast asleep. A few hours beneath the moonlight spent swimming in the lake was the greatest adventure that could be had to the youngest Pierce. She'd run with Brittany, always struggling to keep up with her sister's longer and more assured strides. Brittany would keep eye out for her from over her shoulder; the grin she wore always relayed encouragement with just the tiniest hint of mischief in the way it curled toward the right.

They'd stop to rest somewhere in-between their farm and the lake where the trees were just thin enough for the stars to shine through the leaves above. Owls would rest perched high in the branches, watching them from a safe distance. Brittany constantly apologized to them for the intrusion, knowing their appearance had probably sent the birds' evening meal scampering off elsewhere. The owls would tilt their heads down at her, almost fully around on one or more occasions. Brittany would twist herself best she could in turn, wondering aloud why it was they stared at her so oddly.

She remembers how Emily would laugh whenever she did so, so loud and full of so much life.

How much it made her believe they'd always be so happy.

She's starting to forget what that laugh sounds like, how warm it used to make her feel.

She's so very cold.

She yearns for a summer night spent lounging in refreshing lake water. For Emily's laughter carrying down from the banks and Santana's hand twined with hers as they drift across the calm waters.

From over Noah's shoulder she can see Santana walking just a few paces behind. Her gaze has dropped, shoulders hunched as she hugs the blanket closely around her. Amidst the falling snow and endless black sky she looks so small. Brittany wishes she could walk beside her, wrap the coat over her shoulders and pull her close. Santana would give her that smile she seems to have reserved only for her, the one with just the slightest softening near the corners of her lips; equal parts smitten and reassured.

She doesn't smile now, lips trembling from the cold. Her gaze is focused down, eyes shrouded beneath thick lashes and the bits of snow melting against their tips. She wills Santana to look up, a silent plea in the gaze sent her way. Please, San, Brittany thinks, please look at me.

We'll have summers far from here soon.

Quinn's attention is upon her, though, and with a gentle nudge against Santana's side tired brown eyes finally lock upon her own. And there, just starting to form, is that smile. It's subdued this time, barely a twitch of her lips but Brittany catches it nonetheless. We're all right, she thinks, hoping that somehow Santana can hear her thoughts.

It's a silly presumption, she knows, for only trained magicians and circus folk are ever able to communicate in such a fashion. Santana's smile widens just a smidgen more. "Love you," she mouths.

Brittany's eyes never once leave Santana's as she relaxes her chin atop Noah's shoulder. She can feel her muscles growing limp in time with the stirrings of flutters now taking residence in her stomach. Her eyelids grow heavy once more, body fighting to remain awake just a moment longer.

"Hang on Britt," Noah whispers to her, voice strained with fatigue as well.

She nods, even as her eyes fall close.

Santana gives a sigh as she watches Brittany's head fall back against Noah's shoulder. She hopes she recovers soon, or at the very least that they find a place to rest come morn where they can curl against one another to ward off the cold. She feels as if they've walked miles. Her legs grew sore hours earlier, now merely numb from frost and exertion. The occasional breeze against the nape of her neck sends a shiver down her spine, imagination rendering it akin to the breath of a Southern soldier at her back. She finds herself taking furtive glances over her shoulder, eyes scanning the darkened fields for signs of life. When no movement is to be found she hugs the blanket draped around her closer. There is no one following them, not a soul lingering in the woods. Despite the brief calm it brings her she fears for the threat of Southern presence anyway.

How Brittany could steal such a smile from her with the simplest look she'll never quite understand. Especially when the rest of her feels so coiled with anxiety for their safety.

Quinn is right; the Southerners have hounds more than capable of tracing their path even without the added aid of footprints visible in the snow. It is only a matter of time before they're caught if they aren't able to put a great deal more distance between them and the Mill camp. Finding a road would prove useful. They'd have to walk a ways away from it of course, lest they be seen by any of the more loyal of Southern countrymen. But come the dawn hours perhaps a barter can be waged with a passing carriage driver for safe travel into the nearest town to the North. They'd cover more distance and regain their waning strength. It's a fleeting hope of a thought though, for Santana need only see the blue of Noah and Brittany's slacks to know they'll never be granted such a favor, not whilst still in Northern uniform.

And what could they ever offer in exchange for such blatant disregard of Southern law?

A few measly morsels of dried meat and cornmeal from the saddlebag? Hardly a worthwhile endeavor, even for the hungriest of drivers.

Her stomach groans for what feels the thousandth time and she ignores the worried stare Quinn focuses her way. She'll eat right and proper soon enough, in Lima, with Brittany and the Pierces. Where cold nights like this one will be spent wrapped in wool with Brittany beside a warm fire —and yes, if she's really honest about it, those thoughts only involve the wool as cover but she's as likely to tell Quinn this as Quinn is to suddenly draw a pistol and march them straight back to the Mill camp. Her gaze darts down to Quinn's coat pocket anyway.

It's empty of course. She feels guilty for ever having allowed the doubt to cross her mind. She's a friend in Quinn. Owes everything to her. The 'thank you' Santana spoke hours before hardly feels sufficient but they've not said anything since then and Quinn seems lost deep in thought. They are troubled thoughts, by the look of the crease forming over her brow.

They can talk later, when each of them has rested and their voices are no longer silenced in the dark night.

Another trail of wind coils through the surrounding trees, chiller than the last. It nips at Santana's cheeks and she finds herself moving nearer to Quinn for warmth. Quinn may as well be formed from a brick of ice herself with the dismal amount of heat radiating from her body. She's grateful though when this time it is Quinn who relinks their arms. The small smile accompanying the move is both reserved and promising. Quinn is trying, in whatever capacity she can, to be what she believes is a good friend.

No matter how awkward Santana finds the other woman's actions most the time.

They walk until the first rays of dawn light begin to stretch across the horizon. It's a frigid march, ever so slow with the stops they must continuously make to clear their footsteps from heavier snowdrifts and to allow Noah a moment to stretch his aching muscles. He never complained once about having to carry Brittany and, thankfully, after a few hours she was able enough to join them. Their pace slowed considerably with her back upon her feet, but if anyone minded no one voiced their thought aloud. She stuck close to Santana's side, their hands clasped beneath the blanket wrapped around them both.

It was the one reassurance each had that they would make it home.

Brittany guided them by light of the stars, particularly the one Burt had taught her could always lead her to safety. She'd forgotten the name of it; they always did give her trouble. But it is unmistakable in a clear winter night sky. "If ever you should find yourself lost on the roads come nightfall," she remembers Burt telling her. "Find this star and it won't steer you wrong."

She hopes, with all her heart, that he is all right. The first thing she will do upon returning home is pen him a letter straight away. Him and Michael. She needs to know they're okay. They must be, she tells herself. And they're probably sick with worry over us all.

She'll write them both and let them know they're all safe.

They all made it.

And in a week's time she can tell them by Emily's side.

Brittany smiles.

They truly are going home.

It's been such a far-off thought for so long she can hardly believe it's happening now. She'd think this all a vivid and torturous dream if she didn't know otherwise. How cruel it would be to wake now and find herself back at the Mill camp, sick with fever still and arm riddled with infection. How much longer could Santana have continued to care for her? Would she have even made it through the winter without Quinn's aid? Would Noah have continued to keep them all from harm?

They are pointless thoughts, she knows, especially now that the past is so far behind them. But they crawl into her mind, reminding her they've barely made it through the night let alone the coming week. And until their feet are upon Northern soil there is a great deal more separating them from home than simply distance. She's not the supplies Burt always equipped her when she made her journey's between the telegraph stations. No map, even though she never actually used them aside from kindling fires on occasion. Probably no matches for that matter!

She wishes she could send word to her Pa, for she feels soon may be a ways off. She's still thinking of what she would say to him when they finally come across a road. It's barely worth calling a road; just two tracks flattened against the dead grass from a carriage path. A decision is quickly made to follow it as far North as it will go. It will be sure to lead them to a town eventually, where hopefully they may find a bed to rest upon, or at the very least clothes to steal from dry-lines so Brittany and Noah may not be spotted by uniform alone.

It would not do well for their escape to be for naught over the color of their shirts and slacks.

The road leads a long ways before a small farm comes into sight. It's nothing save for a rickety barn beside a tiny one-bedroom home. Smoke pours out from the chimney as they approach, someone clearly in residence. Quinn contemplates simply striding up to the door and begging of a place to sleep but relents upon seeing the Southern flag pinned proudly to the outpost near the road.

There would be no welcome for them in this home, no matter the elaborate lies they spin in their favor.

The next farm proves a better option, the owners clearly having abandoned their barn to the elements years ago. The house sits further from the rotting barn, shutters clasped over old windows. They don't dare risk peeking inside, instead moving back to ensure the barn is empty of life.

It's teeming with cows.

Quinn lets out a groan. "We can't sleep here. Let's see if there's another farm along the carriage way."

"This one is perfect though," Brittany says, confused as to why everyone has started to follow Quinn back out. "No one will be coming today."

"And how are you to know that? For all we know they just haven't woken yet!"

Brittany bristles, affronted, but calmly tells Quinn anyway, "They've left enough feed for them to go at least a day or two by themselves. You don't pen your cattle like this unless you won't be around to care for them. Especially in this cold."

"Obviously, Quinn," Santana asserts.

Brittany doesn't dare mention that not a second before Santana was more than following in Quinn' footsteps. She's glad for the support now, however ill-timed. They are all in desperate need of sleep.

Quinn relents, too tired to argue. They climb up into the sole loft and head for a corner as far removed from the sounds and smell of the cattle as can be. Brittany doesn't mind, instantly settling down into a fresh pile of hay. She feels home already.

The others join her soon after, Santana to her left, Noah and Quinn at her right. Above her there's a skylight, though really just a portion of the roof that's collapsed from neglect. The sun warms her cheeks as it begins to pass overhead, her body relaxing further against the hay pile.

"Soon we'll be doing this in your barn," Santana whispers against her ear, threading their fingers together. "Where hopefully it smells far better."

Brittany smiles, tightening their hold. "I promise, it does."

Quinn sits up not a second later, unable to rest even given the exhaustion weighing her down. They've such a long way to go yet and no design on how to go about getting there. They need sleep yes, but she also needs her mind put at ease before she can do so. Santana's stomach grumbles loudly in the loft, a feat given the noise the cattle make below. Quinn watches her roll up onto her side, legs curling as she tucks herself nearer to Brittany. She needs to eat yet Quinn knows the saddlebag is hardly filled with enough food for them all to last the journey. If only the other had also fallen from the horse, she bemoans. She hopes the one Noah wears across his shoulders is the one she packed with more.

"Noah, could you hand me the bag?" She asks.

"Do you need it now? Because I'd really like to not move until the New Year comes," he tells her, tired and spent.

Quinn stares at him, appalled for a moment and when it becomes apparent he's serious she begins tugging on the strap. "We have to sort what we have, ration things, the usual stuff one does when an escaped prisoner on the run."

"Do as she says, Noah," Santana intones, equally tired and yet unwilling to offer more in way of help from where she rests against Brittany.

Quinn lets go of the strap with a snap and Noah twists to his side, moaning at the sting rendered against his chest. "Am I the only one here who cares about what's happening?" she all-but-shrieks.

The cows below bellow in chorus at the strange new voice.

Santana feels Quinn is on the verge of a mild, though needless, panic attack. She wishes to say something to calm her and is more than surprised when Brittany speaks up before she can.

"Stop shouting, Quinn," Brittany tells her, annoyed. "You'll rile all the cows."

"Good!" Quinn snaps. "Then at least someone else will be riled with me!"

"Shh!" Brittany hushes her.

"Yeah, you're riling the bovine," Santana remarks.

Brittany turns her glare upon Santana, upset. "Don't use that word, it's offensive."

Santana is stunned. Stunned and utterly baffled. "What?"

"Bovine, it's insulting. Like calling someone stupid," Brittany explains she peeks down over the railing, giving a sigh as she watches the cows shuffle along together. "They can't help being cows. We don't have to make them feel worse about it."

"I'm sorry?" Santana offers, still perplexed by Brittany's reasoning.

Brittany smiles at her, knowing full well Santana has no clue why she's even apologizing. She didn't quite expect Santana to understand the inner turmoil of a cow's lacking intelligence anyway. It's something she'll have to teach her in Lima. She also tries to ignore the clench in her gut when she thinks about how long it will take them to get there. So instead, her focus shifts back to Quinn. "It was your idea to stop and sleep here," she points out.

Quinn's lips thin into a hard line.

Santana challenges her with a raise of one eyebrow.

"Fine," Quinn grits out. "Let us all sleep then. Though how any of you can without knowing what's to come when we wake I'll never understand."

"I'll sort rations with you, Quinn," Noah says as she picks himself up enough to slip the saddlebag from over his shoulders. "If it'll help you sleep. This shouldn't take too long right?"

Quinn shakes her head, giving him a small smile in thanks.

Santana can hear them sorting through the supplies and wants to roll her eyes at how easily Noah yielded to Quinn's insistence. Another Stanley for her to twine about her fingers, she thinks. She feels a chill recalling how soon ago it just was they stood in line of his pistol. Had he let them go only to come hunt them down later? Would she wake to his gun pressed against her temple as she had so many nights before arriving at the Mill camp? The thoughts don't cease at that; more of them crash down upon her with unexpected force.

Everything was such a blur in the field, and yet slowed, time seeming to want her to both erase and burn the images to her mind. She doesn't recall anything after the first shot was fired, not until Dave's body fell to the ground beside her and his once-panicked eyes dimmed within the span of a breath. She can still feel the imprint of Artie's hand around her arm, her skin growing hot at the memory. Her heart slams hard against her chest recalling the look in Brittany's eyes as they were forced down the ground. How terrified she was…

Quinn at least has a distraction afforded to her, however dull organizing their stock of supplies may be. She has a focus to keep her thoughts from the ones Santana cannot rid from her mind. It could very well have been her thrown from atop that frightened horse. Those guards could have easily pulled their triggers… It could have been Brittany's lifeless eyes beside her instead of David's.

"San?" Brittany calls for her, anxious when she feels a strong tremor rock Santana's body.

Santana breathes in sharply, eyes boring square into Brittany's own as she asks of her the only question she's fraught for an answer, "Why did you tell Artie to hold me down?"

Brittany brings a calm hand up to rest against Santana's cheek. She watches as Santana swallows past something which seems to have wedged itself in her throat. Softly, she strokes her thumb against Santana's cheek, easing just a fraction of the hurt in brown eyes. "Because I knew you'd try to get up and come for me," Brittany whispers, eyes unapologetic. "She was scared Santana. You remember that day I met you? When the horse broke my shoulder?"

There's the smallest of nods from Santana, recalling that day.

"It's all I could think of," Brittany tells her, sliding nearer. "If I had let her go she might have hurt you. Broken your leg or… or worse. I needed to get her away from you."

Santana holds tight to Brittany's wrist, heart wrenching painfully in her chest for she hadn't even thought Brittany was keeping the horse at bay for her sake.

"I'm not sorry for what I did and I am upset Artie and David had to die but I'm… I'm glad it was them instead of you," Brittany admits softy. "I feel terrible saying so."

"Don't," Santana tells her before anymore guilt can cross her face. "I'd feel the same."

"We're okay," Brittany smiles shakily.

"We are." Santana slides forward until their foreheads press against one another. "Merry Christmas, Britt."

The smile that breaks out across Brittany's face at those words seems worth all the heartache the night has brought. "Merry Christmas, Santana," Brittany breathes out as she closes the space separating them with a kiss.

From just a few feet away, Quinn sees it all.

---

December 25th 1862

The afternoon sky is soon to grow dark and Quinn still has no idea how to broach what she witnessed with Santana. Her sleep was bereft of her usual dreams, instead filled with scenarios of this very moment. She can still feel the sting in her cheek from one such dream. She only hopes her imagined version of Santana has a stronger hand than the one walking beside her now. They head together down toward the nearby town Noah was able to spot from the barn's loft door after they woke. He could make out a church spire and a few taller buildings before he climbed down off the ledge.

He'd of course insisted upon accompanying the women on their trip to gather clothes. Brittany too.

But they needed to remain behind. At least Santana's coat could be covered with a blanket, the skirt of her dress plain enough to pass for any. Though its current ruined state would put her at the level of a beggar and no more. They hope to garner sympathy with Quinn. The Southern nurse's insignia upon her coat sleeve would more than allow them to pass unbothered through the town.

Quinn steals a glance over toward Santana, one of countless many.

Santana stares back at her, suspicious, for she's noticed the furtive looks.

Quinn decides to just come out with it already. "You kissed Brittany."

Santana's simple admission of, "I did," shocks her.

Quinn feels need to emphasize. "Kissed her." It is that serious.

Santana gives a shrug. "Again, I did."

Quinn can't stomach her reserved attitude a second more. Taking Santana by the arm she pulls her off the carriage path and down a ways into the snowdrift. Santana allows herself to be hauled off, having expected this. And frankly, there is nothing Quinn can say to her that she feels she hasn't already heard. So it is much to her surprise that instead of God's word being spat at her, Quinn stares down at her, a look of confusion upon her face.

"Kissed her as if you're courting her." Quinn doesn't think she can be any clearer than that. She expects excuses to come spilling forth, apologies for having to bear witness to something so… so… she hasn't even a word in her vocabulary to describe just how strange it was.

Santana smiles at her. She's always known, somewhere beneath all her resentment and spite, that Quinn isn't like the others. Relieved she falls back into their usual report. "Not to confuse you anymore, Quinn, but I'd say we're a bit passed the point of courting now," she tells her, grinning brazenly. "Don't look so surprised."

"I've every reason to be surprised!" Quinn exclaims, red faced and embarrassed. "I thought it all a ploy when I discovered Brittany's true gender and that perhaps you both played this charade of marriage to keep her identity safe. But it's real. I've never—"

"Seen, heard or thought of such a union?" Santana offers, ticking the words off upon her fingers. She's only one question she need ask. "Does it bother you?"

"I don't…It's just so…" Quinn sputters, willing a response to form. "It's just so unexpected is all," she says finally, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks back up to Santana. "I guess I'd been assuming you were just particularly close friends."

"You could say that, yes," Santana smirks.

Quinn squints at her, incredulous. "You're being exceedingly nonchalant about this."

"I just spent a month vying everyday for my life and hers," Santana tells her with utmost gravity. "The last of my worries is whether or not you approve of our relationship. In fact I couldn't give a damn and I will warn you now I'll probably kiss her just the same when we get back."

If Quinn is taken aback by the admission she shows it not upon her face. "So you really wish to be with her… like you should with a man?" she ventures to ask, curious now how Santana could ever feel so for a woman.

"Who is to say I should feel so for man?" Santana counters. And before Quinn can even look skyward Santana tells her, "And God help you if you say His name, Quinn."

"Firstly, I wasn't," Quinn tells her with a scoff as she gives a tug on Santana's arm and they begin walking back up toward the road. "Maybe secondly."

"Then what was firstly?" Santana asks, genuinely wanting to know.

"Everyone else," Quinn answers. "I'm sorry."

This time it is Santana who grows confused. "Why are you apologizing to me? I wasn't offended by your curiosity Quinn. It's welcome, actually."

"No, not for that," Quinn tells her softly, empathetic. "I'm sorry for what this will mean for your life. Both of you. Others won't take kindly to who you are."

"We're aware," Santana says with a tired sigh. "Trust me."

Again Quinn pulls her aside and Santana has half the mind to gripe over the ragdoll she feels Quinn has mistaken her for. But hazel eyes have grown ever so serious. "I won't breathe word to a single soul, Santana," Quinn promises. "You know you can trust me, right?"

She does, wishing to say as much aloud but only able to whisper a meek, "I know," and with a small smile, an ever more indebted, "Thank you."

They carry on their way back toward the town, this time in a far less forced silence. It is still awkward though, Santana thinks, for Quinn has grown quiet in thought. Occasionally she looks up as if to say something, but quickly turns her gaze away, chewing on the inside of her cheek. After a moment Quinn deigns to speak her mind aloud. "You make a good pair, you know. It's queer, and yet somehow works. When she's around you're far more tolerable." Quinn also seems quite pleased with herself for saying so.

Santana lets out a snort. "I'm not difficult, you just test my patience."

Quinn thinks she really should have expected such a response. "If by that 'you', you meant to also include everyone on Earth aside from Brittany than I can agree," she replies in kind. "Just look at how quickly we've spiraled into bickering at each other."

"We're not bickering, this is just how we communicate," Santana tells her with a grin. "Would you rather I treated you like Brittany?"

Quinn chokes. "Good heavens, no! I enjoy the company of men!"

"I could make comment here, about how I wasn't insinuating a thing about my romantic relationship with her yet your mind immediately drew that conclusion anyway. But seeing as it's because of you we are here now and not still within that camp I will hold my tongue," Santana says though, to Quinn, seems to be struggling to adhere to her promise. "You best consider yourself lucky Quinn, for it's taking all in my power to hold these devious thoughts in."

"It's appreciated, trust me," Quinn tells her with a chuckle. "I do… have a question though, about your relationship."

"Have you now?" Santana asks, a certain daring edge to her jesting tone. She wishes all future discussions in the like could transpire like this one has. Just a series of questions born from genuine interest rather than declarations born from unfounded hate. She also knows Quinn may be the only person she will ever share this type of conversation with and thus will enjoy it for however long it shall last. For god's sake she can even feel her throat starting to sting with the tell tale warning of tears soon to come. Will Brittany's family react just as Quinn? With open mind and hearts? Brittany can't not tell them, it is the one certainty she knows will come shortly upon their arrival.

They cannot hide at home.

Not when they must hide from everyone else.

"Are you about to shed tears?"

Santana throws Quinn a quick, silencing stare. "No, and that wasn't your question, was it?"

Quinn shakes her head, though seems hesitant of asking what she wishes to next. It's clear something has shaken Santana in the short time since they've been speaking. Whatever it is, though, Quinn feels it not in her place to ask. Not with everything else she's been able to pry from the typically reclusive woman. "Did you always know her as a woman? I could see how you might have been confused and—"

Santana stops her before anymore can be said. "I was never confused. I fell for her, not Bret."

Quinn doesn't know just how to feel about the sureness clearly layered in Santana's tone. It's a confirmation that Santana has always felt so strongly for another woman, something she cannot even fathom despite having witnessed them share a kiss not hours before. Which brings to her mind Santana's declaration from earlier. "And you're truly going to kiss her again when we return?"

Even the unease in Quinn's voice doesn't stop Santana from grinning as she affirms, "Very much so."

"I'll ensure to make myself scarce then," Quinn tells her, though offers a smile. It would certainly take some getting used to and it was quite the burden of a secret to harbor, but if nothing else, Quinn thrives on a challenge. Besides she's grown rather fond of Santana and her more absentminded other half. It wouldn't do well to abandon them now over what amounts to, at its purest level, love they've found with one another. She wonders how many others there may be in the world like them, for there must be if they exist here now. How they must live deceiving the world of who they truly are just to be with one another. It does not seem like a life that anyone would choose. And yet when she looks at Santana and recalls the way she's caught her staring at Brittany, she knows there is no choice in the matter. Santana would do anything for that girl. And after witnessing the lengths Brittany went in that field to keep Santana safe, Quinn knows Brittany would do the same for her.

As they walk down into the outskirts of the town Quinn only offers Santana a hopeful whisper of, "Merry Christmas."

The reply she's met by is beholden, spoken softly with the warmest of smiles. "Merry Christmas to you as well, Quinn."

It's not long till they lapse into a far more comforting silence as they make their way behind a row of homes in search of clothes hung out to dry. The firelight barely spills down out into the snow covered yards, their steps more purposeful to avoid any hidden dangers lurking beneath the ice that could draw out unwanted notice. A few homes have garments hanging from lines, damp bed linens pinned and billowing gently in the evening breeze.

Quinn is smiling as she holds up a pair of child's slacks. "Do you think this'll do for Noah?"

But Santana's not laughing. She's not even looking up at her at all. Her eyes have widened, as she stands frozen, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her coat.

"Santana?" Quinn ventures, worry quick to strike her. She turns, eyes scanning the distance over her shoulder but there's no one in sight.

Santana pulls her left hand from out her pocket, uncurling her fist to reveal a crumbled ball of greenbacks.

Artie's money.

A similar though strikes them both, conveyed in the hopeful gazes they turn up upon each other.

Do you think?

Enough to get home?

Santana quickly unfolds the clump of bills, flicking through the first few greenbacks.

The grin that spreads across her face is all the answer Quinn needs.

A carriage driver will be sought before the hour grows too late.

---

They hurry back toward the barn with the money stuffed safely back into Santana's coat pocket and clothes hugged closely to their chests. Brittany is just pleased they've returned at all, let alone with what they sought. It warms Santana to be swept so fully into waiting arms. The kiss that follows also just as fulfilling.

Quinn turns from the display, making a quick excuse to divvy up their evening meal and share the news with Noah.

Brittany watches her walk off, a mix of confusion and sadness etched upon her features. "I thought she knew?"

"You did just pounce on me unexpectedly," Santana tells her, voice lowered as she keeps her arms firmly wrapped behind Brittany's back. "Though I did warn her we'd kiss so."

"Is she upset?" Brittany asks quietly, worried for Santana's answer. She knows how close Santana has grown to Quinn, even reluctant as she is to admit so aloud. It is nice knowing there will be someone else about, someone more like her, that Santana can speak with at length about all those topics that leave Brittany's mind muddled. Quinn is as perfect a match in a friend as Brittany could ever hope for Santana to find. If Quinn were to shun them…

"I think she's just embarrassed by it is all," Santana assures her. "She thinks we're a good pair."

Brittany feels her fears lifted with that simple and promising response. They wander off to a secluded corner to help Brittany into her new clothes. The fit is wrong, as most all her men's clothes have been on her, but the slacks, shirt and coat will suffice until they reach home. The stolen clothes are plain and instantly remind Brittany of her small collection of men's attire tucked into her bedroom drawer. Old shirts, slacks and suspenders that once belonged to her father when he was a young man.

As Santana folds the ruined uniform into a tight ball they will burn when they are far enough from this town, Brittany can't help but think of what her father is doing right at this moment. Is he sitting with Emily? Reading to her Christmas tales of Santeclaus just as Emily always once read to them? Had he received word of her capture? Does he worry, wondering when he'll hear of her return?

Does he even think her alive still?

"I need to write home," is what she whispers out to Santana when brown eyes lock upon her own in concern. "They must be so worried for us."

"Even if you did, Brittany, you must understand," Santana begins to explain softly. "We'll be there long before your letter could ever arrive."

Brittany doesn't tell her she needs to send it in case the very worst should happen. Santana is so happy right now. She can't shatter that. Pa needs to know to keep my promise.

"Just in case we're late then," Brittany tells her, forcing a smile to her lips. "I want him to know we're coming soon."

Santana brushes a kiss to her cheek. "Sooner than you think," she says, pulling the money from her pocket. "We've enough perhaps to hire a carriage driver to take us most the way."

"San… where did you…?"

"Artie, remember?" Santana says with a small smile. Grateful, Brittany notes. She leans up to press a quick kiss to the corner of Brittany's mouth. "Go write your letter," she whispers as she settles back to her heels. She knows Quinn can spare a sheet from the only journal she'd packed into the saddlebag. Her smile doesn't wane, if anything growing brighter as she steps back. "When we head to town tonight we'll find the postmaster."

Quinn is more than willing to lend pen and page for Brittany's use. Even though she mourns the loss of her other journals, she knows she'll fill more once they are North.

Brittany sits a ways off from the others, using the waning light of the setting sun to pen what she hopes are not the last words her father will hear from her.

---

The town is quieting as they enter, shop owners just beginning to close their doors and head upstairs for a good night's rest. There are enough people still about to give them curious glances as they pass, wondering what brings these newcomers to their town. Poor looking newcomers at that, given the haggard appearance of their dress. Brittany smiles kindly at them in turn which only further spurs them to hasten in their steps.

There've been enough robberies as of late with most the men away at war. Trusting the smile of even the most harmless of passerby was simply something no longer done.

"Excuse me!" Quinn calls out to a couple about to head down the lane toward the tavern. "If I could just ask of you—"

They hurry away before Quinn can even finish her request.

"So very nice to meet you both as well," she mutters as they quickly disappear inside the tavern.

"How's about Quinn and I head inside and try to find ourselves a driver?" Noah offers, seeing the way Brittany has begun craning her neck in search of the postmaster's shop. "You can both mail that letter and come find us inside."

"If you spend so much as a cent on beer, Puckerman," Santana warns him, eyes narrowed up into his own.

He lifts his hands, smirking down at her. "I'd need a cent to do so and you've all the money."

She shoves him down the road before he can say anything more. Whilst Quinn and Noah head toward the tavern she takes Brittany by the wrist and pulls her down toward the only open general store. The postmaster is sure to have gone for the night and a stamp is in need of purchasing. She glances down to the letter held so attentively in Brittany's hands.

"What did you write to him of?" she asks.

"I just told him not to worry," Brittany tells her, hoping Santana can't hear the half-truth of her words. "That we're all right and will be there by week's end."

The shop owner keeps close eye upon them as they enter.

"You were writing an awful lot just to say that," Santana notes.

"It's just a letter, Santana."

It's a dismissive response, settling uneasily in Santana's gut. She stops Brittany from approaching the counter with a hand placed over her arm. They pause near a shelf sparsely littered with dry goods. Dust covers the can lids and there's a clutter of cobwebs strung about the back corners. Santana eyes it with caution but turns back up to Brittany who stares knowingly at what this inattention must mean for the shop owner. And what it means for those who inhabit this town. It seems not only the soldiers were suffering from hunger; everyone made do with little in these trying days.

"You said something about us, didn't you?" Santana's whispers hurriedly.

"I didn't speak of us in that way," Brittany finally says, angered over the accusation in Santana's words. "That's something I'll tell him when I can see his eyes."

"Do you folks need a hand?" The shop owner's voice carries from near the front counter. Santana leans out around the shelf, waving off his assistance as politely as she's able. It's still rather curt.

And, also, Brittany notices, a might shaky. She rolls up to her toes to peak over the shelf at the owner. His eyes narrow at her, suspicion clear as the glass in the spectacles resting low on his nose. She gives him an apologetic smile before lowering and gently pulling Santana further into the row. When she's sure he won't overhear, nor will his gaze find them she stops and raises a hand up to Santana's cheek.

"I know you're scared of what my Pa may think but you don't have to be," Brittany whispers. "I know him, Santana. He's nothing like your father."

Santana leans into the touch. "I know and I can't wait to meet him Brittany," she says quietly, their eyes meeting once more. "But at least give him time to know me before you do speak with him."

Brittany nods, understanding, though feels she must ask, "how long?"

Santana lets out a sigh. "I can't measure his acceptance. However long it takes."

"And what if you don't feel it's happened for weeks?" Brittany counters. "I can't lie to him for that long."

"Would you rather a repeat of everything that occurred when Burt found out?" Santana's tone is riddled with such bitterness Brittany is forced to take a step back. Santana's demeanor softens almost immediately. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"You're scared Santana, why can't you just admit so?" Brittany asks her, frustrated. "It's all right to feel this way. I am too."

"But it's your home, Brittany. Where you are wanted," Santana finally admits, hands shoved deep into her pockets to quell the way they've started to tremble. "All he knows of me is what has been said on paper."

"And he trusts that woman."

"He loves you, he's going to think of me—"

"Just the same."

Santana opens her mouth to speak but Brittany doesn't let her even utter a word in argument. To her, there simply isn't one to be had. So before Santana's eyes can even glint with rebuttal, Brittany steps up to her, and dark eyes instead widen at the sudden proximity.

"Even if it takes him time like Burt he will see how good we are. And if not then… no matter what I'm going to take care of you," Brittany speaks with an intensity Santana cannot deny, or even try match. She's as taken aback by the promise as she is the mere look Brittany has focused so strongly upon her. Blue eyes, not mere seconds ago so soft, have hardened with reckless nerve. "And that's how it's going to be."

Without another word she slips a hand down into Santana's pocket, plucking a greenback from beside Santana's hand. Santana is still reeling from the exchange as Brittany strides down the row toward the shopkeeper and meets his scrutiny with a sheepish smile on her face. "I'd like a stamp, please," she says as she lays out the crumpled bill atop the countertop. "I don't know how this new paper money works. Do I need to cut it up for you?"

Still reeling, Santana hurries over before any damage can be wrought to their funds.

Soon after, and with a hope placed for its swift delivery, Brittany drops the letter into the slot outside the postmaster's shack. Santana takes her hand as Brittany steps back, apology evident in the slight squeeze Brittany feels against her fingers. No more need be said of their argument. Brittany knows the letter ensures Santana will always have a home.

---

They sit inside the tavern not long after, wrapped in quiet talk of greenbacks. Noah is perched at the bar, doing his best to try and swindle a drink from any woman who wanders past. Santana can't help but let out a scoff every time he gives another woman a charming smile in invitation to join him. Smartly, they all decline.

Her gaze wanders to the clock atop the fireplace mantle. Quinn has been gone for some time, presumably arranging for their departure with, as Noah had described, "the worst looker my eyes ever did have the misfortune of seein'."

Santana can't help but wonder what could ever be taking her so long.

"I still don't understand it, San," Brittany says with an exasperated groan. She rests back in her chair, legs spread in the most indelicate of manners. It makes Santana feel slightly warmer around her collar and she takes a quick sip of her water to subdue any more such urgings forward. "Why would they put money on paper? What if your pockets caught fire? All your money would burn."

Santana places her cup back down with a laugh. "I don't think that tends to be a problem for most people."

Brittany leans forward over the table upon her elbows, serious as she tells Santana, "Since enlisting my slacks have nearly caught fire at least four times, so clearly it is."

Santana tries not to choke upon the chuckle wishing to break from her throat. She hardly reasons Brittany's had that amount of trouble with slacks. She seems to be wearing them just fine, especially presently, Santana thinks.

"And with the war and all, who's to know who else is suffering the same problem? Especially on a battlefield." Santana only catches the last portion of Brittany's ponderings; though notices her lips pursing as another thought comes to her mind. "It's probably a plague by now. "

Charmed, Santana wishes to reach across the small table and place her hand atop Brittany's own, but remembers where they are. A crowded tavern is not the place to be showing such affections, even with Brittany looking so very much like a man. They'll never get to be so open in Lima. She cannot lapse. She grabs her cup instead, picking at the chip along the rim. "When we get home maybe you should write to Mr. Lincoln about it."

"I probably won't remember," Brittany mutters, lying her head down atop her crossed arms. "And he seems awfully busy."

Santana smiles at her gently. "You have a valid concern, you should send it along."

Brittany stares up at Santana, grateful for the support but she also knows, "He'll just laugh... or whoever is charged with reading his letters first will anyway. It's stupid."

Santana's hand finds Brittany's this time, no hesitation. "It's not," she tells her, adamant. "You see things others don't Britt. I never thought of money burning but just think what would happen if a home were to catch fire with your money inside, or a bank?"

"Catastrophe," Brittany breathes out. She sits up quickly. "When we get to Lima let's make sure we only barter for goods, like the British."

Santana stares at the side of Brittany's face in puzzled wonder. She's not surprised by the admission, far from it in fact. Brittany is always spouting the most bizarre of ideas. Observations usually rooted in some semblance of fact. They are born of the best of intentions and yet conveyed in the strangest of ways. She understands entirely what Brittany means but still feels need to gently correct her. "They've money, Brittany."

"No, I'm pretty sure they had to give us all theirs," Brittany says, though pauses for a second to affirm her memory is indeed accurate. "When they lost the war and all," she adds, noticing the bemused expression now gracing Santana's face.

"That's not how—"

Brittany continues on, undeterred. "I bet the Queen didn't much like having to give all her jewels to us." She leans closer toward Santana in order to whisper lest she be overheard by any loyalists, "I hear she's a shut-in though. Probably explains why they haven't come to help us. Aside from the fact they can't afford ships no more."

"Britt," Santana says after a moment. "Who told you all this?"

"Finn."

Of course he did, Santana thinks, sneering. Even in death his ignorance lives on.

Quinn comes in, grinning broadly and quickly waving them toward the door. She'll have to correct Brittany later, maybe once they're home… and it's with a smile she realizes just how soon that will be. Four days at most, maybe more if the weather takes a turn. A little less than a week from now they'll be standing at the steps of the Pierce farm. Her hand finds Brittany's as they walk, uncaring of any wayward glances they may attract with the display. They'll be gone from this town in a half-hours time, never to set foot South again. These people don't matter; their opinions, thoughts and stares just edging the periphery of her awareness. Not one iota of anxiety treads through her veins for tomorrow Brittany will be right here at her side, just as she is now. Always.

And sure, she's fairly positive the horrified stare of the man they've just passed is not in reaction to their closeness but because in all likelihood Brittany is wearing his slacks. She doesn't care either way. Right now Brittany may look every bit a farmer's son with her ill-fitting clothes and short side-swept hair but she won't for long. Her hair will grow back to the long length Santana knows she misses, the slacks replaced with skirts. She'll look every bit the Brittany Santana's never known and is both nervous and eager to finally meet.

She spends the rest of the night with her head upon Brittany's shoulders inside the back of the carriage Quinn was able to negotiate for them. The driver will take them as far as the Kentucky border where she explains a train depot can carry them the rest of their journey. No rails reach Lima yet, but one more than led into Marysville.

Santana can't help but think how thrilled Sam will be to see them all again.

---

January 1st, 1863

Marysville is an unassuming town, charming with its quaint shops and newly-laid brick facades. Homes equally as inviting line the roads, shaded beneath large elms and oaks alike. One would expect a neighbor to smile from their porch as you passed on an evening stroll, perhaps even going so far as to welcome you inside for a quick drink or two. In fact, Santana thinks she's just seen that very instance from right out the train window not mere seconds ago. It's shocking, to say the least, to see such hospitality after a journey riddled with such aversion to even the slightest generosity.

It's also not at all the type of place Santana, or Quinn for that matter, had ever imagined someone like Noah was raised.

They think they've certainly boarded a train for the wrong town and yet one look at Noah would assert otherwise. He sits up straighter from his spot on the bench, eyes closed as a wistful grin begins to form at the corners of his mouth. He breathes in deep the air of his town, the very picture of a man returned home and ready to begin his life anew.

Brittany looks equally delighted, eyes soaking in every finite detail she's able from her perch beside the window. It's all a wonder to her, having never set foot in a town so splendid in design. From the iron workings of the streetlamps dotting the roadway to the glint of blues and yellows varnished into the grocer's sign, all of it is wonderful. So much more superb than Lima with its deep browns and rusted window awnings. She wonders what Cincinnati must be like, if it too is just as inviting as Marysville seems. But more yet, what Santana will think of Lima when compared. She looks indifferent to the sights outside the window; her brown eyes are unfocused, watching the trees begin to pass more slowly as they approach the station. Brittany wonders what she must be thinking, but chooses instead to watch her silently. Whatever it may be she feels it doesn't quite matter. Not with the way a few of Santana's fingers still absentmindedly trace the lines of her upturned palm. When the train finally stops and the whistle rings loudly throughout the carts, Santana's eyes find her own. "Almost home, Britt," she whispers, stealing a quick kiss as the steam fogs over their window.

A light snow has begun to fall as they exit the train, the last of their money spent on the fare. There's even a certain skip to Noah's gait as he leads them all through the main streets and down toward the lane where his family resides.

"Sam's is just down the way too, a stone-throw from mine actually," he tells them, the grin never once slipping from his lips. With a holler he grabs Quinn by the wrists and spins her about. His laugh is infectious, spreading amongst the friends even as Quinn tries her best to relent.

"Noah!" she shrieks. It's a half-hearted scold at best.

"We'll drink tonight!" Noah shouts out across the town center as he finally lets Quinn settle beside him. "I am home, Marysville!"

No one within sight even turns to spare him any mind. Aside from a young shop girl Santana notices waving enthusiastically toward him from behind the window she polishes.

"One of my many devotees," he grins, giving the girl a smooth wave in return.

"She looks about Emily's age," Brittany notes aloud.

Santana smirks over toward him, feeling need to point out, "her sister is about all of twelve."

"Unreciprocated of course," Noah quickly amends, throwing Quinn what he hopes is a charming smile. She stares at him though, unamused. "How's about that juice then, eh? It's about time we were right an wallpapered together."

They follow him up the street, and down a ways more. The homes grow more clustered and less grand the further on they walk from the train station. Brittany still thinks them all impressive and a fleeting fear of worry sparks within her for the look of judgment she's noticed upon Santana's face cannot bode well. If this is her reaction to Marysville, what ever will she then think of Lima?

Noah approaches one home, the smallest on the lane by far. The one also in need of the most care, Santana thinks. A few wood slats have come undone along the siding and hang down from where they had once been tirelessly reinforced with rusted nails. The windows fare no better, clouded with a layer of dust that's now frozen over the glass. Noah will have to wait till it warms before he can ever hope to clean them.

Though given the state of the rest of the home it seemed the least of his worries.

Is that a scorch mark on the roof's edge?

Noah knocks hard upon the door a few times before stepping back to lean against the porch frame.

"I thought you lived here?" Brittany asks, voicing aloud what has simultaneously crossed Santana and Quinn's minds as well. Who knocks on their own door? She leans down toward Santana to share, "maybe he forgot which is his."

"Nah," Noah says with a shake of his head. "Mine's across the way," he motions behind them to where a far more cared-for home sits. He also seems to smile more as he relaxes against the post. "Figured you'd want to see Sam first. I know he's missed you both."

Only Quinn seems confused by the explanation, turning immediately to Santana in hopes of receiving some clarification. But she's not paying her the slightest ounce of attention. Not when the door has opened and there, standing in all his one-armed glory, is Sam Evans.

"Good god," is all he's able to breathe out upon seeing just whom stands in his yard.

Noah steps forward, walloping Sam across his back with a few solid thumps in greeting. "Now he ain't got a pot to pee in but his front room makes for the best spot to tip back a few beers and warm your feet. Literally, since it's about six feet between that there window and the damn hearth."

"We make do," Sam corrects him, pushing against Noah's shoulder in jest. "Not all of us have your obvious good fortune. And I can't believe you've all made it out! No one's hurt are they?"

"We're as fit as can be, all thanks to Quinn here," Noah boasts, urging her to step forward. She doesn't move though. "She's wanting to learn medicine like Santana, be a nurse and all that. For a woman she's real good with—"

"Sam!" a young voice shouts from inside the home. "Sam! Stacy's tryin' to feed her dolly fire again!"

Sam gives a sigh, though it's not at all perturbed. "Remember how I joked about joining the circus once?"

"Did you?" Brittany asks.

Sam laughs, for leave it to Bret to sound genuinely fascinated by the very mention of such an absurd idea. He also thinks it's the first time he's laughed so since returning home from the war front.

"SAM! She's a spoon for the fire!"

His parents would feed him to the fire himself if anything were to befall his sister whilst they were gone. So it is with reluctance that he turns toward Quinn and offers, "Quinn, I'll meet your acquaintance better once I save my sister and her doll from a fiery end." Then to Noah, "Go fetch those beers." And lastly to Santana and Brittany, "You both owe me proper hellos so you better come inside. I'll be right back!" He disappears through the door, hollering for his sister to grow some sense.

Noah leaves them to return home for the liquor and maybe some spare dresses for both women… but mostly to escape the withering stare Quinn has yet to yield in its intensity from the side of his head.

"For a woman I'm real good with what?" she repeats to him with a snarl as he passes. "With what?"

They climb up the few unbalanced steps that consist of the Evans' front porch. Sam welcomes them inside, breathless and grinning like a fool as he helps them from their coats. He's not heard one word of the regiment's whereabouts since the start of winter, all his letters seeming to disappear into the void of war. Bret looks just as he last saw him, all legs and slim as ever. Though now with a mess of blonde hair even he himself is envious of. There was never a need to always keep that cap on he thinks, if this is what was always hidden beneath. Brittany is the first to give him a smile, trying her hardest to evoke as much of Bret as she can back into her mannerisms. He was never told, she realizes, as he pats her strongly on the back… she wonders if he'll be as accepting as Noah.

Sam cannot believe the state of Santana's appearance, fearing for why she looks so frail as he slips the old coat from off her shoulders. But her eyes, he thinks, he's never seen her look so utterly at ease. Thus, it is much to his surprise when they focus upon him, no manner of taunt to her gaze. Even more surprising is the hug she quickly envelops him in.

She says nothing, but the strength of her hold conveys the message she's too overcome to utter. "I've missed you as well, Santana," Sam whispers, giving her a gentle squeeze before she pulls away.

Quinn feels a might out of place, watching all the exchanges from the doorway. It is clear Sam is relieved to be reunited with his friends again; all of them wearing the same expressions of contentment upon their faces. She catches the eye of two children, each looking a miniature version of their much older brother. They huddle close near the doorway out the small foyer, staring up at the newcomers with wonder and the bashfulness born of having been caught in disobedience not moments before.

Quinn smiles kindly to them, the young girl returns the gesture with toothless glee.

"Stacey and Stevie," Sam offers, seeing where her gaze has focused. Quinn turns up to him, extending a hand as she tucks some wayward hairs back behind her ear. "And we don't shake no hands with life savers in this home."

"Pardon?" Quinn asks, momentarily confused until she finds herself wrapped in a rather comforting one-armed hug.

"Thank you for taking care of them," Sam whispers to her.

Brittany is glad for the reunion, and Sam's siblings are well and adorable enough. But there is still the matter of her question from earlier having gone unanswered. So as Sam leads them across the short distance into the front room, she must inquire, "Though in all seriousness Sam, have you truly joined a circus?"

---

As promised Noah returns with beer and a few dresses he tells Santana and Quinn once belonged to his mother and not the few women who'd taken to sharing his bed in the few months before he was conscripted. The less they knew of their previous owners the better, especially in the case of Quinn who seemed reluctant to accept his word for truth and eyed the garments with a disdain usually observed on his mother.

"Your mother goes without a bodice often then, I take it?" Quinn had cleverly asked of him, a response from Noah clearly more than unnecessary.

And smoothly he supplied, "Says it suffocates her what with being past her child bearing years and all."

Quinn stared at him for a while more, eyes squinted in a way he wished to squirm from. But he held posture, holding tight to the small case of beer as he hoped she'd not ask any further of him. He was sure by nights end he'd be confessing it all to her anyway. The liquor would loosen his tongue if the sight of Quinn in that dress didn't first. Of all the women he's courted she's proven the most obstinate of them all. Yet he'd not give this challenge up for anything.

"Do you need me to take those from you there, Stanley?" Santana had trilled into his ear as he watched Quinn disappear into the bedroom to change. "Or did Quinn specifically instruct you to stand here like the good pup you are until she returns?"

"Oh! Is that dress for Santana?" Brittany had asked almost in subsequent timing. "Because I am liking what I can see of it. You'll look so beautiful for tomorrow, San."

Santana predictably blushed, moving away from him with the dress held protectively in her arms and a silencing stare narrowed his way in counter.

He had never been more grateful for Brittany's interruption.

And Quinn did look a vision in blue. She even returned his smile as she settled herself down in front of the fire. She's still there, though joined by Stevie whom seems intent upon asking her every question his young mind can spin upon whim.

The children have taken quickly to Brittany and Quinn, a move Noah attributes to the clout of blonde.

"To them, if you've hair of gold you must be some distant cousin of sorts," he explains to Santana from where they sit sharing the sole parlor chaise. She hasn't left to change into her dress yet, engrossed as she's become watching Brittany and Stacey interact. The garment lies across her lap, forgotten in place of a wistful smile and tender gaze. He'd make joke of it if he were sitting outside her reach. Also if Sam weren't so near. Best he not be the one to divulge that secret… and he had promised to keep his word. Instead Noah carries on with his observation. "They'll swarm you like flies to honey. We might as well be lepers for all the attention we'll garner from them tonight."

Sam takes a hefty swig from his beer, nodding from where he stands reclined against the wall to their side. "Stevie's already confessed to wishing Quinn for his future wife."

"Then you best tell that boy he'll have to wait till I'm good and buried first," Noah tells him, watching with veiled interest as Stevie scoots nearer to Quinn beside the fire. "What is he? All of five? Who thinks of marriage at that age?"

"He's nine, Puckerman. He's just smitten," Sam says with a chuckle. "And from the looks of it Stacey too."

Noah gives Santana a pointed and entirely amused stare at those words. She merely ignores the look, for at Stacey's age she's utterly sure she'd be just as enamored with Bret Pierce too. And unlike Noah –who continues letting out small disapproving grunts whenever Stevie grows bold enough to touch Quinn's hair— Santana is more than content to watch from a distance at the ease with which Brittany has fallen into the world of pretend with the youngest Evans. They lie just near the doorway, all sprawled on their stomachs with a line of twigs spread across the floor between them. Of what Santana can gather from Brittany's narration some type of perilous river crossing is taking place for the doll.

She can't help but think she's glimpsing a moment soon to unfold in the future. Where instead of Stacey, Emily will be lying opposite of Brittany. And the smile Brittany wears will be wider than the one she sports now, filled with such love for the sister she's been apart from for so long. Please, Santana prays, please let her be alive yet. She's not thought of the possibility, alarmingly likely as it is, that they are to reach the farm find her gone. Brittany would be devastated.

Irrevocably so.

Sam takes Santana's prolonged silence as a maturity of sorts. He grins wryly down at Noah as he then tells him, "At least Santana's the sense not to be jealous over a child."

Santana is more than happy to focus upon them and not the wretched thoughts now manifesting in her head.

"All I'm saying is the boy could use some manners," Noah relents, sipping at his now-tepid beer. "And speaking of those to instill them, where are you parents anyway, Sam? It's getting late."

Sam slumps even further against the wall, if possible, looking as if he just wishes to be swallowed by the fading wallpaper. "They won't be back for another day yet," he admits, clearly embarrassed to be sharing the small bit of information. "Work's hard to come by nowadays so they've gone down to Dublin, maybe hoping for Pop to get a rail job. My mother's been sewing these quilts for the war." He picks at the corner to the unfinished blanket draped over the edge of chaise's arm. He does so fondly, Santana notes, even as he gives a long sigh and lets it fall back into place. "It don't get her much but it's been enough to keep food on the table for now."

Noah's learned to leave well enough alone, especially when it came to the topic of Sam's finances. He knows it must be hard for him to find work now, being only able to lift half what any other man can. And as his friend he feels he must show his support, in effect by patting Sam on the shoulder and changing the subject. "Do you know if the Berrys are in town?" he asks, having meant to bring this question up sooner. "I was thinkin' we might borrow their coach to get these gals to Lima tomorrow."

Sam thinks on it for a moment and with a click of his tongue answers, "I'm not sure. We can pay them a visit in the morn though." He smiles a bit, realizing, "If they are, Rachel may even invite us all in to breakfast."

Noah's face lights up at the suggestion.

Santana must ask, "Who?"

"Finn's fiancé," Sam explains, quieted in tone. "She hasn't much left her home since they got word."

"Have you seen her?" Noah asks, just as considerate.

Sam shakes his head. "Like I said, she hasn't come out for anyone. Hopefully tomorrow changes that."

Noah nods, the mood dampened even despite the laughter filling the room. Santana grows uncomfortable sitting amidst their silence. She feels a stranger to their mourning, not having spent enough time with Finn to truly know him. But these men all grew up together. They've a lifetime of memories they seem to be sinking beneath the waters of. Each man stares down at his beer, eyes purposely avoiding the others'. There's nothing she thinks she could say that would pry them from their thoughts, not without coming across as curt and uncaring. She sympathizes, truly she does, but feels they need to be left alone. It's clear neither has talked of those events; they're just waiting upon the other to finally broach the matter they skirt on the cusp of.

So Santana stands with dress in hand, and as sincere and polite as she's able asks, "Sam, could I use your room to change?"

Her voice seems to draw him away, glassy eyes meeting hers as he clears his throat. He nods. "The only one there is," it's a jest, though spoken in a heavy tone. "Pop never finished the second so it's the only working door down the hall. Would you like me to show you?"

"That's all right," she says, motioning for him to take her spot on the chaise. He does, and remains in silence beside Noah as she walks across the room.

"Finally getting into that dress?" Brittany asks with a chuckle Santana hasn't heard in quite some time. Deep and forced and all very much Bret. As she steps overtop where Brittany lies Santana is reminded that Sam's still unaware of the secret. And if the look Brittany has just given her is any indication, she very much wants that to change.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Santana tells her, hoping she's answered Brittany's concern.

Brittany watches Santana leave the room, a might puzzled over the brooding expression upon her face and the hush that's overcome both Sam and Noah. She glances back toward the men to find their attention is drawn elsewhere. Not necessarily the present, but back some time, she thinks. Her father would get that way sometimes, whenever his thoughts touched upon memories of her mother. He'd sit all quiet like, simply staring into nothing for long hours.

Quinn has noticed as well, even with Stevie's continuous tries to force her gaze back upon him. She's never seen Noah look so forlorn. With a look spared toward Brittany, it becomes obvious that neither of them knows quite how to approach the men. So she rises with Stevie's hand clasped in her own. "How about you show your brother that trick too?"

He beams up at her and excitedly drags her the rest of the way across the room.

"It's not a very good trick," Stacey whispers furtively to Brittany.

Brittany's barely heard her though; focused as she's become listening for the sound of the door Santana's disappeared behind to open once more.

After a moment she stands, offering an apologetic excuse to Stacey as she heads off in search of Santana. They need to discuss how they'll be approaching Sam, especially with him so despondent currently. Would waiting a half hour suffice? Perhaps a full just to be sure?

Santana would know.

He was always most open with her.

"San, is it all right if I—" Brittany opens the bedroom door, the rest of her question lost as her gaze lands upon Santana.

The ruined dress is pulled up high over Santana's head when Brittany's voice renders her muscles still.

"Should I go?" Brittany asks, though makes no move to leave, one hand still clasped around the door handle.

Santana makes a throaty noise in response, the only sound she's able. She can feel Brittany's eyes staring openly at her, the soft hairs at the nape of her neck rising in effect. With a final tug the dress fully leaves her body and her face finally comes into view beneath mussed hair. Brittany steps further into the room, closing the door silently at her back. Santana's slip still hangs from her shoulders, looking bigger now than Brittany ever remembers it. But more troubling yet are the scars marred across the back of Santana's arms and shoulders… remnants of wounds she's never mentioned.

Santana touches one, feeling Brittany's gaze burning against her skin. "From the ambush," she explains quietly. "They look gruesome, don't they? Like I've been using myself as a cadaver."

"They're not awful," Brittany tells her, voice lowered with sympathy. "You could never not be beautiful, Santana."

Santana's glad for the hair still shrouding her face for she's sure if not Brittany could see the way her cheeks have darkened. Smiling foolishly she lets her old dress fall from her hands as she looks down at her body. Almost immediately a grimace crosses her expression upon sight of the discolored state of her slip. "God, I feel as though I must smell just as you did the first time we met."

"You don't smell so awful either," Brittany says with a laugh. "Not from far away anyway."

Santana arches an eyebrow. "I could come closer and test that."

Brittany smiles, beckoning her nearer with a raise of her brows.

And with a roll of her eyes Santana concedes, closing the breadth of space that had been separating them. Brittany's obviously followed her to speak of the look they shared back in the front room but if her hands wish to wander in the interim, Santana isn't about to stop them. What she doesn't expect though, is how soon the topic is broached after those warms palms touch upon her hips.

"Sam's the only one who doesn't know." It's a whisper, Brittany clearly cautious of any ears that could be listening in at the door. She twirls a section of the slip between her fingers, brow lowered with thought. "I want to tell him," Brittany continues, finally meeting Santana's eyes. "And about us too."

"We will," Santana tells her. "Just after he's had a good amount of liquor in him." She gives Brittany an amused look as she turns to collect her new dress from the bed. She's stopped though when Brittany gives a tug on her slip, keeping her in place.

"I don't want him to forget what we say," Brittany says, her expression hardened. "Do you?"

If he were to react poorly, Santana thinks, telling him with a few drinks in his belly would ensure come morn it could all be excused as fantasy. But the way Brittany is staring down at her, as if the mere thought of Sam being told without a sober mind is hurting her… Santana lets her chin fall some as she answers; "Only if it changes the way he thinks of us."

She can feel a few of Brittany's fingers trace over her cheekbone before tilting her head up so their eyes may meet once more. "It will," Brittany tells her softly, a hopeful smile crossing her lips. "But it'll be good, you'll see."

Santana stills, breath held as heavy footsteps run down the hall followed by Stacey's loud laughter.

Brittany leans nearer, pulling Santana into a needed embrace. "As soon as you're dressed then, we'll tell him," she whispers, dropping a kiss to Santana's bare shoulder.

It was just to be a simple parting. She'd step away with a smile whilst Santana turned to change into the borrowed dress. They'd meet a few minutes later in the front room to gather Sam, perhaps take him to the kitchen, somewhere secluded and quiet to tell him. It wouldn't do well to linger in the bedroom, not with Stacey running about and now perhaps curious as to where her play partner has vanished for so long. But one kiss against Santana's shoulder leads to two, then another brushed over her neck.

There is a hitch of breath from Santana before her hands find purchase in Brittany's shirtfront and she tugs her up, intent upon those lips pressing against her own. Brittany's own hands slide behind Santana's neck, drawing her near and into a slow kiss. It's something neither has felt they've shared in a long while, let alone so blessedly alone. Brittany relishes in it, every subtle taste of the spice in the beer along Santana's lips and the long breaths she exhales through her nose against Brittany's cheek.

Santana leans further into Brittany's body, pressing against her until her arms lock around Brittany's back. Their knees bump as the kiss grows more frantic, deeper.

They break apart though, still clinging to one another as Stacey's laughter rings sharply in their ears from where it echoes right outside the door. Santana pulls away first, just enough distance for her gaze to meet Brittany's.

"We can't, can we?" Brittany whispers, voice still layered with the want left unmet.

Santana bows her head with a shake, letting out a ragged breath as Brittany lays a kiss to her forehead. "Not here," she whispers between the soft pecks Brittany places down her temple. Santana bites down hard on her bottom lip. "Britt….we can't."

With an audible, and shiver-inducing sigh, Brittany pulls away. "I'm all coiled inside like a drag harrow," she grumbles.

Santana looks up, unsure what she speaks of but thinking the feeling more than mutual. "Should I know what that is?"

Brittany hands her the new dress. "It's for tilling the fields. You can only pull it forward, never backward or it gets all blocked up," she explains as Santana pulls the slip up and over her head in one fluid motion. The full expanse of Santana's body, unclothed now and so close tightens the pressure already building in her gut. "I feel like that right now."

There was once a time, Brittany knows, when Santana would have made her turn whilst she changed. She can't help the smile that works across her face as she watches Santana step into the new garment and pull it over her shoulders. Before she can begin to tie the laces at the front Brittany moves forward, doing them up for her, willing her hands not to tremble so.

Santana is finding it hard to breathe with the way the backs of Brittany's knuckles continue to graze her skin. "I think… I think you should go. I can do this myself."

Their gaze's lock, each darkened. "Santana—"

"Brittany if I touch you right now, I won't be able to stop."

"That's okay with me," Brittany whispers, hands still poised just over Santana's chest.

"You know how you feel like one of those harrow things?" Santana feels her throat has dried, voice sounding far raspier than intended. "I feel hundreds."

The words are barely from her mouth when a sharp knock sounds against the door.

"Everything all right in there?" Noah asks, unable to fully hide the amusement in his tone. "Because if someone needs a hand, I am more than— Oh! Hi, Santana…"

"It's as if you've a divining rod honed on us," Santana scowls up at him looking, he thinks, a right disheveled and provoked mess.

He peeks inside the room, catching Brittany giving him a half-hearted wave and appearing equally disgruntled.

"I interrupted, didn't I?" he asks, feeling a smidge terrible about the intrusion.

"You did," she snaps, pushing him roughly out of the doorway.

"And did you get to fini—ow! Santana! Damn, woman!" He shouts, rubbing furiously at the spot on his arm she landed a rather well aimed smack. "You're worse than the greybacks, I swear it."

---

She couldn't stay inside any longer. Whether the heat was born of the fire still burning in the hearth or the proximity to which Brittany sat beside her once back in the front room it mattered not. She needed to breathe, stomach too coiled yet from her short time spent in the bedroom with warm lips pressed against her— she groans inwardly, halting any more thoughts that could spur her to pull Brittany back into that room. How that woman could so easily fall back into play with Stacey when any brush of her arm against Santana's sent a torrent of tremors right down to her center, she knows not. With a whispered excuse of needing to use the outhouse, she ventured outside to have a seat on Sam's porch in the hopes of collecting her nerves.

But more acutely, her senses.

She lets her head fall down to rest against her upturned knees, breathing the cold air deep into her heated chest. She keeps telling herself things will be different once they're home but she's coming to realize that will never be true. There will always be interruptions just as there will always be those they must be careful about. She can't sneak away with Brittany whenever she likes, they won't be alone. There will be Hendrick… Emily…

The door opens quietly at her back and Santana's thoughts quell some. She doesn't move, expecting the body now coming to sit beside her to be speak with a voice she's already prepared herself a response for.

So when instead of Brittany it is Sam who gives her a side a nudge, she can honestly declare herself surprised. "Something you up for confessing?" he asks, sly.

She doesn't know quite what he means by his words, though has a feeling it may have everything to do with the way she stormed from the hall with a sulking Noah at her heels. But she doesn't much feel like explaining those actions, choosing instead to say, "Yes, actually. I've been wondering how is it you manage to drink anything from those miniscule cups you provided us with a mouth so mammoth? Or is that why there are so few in your kitchen? As you've been accidently swallowing the others?"

Sam simply keeps smiling at her. "I could just ask you outright, you know."

Santana stares back off toward the street, digging her chin into her knee as she hugs her legs closer and mumbles aloud, "Only seeing your parents could I ever begin to understand this mystery."

He figured she'd be about as forthcoming with the truth as she's always been. He doesn't wish to put her on the spot, and most certainly wishes she were more at ease beside him. He can't help but think that the longer he stays, the more she push him away. He knows he must be careful with what he says next. All he wants is hear the truth in her words. She's nothing to be so shamed of, he thinks.

"Santana," he calls for her softly, laying a hand gently over her shoulder. She doesn't shake it off, nor make move to show she's all right with the touch. He waits till she tilts her head enough to look at him from the corner of her eyes. She seems upset, though resilient, as if bracing herself for whatever he may say next. He smiles kindly at her. "I know how you feel for Bret. It's okay."

He'd expected a bit of a blush, some denial despite the smile he predicated seeing in her eyes. But she's not even blinked since he's spoken. After a long pause she lets her legs fall to the porch as she tucks them back at her side. To say he's surprised to find her facing him so openly is an understatement. Santana was never so forward and has never looked at him with such apprehension.

"Sam, there's…" she begins to say, her words dying as she turns her gaze to the porch steps. Brittany was supposed to be at her side when they told them. Santana can hear her voice muted through the closed door but clear all the same. She sounds happy, far more at ease than she feels currently. Santana knows she should go get her… but instead she remains, prodding with a finger at the frost collected within an indent in the old wood. "There's something you need to know about Bret."

"I know you're in love with him, if that's what you mean to tell me," he says, hoping to get the words out quickly and thus appease some of the tension he feels she's been harboring for sometime now.

She looks up at him, unsurprised. "It's… partly," she tells him, voice quieted. "Bret, he's… he's not—"

Sam feels his blood run as cold as the ice spread across his steps. "Is he okay?" he asks, tone full of utmost concern. "I know you all said his arm was torn real bad and—"

"She'sokay," Santana spills out all at once, her words speedy and thereby muddled. Sam's brow furrows, not understanding. Santana takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes and speaking slowly. "Bret is a woman."

Sam feels his mouth part, jaw dropping open in silent shock. "Are you trying to pull a joke on me?" he asks, puzzled. "For you know how you think mine awful? This one may take prize."

"It is not a joke," Santana tells him, her gaze unwavering in its candor.

Sam's hand finally falls down from her shoulder. "So Bret is really…"

"Really a woman," Santana affirms, her own hands now clutched in her lap. "Her name's Brittany."

Sam leans back, eyes clouded as he tries to grasp the truth of her words. It is an unexpected admission, surely. Yet the more he thinks on it the more he realizes, "I should have known, shouldn't I?" Santana feels the unyielding pressure in her back ebb at his tone. It's as if he's held back a chuckle, sounds relieved even. "I mean he, well she, was always coming up with the most absurd excuses not to join Noah and I for wash time. Once Bre-Brittany told us she couldn't touch water for a week as it went against her belief to allow God's tears to touch her skin. It'd rained the day before."

"So you're… you won't let this change anything, will you?" Santana asks him, hopeful.

He smiles at her and shakes his head. "Truth be told, I've more esteem for her knowing so. Have you any idea what we all were put through? What she must have endured to stay when others would gladly have remained home in her place?"

"She had to come," Santana tells him, though even her tone would suggest she'd at one point thought it outrageous as well. "You know her sister is ill."

"She took her father's enlistment," Sam concedes for himself. "That just makes her braver than all of us. Better…"

"You may look a woman, what with those lashes and lips and all," Santana says, also giving a lock of his hair a quick flick. He rolls his eyes but the slight quirk at the corner of his enormous mouth speaks otherwise of his humor. "But you are just as brave and good."

He really can't believe this is the same woman he once met. War changes people, of that he knows. But it's never for the better. Resentment, regret and sorrow: that's what his father always told him followed soldiers home from war. He sees none of that in Santana; in fact he sees quite the opposite. Though her happiness is more subdued, it is evident in brown eyes now more full of life and smiles less far and few in-between. "How long have you kept her secret?"

She relaxes more in posture as she answers, "Since the day we met."

The door opens at their back and Quinn leans over the threshold, laughing as her gaze drops down upon the pair. "Santana, come in here, the children wish to hear a song."

And then Brittany's voice carries in from inside, "I've already told them you've the most beautiful voice!"

"Better than the lady down the way!" Stevie exclaims.

"The best!" Brittany affirms.

Realizing she's interrupted enough, Quinn gives them both a small smile before ducking back inside.

Sam hasn't moved his eyes from Santana though, looking at her with just as much steadfastness as before. When her gaze moves back upon him, he asks, "And been in love with her?"

Santana visibly stiffens at his question, not knowing whether to speak the truth or not.

"I'm not judgin' you none Santana," he says quietly. "It's not common but… but it's okay by me."

"Sam…" she whispers, gaze fretted by the answer she knows Brittany more than would have asserted to by now. How had it been so easy to tell Quinn and yet now so difficult?

"You remember the Berrys we mentioned earlier? They live just up the street and they're just like you," he tells her, scooting nearer as he drapes his only arm across her shoulders. "They're the best people. Funny and a might loud, but good men. Maybe they'll be home tomorrow when we head over and you can meet them. You don't have to cry none."

She hadn't even realized she'd begun to. And in lieu of wiping her tears away, she leans into his hold, her own arms quick to wrap behind his back. She hugs him tightly. "I really have missed you, you know."

"Miss Santana!" Stacey's muted holler filters out through the closed door.

"You best go, before they come out here and drag you in by the hair," Sam whispers to her, smiling at her as he's always done.

Nothing's changed.

She can't help but recall Brittany's words; it'll be good, you'll see.

Brittany is always right, she thinks, one way or the other.

He helps her to stand, even offers use of his folded sleeve to dry her eyes. "Or we could just catch them all in one of my tiny cups, you know, the ones I haven't swallowed by chance."

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Please don't ever change, Sam."

---

January 2nd, 1863

The three women wake the next morning, necks sore from a night spent curled on borrowed war quilts in Sam's front room. He apologized of course, cheeks tinged red with embarrassment once more. His siblings had claimed the sole bed for the night, leaving he and his guests to the unwelcoming floor.

"You get used to it after a few years," he'd told them.

After a few more needless apologies he left for the Berrys, hoping to return with the promise of good news for a speedy departure.

Noah arrived shortly thereafter, fresh from a night spent in the comforts of his own bed, and upon seeing the way Quinn winced as she stretched he offered to alleviate some of her pain with a well-intentioned massage.

He was refuted, of course.

Santana also declined, though with far less sarcasm than Quinn. She made up for it with another welt to his arm.

Brittany readily volunteered. She felt he owed her a great deal for all the ones she used to knead into his legs.

Santana topped his welt with another bruise after he finished. "Were you raised in a hovel? These hands are the only pair that should be touching her in such a way."

"If it counts for anything, it wasn't even all that good," Brittany had mentioned as she helped Santana into her coat.

Sam returns just as a light snow begins to fall.

"They aren't back from a trip yet but Rachel is home and insists you girls share a morning tea with her before we go," he tells them, shaking the snow from off his cap. With a grin he secures it back atop his head and holds the door open for everyone to file out. "Noah and I can arrange the horse to the cart while you all chat."

"Chat about what?" Quinn asks as she passes him.

Noah shares a telling look with Sam. "Things Santana and Britt here might want to hear," he tells her.

"Bye Bret!" Stacey calls out from the doorway, waving giddily from her brother's side.

Brittany gives her a wave in return, realizing this may be the last time she's ever addressed as the soldier.

She smiles at the thought.

It's still early yet; the morning sun hidden behind a low layer of grey sky and flurry of snow as they make their way down the lane. For once the chill air does not seep into their bones, feeling almost pleasant even as it brushes against their cheeks as they walk. Brittany feels it more a stroll really, their pace far from hurried. Sam is speaking of the neighbors, pointing at homes and divulging little aspects of their character. Noah supplies a quip or two, doing his best it seems to draw a smile from Quinn's lips.

But Brittany's not really paying them much attention. She's far more interested in the way Santana has linked her arm into the groove of her elbow and nestled close to her side. Not for any other reason than simply because she wishes to. It's a wonderful feeling that settles in Brittany's heart at the notion. Equal parts warm and dear.

She can't wait to have moments like this with her in Lima.

"Samuel! Noah!" A voice, piercing in nature, calls out from far up ahead.

"And that would be Rachel," Sam says by way of explanation, giving her a slight wave in greeting. "Don't be quick to make judgments."

Brittany wonders what he means as she turns toward the home, expecting to find yet another in similar size to the others they've passed. She almost stops walking entirely as she stares up at the house. The Berry home is anything but similar to those neighboring. It is far grander, far more polished, and far more—

"Dear god, do they bleed money?" Santana gasps, summating Brittany's thoughts entirely.

"They're very blessed," Sam says, and Santana is smart enough to pick up upon the modesty laced in his tone to say anything further. It's clear he thinks very well of the family, even given the poor financial state of his own.

"Hello friends!" Rachel exclaims, clasping her hands from where she awaits them at the edge of her family's sprawling veranda. For something quite so large could never be considered as lowly as a porch, Santana thinks as they approach. Porches are what she sat on this morning beside Sam. They are a space of comfort, a small foyer of sorts between the inside of a home and those unwelcome to its warmth.

The Berrys veranda seems like it could play host to an entire company of men if the war were to ever spill so far North.

And Rachel seems quite at home in her sprawling foyer. She is also entirely enthused about the eminent arrival of her guests.

Even at a distance her beaming smile is evident. As is, Santana thinks warily, the wild look about her dark eyes.

Sam turns to them as they continue up the Berrys front path, "She's a bit… loquacious but it comes from a good place."

Santana worries why his words are spoken as if in warning.

"Finn loved her something fierce," Noah adds, also waving up to the short brunette. "Best not to mention him. At all, Santana," he amends when he catches her giving thought to his words. "Lest you want to be walking to Lima."

"I wasn't going to say anything about the oaf," she tells him, mildly slighted. "You think me that stupid?"

"No, but I also know how short your patience is," he says, voice quieting as they near where Rachel stands. "Don't upset her."

"Hello everyone!" Rachel greets them, arms spread wide and yet still not able to span the length of the steps. "Welcome, welcome! Samuel has spoken so much of you and I must confess I am most thrilled to be helping you on this last leg of your trying journey to reunite with your family. This is the stuff of great stories, if my parents were home they would demand you regale them with all of it but I know your time with me is short so I suppose the abridged version Samuel has shared will suffice. Do come up! It is so very good to meet you all!" She extends out a hand to the first of them to join her, smile somehow wider than before.

Quinn seems tentative as she allows Rachel to shake her hand, but does so anyway. "Hi," she says, polite as she's able. "I'm—"

"Quinn, you must be Quinn," Rachel supplies, thrilled. "Samuel mentioned your beauty could rival near any of us in this town. He's quite right. And stop flustering down there Samuel, it's nothing to be so shamed about admitting. Unless you're married, or soon to be married, Miss Quinn, in which case I apologize."

"I don't even know what you're trying to say," Quinn tells her, feeling a vein along her temple throb. "While you articulate well enough you somehow also make it near impossible to follow along."

Noah leans over toward her to whisper with a smirk, "you've spent so much time with them greybacks you've gotten slow like 'em too."

Quinn purses her lips, choosing not to respond.

"Oh, don't tease her so, Noah!" Rachel admonishes, pushing him back down the veranda steps. "Go make yourself useful elsewhere. Hitch up the horse for these ladies, will you?"

"Consider it done," Sam tells her, grabbing Noah as he leaps down the last few steps. "You ladies have a good visit!"

Watching them walk off back toward the stables, Quinn can't help but feel as though she's just been abandoned.

Brittany is next to shake Rachel's hand, followed by a reluctant Santana. "Hi," Brittany says for them both, and much to Rachel's chagrin it is not the enthused greeting she'd been hoping for from the tall woman. It's rather mellow; even if the blue eyes focused upon hers feel so very curious.

"Brittany and Santana," Rachel looks to them both for confirmation, even though it's unnecessary. Samuel's told her of them, not as much as she wished, and she knows most of her questions were rather invasive but it isn't everyday – or at all – that a couple like them stood before her on her families porch. She's only ever heard whispers of women like them; her father's usually the ones doing said whispering. But even they are reluctant to ever name names or point out a face to her in public.

"It's not so easy for them like it is for us," one of them would always say. "People wonder why they haven't wed, think something strange must be wrong with them."

"People are also foolish and need mind their own asses," the other would quip and the conversation soon forgotten.

Rachel hasn't though. And her smile wanes for the briefest of moments as she looks upon the faces of these two women her fathers could have easily been speaking of. "It's so very nice to meet you both," she says to them and with a blink of her eyes motions quickly toward the far-off front doors. "Come in though! Please! You all must be freezing from such a long walk."

"It was only a few houses down the road," Brittany mentions, confused. Did Rachel truly think that so faraway? Perhaps living in a home so large skewed one's perspective, Brittany thinks. Maybe everything to Rachel should always be great.

Rachel pays her no mind, ushering the woman inside as she continues on, "It's been a dastardly winter thus far, too much snow and ice everywhere. We've been lucky of course; there's always been enough wood for our fires and good meals on the table. We know other families aren't so fortunate, especially with times are hard as they are. We give as much as we can, but poor Samuel and his family, they—"

"Dear god!" Santana groans as Rachel takes her coat. "Do you pause to breathe at all?"

"Not usually," Rachel says, unaffected by Santana's biting remarks. Samuel had been more than accurate in his description of her temper, she thinks. He'd also told her to simply not mind it. "I've excellent diaphragm control."

"Me too," Brittany tells her with an easy nod. When Santana gives her an unbelieving stare she supplies, "It's all right if you didn't know, I never told you."

Rachel hardly believes her. "No offense to your supposed diaphragm excellence Miss Brittany, but it's taken me years to gain this level of control."

Brittany squints at her, reluctant to hand over her coat and choosing to hang it upon one of the many hooks herself. "Yeah, I know, I said me too, remember?" And in quieter voice says to Santana, "I think she might be half deaf like you, San."

Rachel bristles. "I also have remarkable hearing."

"Have you even adequate vision?" Quinn asks, arms crossed over her chest as she stares down at Rachel. "Because clearly not otherwise you'd have noticed just how exasperated we are growing here."

"Apologies, I just thought we could engage in some pleasantries before we—" She stops suddenly, a forced giggle choking it's way from her throat. "Judging by the subtle narrowing of your gazes I will infer you care not for pleasantries."

"We do," Brittany says, offhand as she leans back against the wall. "Just not so many. Talking to you is like talking to five people at once."

"It's exhausting," Santana agrees.

"I take it you don't have company often?" Quinn asks.

"As often as possible," Rachel replies, affronted as she motions for them to follow her into the room she's set for their morning tea. It's a meticulous arrangement, right down to the polished silver of the tongs resting against the sugar plate. "Okay, maybe not often and the more fitting term being sporadic."

"Never?" Quinn corrects, smirking.

Rachel turns sharply on her heel. "I'll have you know it is my horse and cart I am graciously lending to you all from the goodness of my heart."

No one dares to say a word, quietly taking their seats at the small table. Rachel pours them each a cup of steaming tea, her manners verging upon aggressive when she plunks down a few too many sugars in Brittany's tea.

"Look, I'm sorry for all the… incivility," Santana finally decides, hoping she's chosen the right word. At Rachel's smile of gratitude she continues, "It's just that we… I don't know how much Sam told you—"

"He's explained everything, so no need to," Rachel tells her, expression once more confident. "I know it must be hard still, telling others. How much has he told you of who I am?"

Santana relaxes some in her chair, giving a swirl of her spoon around the tea cup. "Just that you live here with your father and—"

"My two fathers. If you'll excuse my bluntness Samuel also mentioned the nature of what you may have to ask me. You both are sparking?"

No one pays any notice to the sheer shock now upon Quinn's face.

Santana drops her spoon with a clang back down to her tea plate. She resists rolling her eyes at Rachel, remembering they are soon to be borrowing her horse, but that does not stop her from saying, "I resent that term to the highest of heavens, dear god. Britt and I are not sparking, or courting, or what have you. As it stands I would marry her today if it were allowed but we all know the likelihood of that ever happening is about the same as the frills upon your dress to stop multiplying the longer I gaze on it. Apologies for my bluntness, I just fail to see how anything you could have to say will help us."

She can feel Brittany staring at her, both stunned and delighted. It's not until a familiar hand comes to rest upon her knee that it truly sinks into her mind what she's just said aloud. For once she doesn't feel embarrassed though, even if Quinn seems to be expressing it for her.

Santana half expects Rachel to kick them from her home. She would anyway, she knows, after such an insult. But Rachel is looking at her with utmost understanding, even her smile softening. "You're right, Miss Santana, I cannot help you," she says, pausing for a moment as she leans nearer to the table and looks at both Santana and Brittany before speaking once again. "But I can assure you that you're not alone. Both of you. My fathers and I have lived here happily since my birth and aside from a few very close friends no one is the wiser."

"How does no one question this?!" Quinn exclaims. She can't for the life of her see how an entire town could be blind to the truth of the family living in its largest home.

"They don't flaunt their relationship. To everyone beyond these walls they are merely two good men hoping to raise a motherless girl well," Rachel calmly explains. "She left when I was very young. It became obvious why when they explained upon my seventh birthday the true nature of their pairing. Also because I'm positive they wished to act more themselves at home and not have to duck into a nearby room anytime I passed whilst they were kissing. It's amazing what you'll construe things to mean at that age. I always thought they were hiding gifts for me and simply talking very close about them."

"You've gone off on a tangent," Santana points out dryly.

"Have I?" Rachel asks, thinking back to what she's just divulged. She doesn't believe so but if she's to keep Santana's temper subdued… "Apologies then. I never quite know when I'm—"

"So then one of your fathers was with a woman before?" Santana asks, unwilling to let Rachel carry on for longer than need be. "Your mother, you said?"

"I don't want another woman in our relationship." Brittany whispers to her. Then reluctantly adds, "Quinn's all right I suppose, if we have to choose."

"No, my mother was simply hired to sire me, if you will," Rachel tells her, more than happy to elaborate. "She stayed on for a bit afterwards to help care for me but left before I could form memories of her. She's kept in touch though and I spend almost every summer I can with her in the capitol. We go to the local theater where she performs; I've seen Mr. Lincoln there twice."

Quinn though is skeptical of both accounts. "No one found it strange that she just abandoned her child practically?"

"Of course they do! Everyone here thinks her a she-devil of the wickedest ways but it's the furthest thing from the truth," Rachel asserts, waving the notion off. "My fathers don't help matters any, refusing to comment on it all. They secretly flourish in the drama."

"How does any of this then help us?" Santana finally asks, realizing they've been here long enough for their tea to chill and yet have still not heard a word of how Rachel's fathers manage it all. So a few close friends know and they don't walk about town with their hands clasped… Santana knows this already. It is the commonest of sense. What she wishes to know more is, "How are we to live?"

Rachel sympathizes, she truly does. She asks herself the very same everyday. Though not in the that vein of course, she's not a female lover stowed away or harboring any such feelings in her heart for anyone aside from Fi-... Wishing not to bring forward thoughts of him whilst with company she clears her throat of the swelling that's started to form. "You can be with one another, just as you wish. My fathers consider themselves wed, and that is all that should matter. So long as you're together and surround yourselves with those you trust you will be happy too."

Santana slumps in her chair, letting out a groan. "You make it sound so simple."

Brittany takes her hand. "It is San, I always tell you that."

Santana's gaze finds the unwavering blue of Brittany's, wishing she could feel even an ounce of her faith. "If anyone were to ever find out—"

Brittany squeezes her hand, pulling it close to her own lap. "We'll be extra careful."

"I can't halt how I feel for you Britt. One look at you and anyone glancing our way could see the same," Santana confesses. She spares a look to Rachel and lets out a choked cry. "For gods sake oh Susanna here noticed five seconds after meeting us!"

Rachel's sigh accompanies a nod. "That's something you'll have to work on, Miss Santana. It's incredibly touching how devoted you are to her but it is quite obvious. Maybe think of dying children when you look her way instead."

Santana is a sniffling mess across the table and for all the reassurances Brittany whispers to her Quinn can't believe Rachel has just said anything quite so tactless. "You are helping none, you do realize that?" she asks of her.

"I know what I am saying is upsetting but it is the absolute truth. Unless they move out west and live as nomads amongst the mountain sheep then they must keep this aspect of their relationship secret," Rachel tells her. Not knowing what else to offer in way of words she reaches down and picks a plate from off the table. Holding it out toward Brittany and Santana, she offers, "Scone? I baked them fresh just this morn."

Santana is quick to stand to her feet. Bitterly at that. Brittany remains sitting; not saying anything as Santana strides from out the room with Quinn following soon after.

She plucks a scone from the plate Rachel still holds out.

"She doesn't much like me, does she?" Rachel asks her, wincing after the front door is slammed shut.

Brittany takes a bite of the scone. "Who?"

"Your betrothed."

She chews cautiously, unaccustomed to the sugary taste. "My what?"

Rachel stares at her for a moment, wondering whatever a soon to be doctor could see in a woman with a mind so ill at ease. "Miss Santana," she says slowly, and this time Brittany is staring at her as if the one in need of assessment. "And Miss Quinn for that matter as well. I can see them glaring at me impatiently from just beyond the window. Does Miss Santana always act this way toward new acquaintances?"

Brittany finishes the scone and reaches for another. "Not everyone."

"But she dislikes me especially?" Rachel asks, apprehensive of her reply.

Brittany shrugs. "You're a bit annoying, so yes."

Rachel hears differently. "There's no need to apologize."

"I didn't say I was sorr—"

"It's all right," she says, standing from the table as she collects the used dishes. "Not many people appreciate my company. I'm afraid I come off as pushy and too effervescent."

"Perhaps if you talked less," Brittany tells her, taking the last scone before Rachel can pick up the plate.

"You mean less fast? If I talk less fast?" Rachel asks her, hoping it was simply a matter of pace. Pace could always be corrected.

"No, just less," Brittany tells her truthfully. She also holds up the last bite of her scone and tells her, "And these biscuits aren't so good. I think you might want to practice some more on the recipe before serving them again. They're too sugary and not very fluffy."

Rachel blinks at her, astounded. "They're scones."

"That thing I mentioned about talking less? You should try that now," Brittany tells her. She pops the last bit into her mouth and smiles. "Thank you for the advice and I'm sorry about Finn."

There's a clatter of plates as Rachel stumbles against one of the chair legs.

Brittany bites her lip, quickly realizing her mistake. "Look, Rachel, I—"

"You girls were the first guests I've had over since word came…"

Brittany turns around. Outside on the front walk she can see Santana and Quinn amidst the falling snow, glaring up at her through the window and motioning impatiently for her to join them. Just beside the window sits Rachel, the stack of cups and plates haphazardly piled in her lap, looking as lost in that chair as Brittany feels she would be if she were to leave this room alone.

"I don't have anyone here to call a friend aside from Noah and Samuel and they were always more Finns friends than mine," Rachel speaks so softly Brittany almost misses her words entirely. The way she's said Finn's name though… as if the first time aloud since hearing of his death. Brittany pulls out a chair and sits quietly to Rachel's side. "I miss him. We were to suppose to have married in October, did you know? That all changed when he got his letter, understandably. I said goodbye to him from this very spot. And he told me not to cry because he'd write me everyday and be standing here again before I knew it. I'll never marry him. He'll not ever stand before me again. Without him everything seems so… unbearable."

Brittany wishes she'd not eaten all the scones for it seems Rachel could use one.

"Brittany! Let's go!" Santana shouts from the edge of the veranda.

"You best go, I'm just talking too much," Rachel says, sniffling into her handkerchief.

Brittany can't go just yet though. Aside from needing Rachel to show her toward the door, she feels slightly responsible for the tears now collecting in her eyes. She doesn't know how it feels to be without Santana, even the thought of it seems so impossible… but it's real for Rachel. "I know it hurts without him and I'm sorry," Brittany tells her. "You're not alone, okay?"

"Brittany!" Quinn that time.

"I mean, I'm not your friend but Sam seems to like you enough," Brittany says, offering her a hopeful smile.

"Brittany Susan Pierce!" Ah, Santana sounds—

"She sounds unstable," Rachel points out, worried.

"San's fine," she waves Rachel's concern off as they each stand back to their feet. "Anyway thank you for talking to us. It's nice knowing we're not the only ones who feel this way."

"I'm glad at least one of you appreciates it," Rachel tells her, genuinely pleased to have helped.

Brittany hurries into her coat once in the foyer. "And thank you for lending us your carriage! I'll take good care of your horse so don't worry none. He'll be back rested and well. The boys too I hope."

She opens the door, a blast of cold wind whipping her short hair and biting at her ears. Santana, Quinn and the boys stand huddled just at the foot of the veranda steps.

The snow falls so thickly she can barely make out the path at their backs.

Rachel lets out a sigh. "I don't think you all will be heading to Lima just yet."

---

The Berry men don't make it back that night as they'd promised their daughter. The news was delivered at dusk by telegram of their delayed return date of week's end. The storm had forced all departures to be put on hold until the snow let up enough for safe travel. In lieu of remaining home by her lonesome, Rachel has invited her old and newfound friends over for an evening of games and song. It lasts all of five minutes before Santana declares she's in need of a drink if she is to make it through the night without bringing harm upon Rachel. Quinn agrees and soon they all settle around a fire in the large hearth of the Berry family den.

Outside the storm continues to rain snow in thick sheets down upon the town. Wind howls with it but the laughter of the group drowns out any of the blizzard's gales. Rachel has brought out a crateful of wine from her fathers' stores in the cellar bellow the home. Four bottles are already depleted in the time since they've sat themselves down, one each by Noah and Santana alone.

She's feeling it now, mind swimming wondrously in her head as she allows herself to fall down to floor and across Brittany's lap. Her whole body feels as if she's engulfed in the clouds above, floating freely and with little care to decorum. She slips a hand beneath Brittany's shirt, running her fingers lazily across her taut stomach.

"San," Brittany whispers, blushing furiously as she pulls out Santana's hand and keeps it instead firmly twined with her own.

Santana smiles up at her, hiccupping. "Not sorry…" she slurs out.

"Do you want to sing a song maybe?" Brittany asks, knowing Santana is in need of something to keep her focus. She's already tried wriggling her other hand into Brittany's slacks twice. Who knew this much liquor would inhibit her so? Brittany won't admit it, lest Santana try again now, but once they make it back to Lima she'd very much like for a night like this to happen between them when they can be alone.

"A song!" Rachel boasts, her wine spilling from her glass as she raises it high. "Oh dear," she mumbles quickly wiping away the mess from the hardwood floors.

Noah plucks at his guitar drunkenly, a chorus of wrong chords glaring loudly into the den.

"Sans accompaniment!" Rachel snaps at him with a pointed stare.

Noah cares not, easily dropping his guitar to his lap and picking up his own glass of wine. If Rachel wishes to sing without his expertise than that just allows for him to deplete more of her wine. He sees no fault in this reasoning.

"No, no, nooooo," Santana groans out, rolling out of Brittany's lap to point a finger in accusation at Rachel. She misses by a head, pointing to just over her shoulder instead. "You are not singin' another god damned thing."

"This is my home Santana," Rachel reminds her. Even tipsy as she is she remembers to at least put her wine glass down this time as she speaks. "If I wish to entertain you all than it is my prerogative."

"Having suffered through an'our of your prerog-anive I feel I've a right t'watch your dress be devoured in that fire," Santana growls out as best she's able. "I'll sing the ness song!"

Rachel blinks down at her, squinting with question and affront. "And how exactly? You can barely speak properly anymore."

"Dress in the fire, Berry!" Santana warns her as she pushes herself upright to sit.

Rachel gives a huff of indignation, but makes sure to move to a location in the circle farther from the hearth just in case.

"This son's for Britts," Santana grins crookedly, eyes misty as she looks over to Brittany. Brittany grins at her, but keeps watch out for the empty crate. She's a feeling more than just lyrics will come spilling from Santana's mouth soon.

Quinn hums along as Santana begins, allowing Sam to pull her up to her feet and into a sloppy dance. They giggle all the while.

Rachel tries stopping Santana to give her better vocal instruction, only to be met with Santana's palm pressed square against her face. The second time she tries more nicely only for a glare to be focused upon her, and then abruptly to the fire and back. Upon the third instance Santana looks ready to enact her threat.

Even Brittany stares crossly at her.

The fourth time Rachel begins to open her mouth Santana's patience has expired. With a deafening howl she launches herself across the circle at the cowering woman. They tumble against the side of an armchair, Rachel's screams for help only second in pitch to the barks of laughter that have overtaken Quinn. Brittany scrambles over, grabbing Santana around the middle and dragging her off Rachel kicking and sputtering.

"I think I'll take her to bed!" she shouts to be heard over the string of Spanish Santana has now lapsed to shrieking at Rachel in.

"Yes you will!" Noah titters, giggling right along with Quinn.

"The snow's coming down too hard though," Sam notes as he looks out the window. His breaths continuously fog the glass and too drunk to realize he continuously keeps wiping it away.

"If you promise not to attack me in my sleep you may stay here!" Rachel offers, instantly brightening at her own idea, grinning broadly. "Yes, you must stay here! You'll be the first guests I've ever officially played hostess too! Oh, please say you'll stay?"

Brittany doesn't ever think she's seen anyone so pleased to allow someone so bent upon harming them stay underneath the same roof.

When Brittany's reply doesn't come as quickly as Rachel wants, she elaborates, "We've more beds and it should prove more comfortable and clean… no disrespect to your family Samuel," she throws quickly over to him.

"None taken," Sam grins. He knows it to be true. And the girls would be far more well-off here than back at his, especially now with his parents home. "I think it's a top idea."

"Have a great night ladies!" Noah says with bounce of his eyebrows. They pull inward though when Quinn lands a rather hard smack to his arm.

Santana has tired herself out as Rachel instructs Brittany to take the second room along the top hall on the right. "It's already made and should provide a good night's rest to you both… Santana especially," she adds upon the glare Santana has now set her way. She smiles nervously. "Help yourselves to whatever you like!"

"Thanks," Brittany tells her before they leave the den and she helps Santana to climb the stairs. Below they can hear Rachel squealing with joy, gushing about how she'll prepare a splendid breakfast for everyone come morn.

Santana grumbles something more in Spanish as Brittany gently guides her upstairs. The only bit Brittany is able to make out is a repeated phrase of, "En el fuego…"

Once at the top of the stairs she presses a light kiss to Santana's warm forehead. Immediately the ranting quiets from the woman held against her. Brittany allows herself to smile a bit in victory at that.

"It was the second on the left, right?" Brittany asks, grabbing a nearby oil lamp from the hall table. Santana clings to her, giggling as she drapes herself further into Brittany's arms. Her lips graze against Brittany's neck, eliciting a tremble along the arms of the taller woman.

"I don't remember," Santana purrs, drawing up to capture Brittany's lips with her own. She groans against Brittany's mouth, pressing herself harder into Brittany's body. Brittany struggles to keep them both upright when all she wishes is to collapse to the floor with Santana firmly atop her.

Her free hand fumbles back against the wall, searching for the nearest door. Any room will do, she thinks. Rachel had, after all, said to help themselves to whatever.

The door opens with a click of metal and they tumble inside, Brittany quick to catch Santana and the lamp before they can crash down to the floor. Santana sways in her embrace, legs growing more and more unstable as the strong alcohol floods her veins. She's never had so much; never been so absurdly drunk and so incredibly in need of someone's body against her own. Brittany's, she thinks with a wicked grin and misplaced hitch in her breath. She pulls Brittany down again, lips quick to meld against the other, far more-assured, pair. Somewhere in the back of her mind she berates herself for the sloppy execution. If not for the way Brittany holds her chin she's positive she'd have slipped off by now. There's the soft sound of metal touching upon wood, barely audible over the blood now seeming to rush through her head; her mind craves more of this kiss and oxygen all at once. She's vaguely aware that Brittany's set down the lamp when that second hand presses low against her back and draws her nearer till there isn't a shred of space between them. Her tongue begs entrance almost immediately with a wet slide across Brittany's bottom lip.

Brittany moans, legs shaking as she pulls away for a breath and her back meets the hard wood of the door, shutting it closed with a loud thud. The cool brass of the handle digs into her back, instantly reminding her of the lock she must ensure is in place. But she cannot turn around just yet. Not when Santana is pouting up at her as she is now, the perfect mix of endearing and pitiful.

"Britt…you're too far," she slurs out in a murmur, reaching for Brittany whom stands no more than a foot away.

Unable to resist Brittany leans over the small gap separating them, appeasing Santana's want with a quick kiss and a whispered, "wait here."

Santana makes a noise of dissatisfaction when Brittany pulls away, but remains as asked whilst Brittany deciphers how best to set the strange lock in place. Hooks, slides and keys she understands, but this? It looks no bigger than a needle prick.

She shoves a hairpin from the nearby dresser into the lock, deciding it the only feasible option. She's pleased when it makes a click and the handle proves unable to twist. She's also pretty sure she may have rendered the lock inoperable, especially when she pulls the hairpin out and a few metal pieces clang to the bottom of the lock.

Nevertheless, no one will be bothering them now.

From at her back she can hear Santana shuffling into a new position, quickly followed by the sneered declaration of, "This room is atrocious."

Brittany turns to inspect the room, expecting the worse and surprised when instead she's met with what must be Rachel's bedroom.

"Tell me it's horrid and not jus'a wine speakin'," Santana pleads, nose scrunched at the sight.

Everything is laced with frills and adorned extensively in varying shades of pale yellow, pink and cream. From the large four-poster bed with its carved white supports and pulled-back lace curtains to the yellow hand-painted music notes embellished onto the far flower vase, everything screams of Rachel's taste. "I don't think it so awful," Brittany says and surprises Santana when she wraps her in her arms from behind and whispers down into her ear, "We should sleep here."

"Good god nooo," Santana shakes her head, slipping away from Brittany's grasp. She stumbles over to the door, intent upon finding them a better room to have sex in than this. Rachel's will not suffice. "I'm not willingly submittin' myself to this torture chamber and the nightmares it's sure to spur." She tries to open the door, only for it to jerk back into place, locked.

"I locked it," Brittany tells her, voice low. "Maybe even forever."

Santana shivers at the enticing tone, heat sinking straight to her belly. "And what of it?" she asks, turning to face Brittany. She sways on her feet, almost loosing her balance until Brittany's hands are upon her arms, strong as they hold her upright. "I'm sure the others have eternal locks too," she offers meekly, body already surrendering to the blaze in Brittany's eyes.

Brittany dips down, biting gently at Santana's lips. "There's a private bath," she murmurs, working a path down Santana's neck. Santana falls back against the door with a thud, head rolling to the side to offer Brittany more access. "And Rachel did say to help ourselves to whatever we liked."

"Bri'any Pierce, you are a devious woman." Santana lets out a gasp as Brittany picks her up off her feet. She locks her legs around Brittany's waist. "I love you."

"Mmhm," Brittany hums, smiling against Santana's quickly-heating skin. She walks them to the small washroom and sets Santana down atop Rachel's vanity. The tub is empty, unfortunately, but Brittany thinks that's a good thing. Santana, no matter how much she may want her in this moment, would never consent to sharing the same bathwater as their gracious host.

"Water closet," Santana says, pointing off toward the right where a wooden box hangs from the ceiling. She slumps against Rachel's mirror, picking through the woman's small collection of perfumes and powders. She grumbles, jealous, upon realizing, "Is'all French made!"

Brittany stares at the box, confused by the contraption. She can't see it very well, not with the small amount of light the lamp from the bedroom spills into the washroom. Rachel's a few candles scattered about the vanity and she strikes a match to light one, lifting the flame closer to the box for better view. A few pipes seemed to lead up through the ceiling from the box, and one other down toward the tub. A lever hangs down and she's hesitant to pull it yet at once curious as well. "What do I do with this?" she asks.

"Pull it. It's just like the one for a toilet," Santana explains as best she's able. She giggles suddenly, realizing Brittany's never seen a proper water closet before. She laments her thought immediately for that doesn't bode well for her new life on the Pierce farm. No matter, she thinks; she'll pee in a hole if she must. It will be worth it for her. As for now, Rachel or her fathers had to have filled the closet recently; she can make out a few drops leaking from out the bottommost pipe. If not enough to fill the tub, there should be enough water to at least wash themselves with.

It is also possibly freezing to the touch.

She doubts they'll be doing much bathing with the way things have been progressing thus far anyway.

She's excited.

She also hiccups again.

"I'm goin'ta have a bath with you," she says aloud, grinning as she works to undo the lace front of her dress.

"That is my hope," Brittany grins. She yanks down on the cord, a might too hard, for along with the water now splashing into the tub the string also rests in her hand. She looks back to Santana, dismayed only to find Santana struggling to free herself from within her dress.

"You're so wallpapered," Brittany giggles, laying the candle to Santana's side so as to help her pull the dress up and over her head. Once off, she tosses it to the floor along with the cord. The cool air of the unheated room slams against Santana's skin and she lets out a gasp when her back meets the equally cold vanity mirror. Brittany moves into place between her legs, pulling her nearer by the hips until Santana's sat at the edge of the table.

"It's cold," Santana whimpers as Brittany's thumbs press into the curve where her thighs meet her hips. Everything grows just a bit blurrier as she does. Slower. This is very much happening right now, she thinks. Brittany is staring at her with peculiar interest, her hands seeming to pause in wait of permission. Santana feels them, hot as ever where they rest against her skin. They'll be doing this at home soon. She draws in a deep breath, hoping her mind clears of the thoughts she feels soon to descend upon her. They've not talked about tomorrow, not really. So much has been left unsaid and whether it is purposeful she knows not. Does Brittany realize what tomorrow will bring? They've not a worry here, but home…

The questions surrounding their future seem almost innumerable.

Santana sways beneath the rising anxiety and swelling effects of the wine. She did not wish such burdensome thoughts forward but they've manifested now.

There is no ignoring them.

Brittany's once-darkened eyes flicker in the light of the candle. She leans closer, now worried for the sudden sobriety that has overcome Santana. "Santana?" she calls her name softly, bringing a hand up to cup one of Santana's now paling cheeks.

"This is real." The reply is uttered in broken urgency.

"Um, yes?" Brittany answers, unsure. She doesn't understand why Santana needs to make such a claim. Can't she feel her? "I'm real," she assures her softly, just in case.

"No, I meant…" Santana feels the room spinning and must close her eyes tightly to keep herself from falling. Her hands slam down to the table top, jostling the lone candle enough to plunge the room into relative darkness.

Brittany can barely make her out, just a sliver of the side of her face visible in what little firelight spills in from the adjoining room. She hates not knowing if the choked way Santana's next words come out accompany tears. How is she to wipe them away if she can barely even see the eyes they spill from? Santana's head lowers and Brittany feels more than sees the action. Her palm is still pressed gently against a warm cheek. She knows Santana wishes to say more, and so encourages the words forward with a few soft strokes of her thumb.

Santana wets her lips, yielding as she allows her fears to be heard. "Where we are is real. Tomorrow we'll be in Lima," she whispers, head tilting up just enough for Brittany to know brown eyes search for her own. "With your family…"

Brittany's heart pumps just a tad harder. Santana need not be frightened. "You sound like Rachel did after Quinn tried to keep her from getting more songbooks."

She feels Santana pull away and the subsequent rattle of the mirror as her back meets the surface. "Brittany, they don't know of us," she groans. "What if—"

Brittany can't let her finish such a destructive thought. "It's like you've turned to a mockingbird. They'll love you, I know it," she tells her before any more can be said. Why can't Santana see that? This is all she's wanted too! "You've read Pa's letters." She didn't mean for it to sound so snappish.

"He doesn't know Brittany. He doesn't!" Santana whispers frantically, feeling as though she's drowning in this fear all her own. The tears come fast. "What if he spurns me? What then? He won't let me stay and I've no one in Lima but you…I-I'll have to l-leave and live here with B-berry! And I can't live here with her, Brittany! I'll go mad!" Or kill her, whichever prospect presents itself first.

It's an entirely pathetic exclamation, accompanied by even more hysterical tears. But it has broken free of her restraint and she's too tired and too drunk to try and compose herself enough to speak well. She feels a petulant child.

Especially when Brittany starts tucking some of her dark hair back behind her ear.

"You won't because he already knows how amazing you are," Brittany tells her, honest in her admission. There really is nothing for Santana to be so distressed over. She'll see. They'll be home tomorrow and all will be well. But she understands why Santana is crying now, she really does. Whatever unfounded fear she's developed is not her fault. It is his. Santana won't ever say so, she never talks about him, but Brittany knows. Santana's been spurned once before, in the most heartbreaking of ways, and like anyone upon this Earth she wishes to avoid that hurt from ever happening again.

"You saw how Burt reacted," Santana whimpers, wiping at her eyes. Her next words are laced in a low growl. "My father."

"My Pa isn't like him," Brittany tells her, pulling Santana into a warm hug. "And Burt came round."

"Only when he thought he was going to lose you." Santana turns her face into Brittany's neck, knowing her tears have smeared against Brittany's skin but simply not wishing to be let go yet.

"I know my Pa, San. He'd not ever hurt me like that," Brittany whispers, her hold tightening as if to ward the thought from crossing either of their minds.

Santana shakes her head, pulling away to tell her thickly, "But that's just it, he won't think he is."

"I won't tell him straightaway okay? We'll give him and Emily some time to get to know you," Brittany promises, her gaze softening. "Don't cry no more, Santana. You won't have to live with Rachel."

Santana's voice raises several octaves as she declares, "I hate her, she's so loud Brittany!"

"She probably always had to be, you know, so that Finn could hear her from way up where his head was."

"She's still awful," Santana mutters, eyes now adjusted to the dim light she pokes at one of the perfume bottles to her side. "And her taste is giving me gooseflesh, I think I've grown allergic, see?"

"Does that mean you don't want to have a bath with me in here?" Brittany asks with a smirk. "Because I still do."

Santana smiles, her eyes growing hazy once more though this time not of alcohol. "I do…I still want to go home with you, Brittany."

Brittany can hear the wishful undertone to her statement. Kissing Santana, she pulls away just enough to tell her, "I know, you're just scared and it's okay."

Santana tugs her back, kissing her again. "I'm not scared."

"You were cryin' about it pretty hard," Brittany says between a chuckle. "My neck's still all wet."

"I just… I just want everything to be good," Santana confesses, wanting Brittany to see the truth of the words as much as hear them. She keeps their gazes locked, hands upon Brittany's cheeks as she continues, "Not okay, or all right, or fine or any of that. I want it all to be good. Does that… does that makes sense?"

"If he loves me San, how can he not love you?" Brittany asks, smiling as she runs her own hands down Santana's bare arms. "Everything will be good, you'll see."

She's always right, Santana reminds herself. As Brittany turns to press a kiss against one of Santana's palms, she's asked lightly, "How is it you make everything seem so possible?"

Santana is always saying things to her like that, sweet things that make her feel admirable and worthy of the woman she's fallen for. It's just that every so often one of those things is something she's heard before. This one from someone she dearly hopes is well. "Emily used to always tell me that too…"

Santana wishes she'd never said anything at all. Bringing their foreheads together she hopes to make amends by reminding her, "One more day Brittany. Just one more."

Brittany's eyes fall closed to stop the tears she can feel stinging the corners of her vision. "They h-have to love you, San," she whispers brokenly. "I can't imagine anything different."

Santana holds her close. "Everything will be good," she whispers in promise, pressing an ardent kiss to Brittany's lips. "You'll see her soon."

"You're shaking," Brittany whispers between stolen breaths.

Santana nods, unwilling to break the kiss just yet. "I'm just cold."

Brittany stands back upright, voice thickened with want as she whispers, "You won't feel so for long."

Their lips meet soon after, hungry as they push against the other. Brittany quickly works free of her shirt, slacks undone and dropped down to the ground by Santana's hands. She slides down off the vanity, still unwilling to break the kiss, one hand griped to the back of Brittany's neck and the other splayed flat against her stomach. She walks her backward until the backs of Brittany's knees meet the tub and together they fall down inside. The frigid water barely rises above Brittany's waist but she hardly notices the amount or the temperature. Not when Santana's settled herself down atop her and as started to sear a path with her mouth straight down her chest.

The back of Brittany's head knocks against the tub edge, one hand digging into the side, her other tangled at the nape of Santana's neck in dark hair. She feels as drunk as Santana, possibly more so when her vision blurs and teeth rake across one of her hardened nipples.

Before she can even slip her tongue out Santana stills, eyes widening from where she hovers over Brittany's breast.

Brittany's stomach sinks at the look. "Oh no," she breathes out, turning Santana quickly toward the vanity. The dark head barely leans out past the tub edge when her gut finally empties itself to the floor. Brittany lets out a sigh as she holds Santana steady and ensures none of her hair falls forward. Santana mutters apologies once she's rid her stomach of the wine, utterly mortified and more so shamed to have been the ruinous termination of their bath. Brittany brushes a kiss to her temple and cheek, whispering that all is well. "Just don't drink so much next time."

"I blame Berry," Santana grumbles slumping back into Brittany's arms. She feels tired, disgusting, and yet comfortable all at once. Not wishing to move just yet, she spots Rachel's toothbrush sitting atop a towel near the tub head. Santana reaches over, rubbing some of the bristles against the chalky soap block beside it before shoving it unceremoniously into her mouth.

"San, you'll make yourself sick again," Brittany tells her. "Rachel uses that."

Santana doesn't hear her though for she's passed out against Brittany's chest, Rachel's toothbrush still dangling from the corner of her mouth.

This was not at all how Brittany pictured her night unfolding. But even she must admit Santana looks quite the sight snoozing atop her as she is now. Brushing some hair from over her face Brittany leans forward, kissing her gently on the forehead. "I'll take care of you," she whispers.

Careful so as to not disturb her sleep, Brittany lifts her from the tub, also mindful of the mess Santana's left on the floor.

She tucks her into Rachel's bed, laying the toothbrush at the bedside table in case she worries for where it's gone come morning. And after she's finished cleaning the floor as best she's able Brittany joins her beneath the warm covers, cuddling up to Santana's back and whispering to her of good dreams.

In the morn they pry the door open and walk out of Rachel's room, ignoring the glares given to them by their clearly upset host.

It's not till they are a ways down the hall when Rachel's able to holler at them, "When I said help yourself to whatever I did not literally mean whatever!"

Without stopping, head throbbing in the wake of her hangover, Santana gruffly informs, "You might want to have your water closet re-filled."

"Because we may have used your bath," Brittany supplies in succession. Santana smirks as they begin to make their way downstairs. "And your bed too!" Brittany adds.

For once Rachel Berry has nothing to say.

---

January 3rd, 1863

Sam is busy tending to the horse cart, readying for their daylong journey to Lima. A few spare blankets are tossed to the bench, one for each woman and, upon Brittany's earlier insistence, another for the horse. He's more than happy to see the girls through this last leg of their travels; he insisted upon it even. He thinks he'd feel rather useless just sitting at home while Noah escorted them along. They'll take turns walking beside the small sled cart borrowed from the Berrys stables. There's not enough room for all five upon the bench, and the women sure won't be forced to relinquish their seats. They've been through too much already, Sam thinks, wanting this last portion of their trip to be as smooth and pleasant as can be given the storm that's just passed through.

The roads may be blocked and a great deal of snow needs to be shoveled from their path, but Sam and Noah are ready. Spirits decidedly high this morning as everyone began to gather just outside the Berry home.

Santana emerges first from the house, a look of blatant irritation upon her face. Her surgeon coat is buttoned up fully and arms crossed tightly over her chest. Surly as ever, Sam chuckles to himself. A very big contrast to the bright yellow scarf adorned around her neck. The vivid color is such a disparity against the dull greys and blues of her dress and coat. She picks at it with a scowl. Rachel must have forced her to don it. He actually finds it quite a nice color upon her, though has the wits not to say so aloud.

Brittany is next to pass through the door, a happy smile upon her face as she takes hold of Santana's hand and, not breaking her buoyant stride, leads them both down the stairs. She's a similar scarf about her own neck, entwined with another in a glaring array. Sam thinks it one of the scarves Rachel herself had tried to sew. Brittany seems not to care that it looks as though she was pulled through the costume rack of the local theater. Men's slacks too big for her legs folded twice within her worn boots, excess belt swinging free from around her waist where it's latched to the last hole. She's one of Noah's coats slung across her arm, and one of Sam's old shirts tucked neatly into her slacks.

He can't help but think she looks as if he could be his very, though much slimmer, twin. She throws her arms around his neck once she's close enough, giving him a warm hug in greeting.

"Morning Sam!" she tells him as she backs away and Santana greets him in similar, if more subdued fashion.

"Morning," Santana says, smiling ever so slightly, still recovering from the night and obviously annoyed by the material about her neck.

"Where's your apprentice?" he asks, giving her a wink.

"Probably being bombarded by Berry and her closest of hideous scarves," Santana says with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "A closet of them, Sam. Not a drawer. A. Whole. Closet."

"It is glorious," Brittany grins. "I took the ugliest, you know, so that Rachel won't have to make a fool of herself wearing them anymore. I think Tubbington will enjoy them."

"And what about you Santana? Why the yellow?" Sam asks, amused now.

Santana's face warms as she shares a smile with Brittany. "Her choice."

Quinn bursts from the home next, the door slamming loudly in the frame as she stands upon the veranda, fists and teeth clenched tightly. Santana gives a sigh and leans her back against the cart.

"She's not wearing a scarf," Sam notes, curious.

"She probably strangled Berry with it," Santana says, offhand as she climbs up onto the bench. When Sam gives her a reproachful stare she shrugs. It is a definite possibility after all.

Quinn's eyes find hers from the steps, the fire once burning in deep hazel waning as her shoulders fall back down into her frame. Her steps are far less pronounced as she walks down toward the cart, hesitant even Santana thinks.

"She drives me absolutely mad," Quinn tells them in way of explanation once she's within earshot. "I don't know how I am going to survive this."

"Survive what, exactly?" Santana asks her. "We're leaving."

Quinn can't meet her eyes, one of her hands scratches nervously against the horse's side. With a flinch she confesses, "I think I might stay here for a while."

"What?!" Santana exclaims, jostling the cart as she shoots up to her feet.

"Why?" Brittany asks, equally confused. Quinn would never wish to stay here… Her gaze turns back toward the home in hopes for an answer. She can see Noah standing just inside the Berry foyer, Rachel by his side as they wait for the right moment to come down the steps. Santana hasn't noticed though, fuming down at Quinn as she is.

Quinn finally manages the nerve to meet her eyes. She winces again at the withering stare Santana has focused so acutely upon her. "It's only until I've some money saved to come to Lima."

"As if you can't make money in Lima!" Santana scoffs, slamming back down to the bench. She calms after a moment, the slightest of smirks upon her lips. "You're staying for Noah, aren't you?"

An apt question, Brittany thinks. And she feels need to add, "Have you a bed here?"

"Of course she does, Britt." Quinn does not like the sardonic tone of Santana's voice. "Noah's."

"Actually, and don't either of you judge me," Quinn tells them both before giving a mild cringe and admitting, "Rachel has offered me a room."

Santana blinks down at her, uncomprehending. "You must be jesting," she says. Quinn despises Berry almost as much, if not more than she. Why would she even agree to this? And for that matter, "When did you even speak with her?"

"After you all headed to bed last night," Quinn points out, her tone quite accusatory. Santana brushes the implication off. She need not confirm how she spent her evening with Brittany to Quinn. Quinn's an imagination; she can deduce it for herself. "Sam and Noah went to fetch some more wine and while they were gone I had the unfortunate pleasure of being left alone with her. Thank you both for that. Truly good of you."

"Oh dear god," Santana drones out, now understanding what's occurred and not at all pleased by the turn of events. "Don't tell me the two of you have developed some clandestine alliance. I will judge you from here to eternity if you've befriended that shrill midget, Quinn."

"I wouldn't call it an alliance and certainly not a friendship," Quinn tells her hotly. She grows a bit devious as she also informs them, "Though she is compensating me for any outings we take where I pretend to be her acquaintance."

Santana replies almost immediately. "I can respect that," she says, fairly impressed. Perhaps Quinn could make this setback worthwhile after all.

"I think she's lonely," Brittany says after a moment as she scratches gently behind the horse's jaw. He lets out a soft snort in appreciation and Brittany coos at him before turning back to her friends. "And just really wants a friend."

"Britt, love," Santana says calmly. Brittany smiles wider at hearing the endearing term spoken so easily and aloud in front of their friends. "I think you're still a might wallpapered from last night."

Despite the ploy behind Santana's use of the word, Brittany is still thrilled to have heard it. "No, that was you," she corrects her without pause. Santana's cheeks darken in turn. "Rachel is annoying and all but she's also lost Finn. I can't imagine what that must feel like."

"You won't ever have to," Santana tells her softly.

Brittany gives her a small smile and then turns back to Quinn. "I'm not saying you have to be real nice to her or anything," she says, brow furrowing as she figures the best way to say what she wishes to next. Like always, she just let's her mind speak for itself, "But maybe, until she's not hurting so much, you can accept a little less money for those outings?"

"That's sweet of you Britt," Santana says before scowling back down at Quinn. "I still think you're mad for agreeing to this."

"As soon as I'm able I'll try to visit," Quinn promises. Truth be told, she can't wait to do just that, but she also knows she must stay here. It's not for Noah's sake, or for the benefit of her purse. She won't tell Santana the truth of it either. Let her think I'm here for the boy, she thinks. It's better than either of them knowing she's staying so she won't interfere with them. They've so much yet ahead and it won't do well to have her about when Brittany finally tells her family, because Quinn knows Brittany will soon; she'll tell them of how she's fallen in love with the disagreeable doctor.

There will be tears shed, beds most likely shared and hearts predictably broken.

She hopes not though. She hopes Mr. Pierce welcomes Santana with open heart and arms. That the love she shares with his daughter will not seem a burden, wrong or something to be destroyed. Quinn can't help if it were to come to that, not if she were right there with them. Where would Santana go then? All she's ever talked of is returning home to Lima…

Quinn is staying for no other reason than to ensure Santana may have someplace to run to.

Santana slips down from the cart to give Quinn a quick hug in goodbye. "You better visit," she whispers. "Or I'll drag you to Lima myself."

Brittany hugs her next, letting her know, "You can sleep with us."

"What she means is in another room," Santana corrects, blushing when Brittany takes her hand. "Away from us."

"No San, with us. There's only two beds and I don't think she'll want to sleep with my Pa," Brittany says with a scrunch of her nose. "It'll be real tight though and I might confuse you for Santana but don't you mind," she gives Quinn a confident smile. "I'll figure it out."

Quinn doesn't think her face has ever felt quite as hot as it does currently. Santana's equally aflame as she tugs Brittany up into the cart, muttering, "We'll be going now."

"Bye Quinn!" Brittany waves down to her, then less enthusiastically to Rachel. Noah takes that as he cue to exit and jogs down toward the cart.

"Come within three paces of me and consider yourself the owner of a fresh black eye," Santana warns him.

He merely gives her a sheepish grin in reply.

Sam laughs, not quite truly understanding all that's transpired but happy to know Quinn will be staying with them in Marysville. Perhaps he might catch her eye? That is, he knows, if Noah hasn't already. He sets the horse trotting at a leisurely pace down the snowy roadway. He may be missing an arm but in sheer charm he thinks he has Noah bested. And Quinn is certainly worth a bit of friendly competition.

Upon the bench Santana throws a blanket around her shoulders and Brittany's, sliding closer until their sides are pressed against one another. She takes Brittany's hand, squeezing tight.

"Soon, Britt," Santana whispers into her ear.

Brittany's smile is the widest Sam's ever seen it as she sits back along the bench. For she's finally, finally, going home.