FIC: What is Done in the Dark (Part 3)
They continue on in silence for a while, Brittany expertly guiding their horse around and between live oaks and chinaberry and mesquite trees, cactus and yucca plants. They’re in brush country, and most of the vegetation is scrubby and covered in thorns. It doesn’t make for the easiest passage, but Santana supposes that’s just as well; at least it’ll make things difficult in case someone really is following them.
Brittany shifts in the saddle, leaning back so that she’s resting more of her weight against Santana. “Almost there.”
The back of Santana’s neck prickles with alarm at the drowsiness of Brittany’s voice. She cranes her neck and peers around Brittany’s shoulder until she can see her face; blue eyes blink sleepily back at her. “Where? How much further?”
“Up there,” she answers languidly, gesturing vaguely ahead of them. “And not much. It’s a clearing near the creek. You can’t miss it.”
Santana hopes that’s true. She exerts gentle pressure on Brittany’s waist until the other girl is leaning back against her fully, then uses her free hand to pluck the reins from both of Brittany’s. “I’ll get us there the rest of the way, okay? You just relax.”
Brittany nods. She buries the fingers of one hand into the horse’s mane and rests her other arm against the one Santana has wrapped around her waist, covering Santana’s hand with her own and twining their fingers together.
It’s ridiculous, because Brittany is nearly faint with blood loss and Santana should definitely be focusing on trying to find this clearing, but having the other girl pressed so fully against her has Santana’s mind buzzing. This is the closest Santana has been to another person in years, and it’s uncomfortably intimate. Every inch of her body that’s touching Brittany’s is humming, and while she and Finn occasionally doubled up on the same horse when they were children, it never felt anything like this. It takes a significant exertion of Santana’s will power to make herself concentrate on the task at hand, rather than on how nice the warm weight of Brittany’s body is.
Fortunately it isn’t long before Santana picks up on the sound of running water, and a few minutes later they push through a final line of trees and into what she assumes is Brittany’s clearing and the rendezvous point where they’re supposed to meet Finn. It’s a sandy patch of land dotted with rocks, some half-rotted tree trunks, and a few cacti, that slopes down to the bank of a shallow, swift-running creek. It isn’t much, but it is a clearing, and it gives her ample room to finally take a look at Brittany’s gunshot wound.
Santana puts a steadying hand on Brittany’s hip and uses her other to make sure Brittany has both of her own hands clenched tightly in the horse’s mane. “Hang on for just a minute, all right? I’m going to get down, and then I’ll help you, okay?”
At Brittany’s acknowledging nod, Santana finds the stirrup with her left foot, then carefully swings her right leg over the horse’s hindquarters and lowers herself to the ground. Without Santana’s body to support her own, Brittany is already beginning to sway in the saddle, and Santana hurries to help her dismount from the horse before she passes out and falls off. Even so, she still ends up practically collapsing against Santana.
“Sorry,” Brittany mumbles as Santana staggers under the unexpected burden of her weight. “I don’t know why I can’t...I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’ve been bleeding for God only knows how long,” Santana grunts. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that’s what’s wrong.”
The haze in Brittany’s eyes clears momentarily as she glares at Santana. “Are you always so rude?”
“I’m usually worse.” There’s a large boulder leaning half-buried in the sand not far away, so Santana loops Brittany’s uninjured arm over her own shoulders and half-drags the other girl over to it. She eases Brittany down onto the soft sand and helps her lean back against the surface of the rock. “Help me get your coat off, and don’t argue with me.”
Brittany weakly nods her assent, and between the two of them they manage to ease off her duster. Underneath, the left sleeve of Brittany’s white shirt is soaked with dark, sticky red blood from mid-bicep to cuff. The hot, heavy smell makes Santana’s stomach heave, but she manages a smile for Brittany’s benefit. “Not as bad as I thought,” she lies. “But I need to look at it, okay? We need to take off your shirt.”
“We,” Brittany says absently as she begins to fumble with the buttons of her shirt with her good hand. “I read somewhere once that the Queen always says that instead of ‘I’. The royal we, they call it.” She looks inquisitively at Santana. “Isn’t that strange?”
“She’s English, what do you expect? Here, let me do that.” Santana kneels down beside her and gently brushes Brittany’s fluttering hand aside to undo a few of the buttons herself. “Lean forward a little bit for me so I can pull this off.” She does, and Santana pulls the shirt off over her head.
The wound is a small, ragged hole in the fleshy part of Brittany’s upper arm, and though it’s definitely raw and inflamed, it doesn’t appear to be as bad as Santana’s expected from the amount of blood on Brittany’s shirt. Gingerly, she raises Brittany’s arm and is relieved to see an exit wound as well.
Santana’s only previous experience with gunshot wounds is with her father’s. Her memory of her papi lying on his stomach on his bed, unconscious but still screaming as the surgeon digs the shotgun pellets out of his back, is one that still comes to her in frightening, heartrending clarity in her dreams. She swallows against it, enormously grateful that she doesn’t have to try and remove a bullet herself.
“It looks good,” she tells Brittany, projecting false confidence into her voice. “The bullet went straight through. That’s good.”
The corner of Brittany’s mouth quirks in an unexpected smile. “You said that already.”
“Good news is worth repeating,” Santana returns lightly. “It needs to be disinfected. Do you have any--”
“There’s a flask in one of the saddlebags,” Brittany interrupts. “And some other stuff.”
There are several saddlebags lashed to the horse’s saddle, and Santana rifles quickly through them before finding a tarnished metal flash shoved to the bottom of one. She unscrews the lid and sniffs, and sure enough, it’s full of some kind of whiskey.
She returns to Brittany’s side carrying both the flask and a knife she’d found. She uses the latter to slice several wide strips of cloth from Brittany’s ruined shirt to use as makeshift bandages, then looks at Brittany and tries to hide her own trepidation. "This is going to hurt."
“Yeah.” Brittany’s eyes are wide in a face that’s gone bone-white. She tugs the bandanna from around her neck and rolls it several times against her thigh, then clamps the twisted material between her teeth and bites down and speaks around it. “Do it.”
Santana doesn’t give either one of them a chance to think about what’s coming. She tilts the open flask above Brittany’s wound and pours whiskey over it.
Brittany screams, and even though she’s expecting it, Santana nearly jumps out of her skin. Brittany pushes away from her, knocking Santana over onto her butt, and starts to crawl away in the opposite direction.
“Oh no you don’t.” Santana springs after her, pouncing on top of Brittany and straddling her hips. She grunts as Brittany’s reflexive punch catches her in the jaw, but manages to snatch her wrist and bring all her weight to bear on the thrashing girl. Pinning her, Santana pours more whiskey over the exit wound, and Brittany’s screams abruptly cease as she mercifully falls unconscious.
Feeling suddenly exhausted and close to passing out herself, Santana topples to the side and lays out flat on her back, resting her legs on Brittany’s hip and staring up into the sky as she tries to catch her breath. It’s the kind of deep, eye-searingly perfect blue that’s usually confined to worshipful poetry written by men who don’t have any actual work to keep them busy, but with time to notice and appreciate it, Santana can understand the compulsion to put pen to paper.
She, of course, has plenty of real work to do. She stands up, and with no small amount of effort manages to haul Brittany’s dead weight back to the boulder and prop her up against it. Since Brittany is still unconscious, she disinfects the wound again just to be on the safe side, then ties the homemade bandages around it. She’s not sure if the injury needs to be sewn closed or not, but she isn’t going to put either one of them through that unless it proves absolutely necessary.
Brittany is visibly shivering with only a thin camisole covering her upper torso, so Santana drapes her discarded duster over her. She isn’t sure how long it’s been since they left town, but the sun is beginning to sink in the west, and Santana knows they only have a couple of hours of daylight left. The smoke from a fire will be like a beacon to someone trying to find them, and unless that someone is Finn, Santana really doesn’t want to be found. But though the days are sweltering, the nighttime temperature still plummets toward freezing, and Brittany is already weak. Despite the risk, they need a fire.
Santana spends the next hour gathering rough-barked mesquite wood and stacking it not too far in front of Brittany. The boulder and the sand should both retain heat for a while after the sun goes down, and with any luck the surface of the rock will reflect some of the heat from the fire back at them. There are a couple of blankets strapped to the back of the horse’s saddle, so Santana takes those, along with Brittany’s rifle and some matches, hardtack and dried jerky from a saddlebag back to their makeshift camp. It doesn’t take her long to get a small fire going, and she sits down beside Brittany to wait, rifle laying loaded and ready across her legs.
---
Santana doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but the next time she opens them, night has fallen, and Brittany is no longer sitting beside her. She isn’t anywhere that Santana can see, and the rifle isn’t her lap either. She is covered up by a blanket, though, and the fire is still burning, so she figures it’s unlikely that Brittany has wandered off and gotten lost or been eaten by a bear or something.
She stands, tossing the blanket over her shoulders and clutching the ends of it in front of her body so it drapes down her back like a cape, and moves closer to the fire; it’s considerably colder with the sun down, and every exhalation of breath is visible. The horse nickers softly from somewhere Santana can’t see, and a few moments later Brittany appears, leading it back up the slope from the creek. She’s wearing a different white shirt and her blonde hair is hanging long and loose down her back, but apart from holding her left arm somewhat stiffly, she seems fine.
“Santana!” When she sees Santana, her face blossoms into a grin so delighted that Santana can’t help but smile back. Brittany sends the horse on his way with a light smack to the rump, and when she reaches Santana, immediately envelops her in a hug. “You’re awake!”
“So are you.” She pats Brittany’s back, awkward with the other girl’s enthusiasm. “Last time I saw you, you were out cold.”
“Yeah, well, next time you can take a bullet for me, and we’ll see how well you do.” Brittany pulls away just enough to be able to look at Santana, her expression serious. “Thank you, by the way. For fixing me up.”
The combination of Brittany’s nearness and the genuine gratitude plain on her face has Santana taking a step back and deflecting. “I couldn’t very well let you bleed out, could I? It would have made a mess.”
“It probably would have attracted wild animals, too,” Brittany agrees seriously. She only keeps a straight face for a moment before smiling and running a hand down Santana’s arm affectionately. “I mean it, Santana. Thank you.”
Santana expects Brittany to react to her rudeness, maybe by snapping back or pulling away. Instead, she seems completely unfazed by Santana’s words and acts as though they’re sharing a private joke. It’s as if Brittany already knows that Santana is defensive, that she avoids strong emotion and pushes people away, and has decided that she simply isn’t going to let Santana get away with it.
Brittany’s hand leaves goosebumps in its wake, and Santana has to fight off a shiver. Deliberately, she pulls free of the other girl’s grasp and moves closer to the fire. “Don’t worry about it.”
Brittany follows her. “And I’m sorry about, well, you know.” She mimics throwing a punch at Santana’s face. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It wasn’t much of a punch,” Santana says. “Hasn’t Finn taught you anything?”
“I wasn’t exactly at my best,” Brittany retorts with a scowl. “But I can try again if you want.”
The stubborn pout on her face looks so out of place as to be nearly comical and Santana feels her mouth twitch up in response. “No, that’s okay. Maybe after your arm is a little better.”
“It feels fine, look.” She bends and straightens her elbow several times, then winces as she seems to pull something. “Okay, maybe fine isn’t the right word.”
“Brittany.” Santana grasps her elbow and steers her in the direction of the boulder. “You got shot. Go sit down and rest.”
“I’m not helpless,” she protests. “You fixed me, remember?”
“I did not fix--” Santana stops and shakes her head, too exasperated to argue. “Never mind.”
“You didn’t exactly have an easy day either,” Brittany says. She surprises Santana by moving in close and taking Santana’s chin in her hand, turning Santana’s head left and right to examine her face in the firelight. “I gave you this bruise.” She brushes her fingers lightly over the swollen spot high on Santana’s left cheek before trailing them up to touch the bump on her head. “But I didn’t give you this one.”
“No.” Santana swallows thickly. “I did that. I hit my head on the bar at Emma’s.”
Brittany’s gaze drops to Santana’s eyes and she smiles. “Drunk or just clumsy?”
“Clumsy,” she manages. Brittany’s fingers are gentle as they scratch lightly along Santana’s hairline, and her eyes are so intensely blue, the same shade of afternoon sky that inspires poetry. Not only is it a completely absurd thing to think, it’s completely unlike Santana, and she pulls away from Brittany again, hoping for enough space to clear her head.
This time Brittany doesn’t follow her. She tilts her head and studies Santana thoughtfully. “You don’t like to be touched, do you?”
Having the obvious pointed out makes Santana feel dumb and defensive. “So what if I don’t?” she fires back. “What’s it to you? There’s no reason for you to be touching me anyway; you’re a total stranger.”
Brittany doesn’t seem offended. “I guess that’s the problem,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you from Finn that I don’t feel like you’re a stranger to me.” Very pointedly, she takes a wide berth around Santana to the saddlebags leaning up against the boulder and crouches to rummage around in them. When she stands, she’s holding some jerky in one hand and a canteen in the other.
Santana eyes her warily as Brittany returns, but the blonde only wordlessly offers her the canteen. Santana accepts it with a grateful nod and drinks, draining it of nearly half its contents. “You said earlier that Finn talks about me all the time,” she says. “What does he say?”
“All kinds of things,” Brittany says. “He told me about the time he dared you to jump out of the hayloft and you did.”
“And then I dared him to do the same thing and he broke his ankle.” The memory brings a rueful smile to her face. “I got in so much trouble for that.”
“Why?”
“Because my papi said it was my fault.” For once, thinking about the past doesn’t hurt, so Santana keeps talking. “He said that Finn was sweet but that he was a boy and boys were kind of dopey, so I shouldn’t bully him into pulling stupid stunts.” She remembers swinging from anger at Finn for getting hurt and getting her in trouble, to anger at her father for daring to insult Finn’s intelligence, and for the first time in a long time, Santana laughs.
Brittany smiles softly. “You have a really pretty laugh, Santana,” she says quietly. “You should do it more often.”
Santana looks away. “I haven’t had much to laugh about lately.”
“We’ll have to work on that.” Brittany hands her some jerky. “Here, eat. You need to keep your strength up.”
Santana stays close to the fire to eat while Brittany putters around their camp. When she’s finished with her jerky, Brittany waves her over. “This is for you,” she says, taking the canteen and thrusting a bundle into Santana’s arms.
It’s a man’s shirt and pants, similar in cut and color to what Brittany is wearing. “Clothes?”
“They’re Finn’s,” Brittany explains. “I altered them to fit me, so they’ll probably still be a bit big on you, but it’s better than what you’re wearing now.”
Since what she’s wearing is one of Tina’s dresses, dirty and torn and covered in Brittany’s blood, it’s hard to argue with that. “I used to wear Finn’s clothes when I was little.”
“I know.” Brittany smiles and nudges her. “Get changed, you’ll be more comfortable.”
Santana has never been modest, but the thought of changing in front of Brittany makes her inexplicably nervous. Brittany sees her hesitation and comes to the rescue. She hefts the half-empty canteen. “I’m going to go fill this up,” she announces, and marches down to the creek.
As soon as Brittany is out of sight, Santana strips out of her filthy dress, and after a moment of consideration, most of her undergarments as well. It isn’t as though petticoats will be of much use with a man’s pants and shirt. Fortunately both articles of clothing are made from soft fabric that doesn’t seem likely to chafe.
The night air is cold against Santana’s bare skin, and she’s shivering by the time she’s dressed again. She pulls the blanket back around her shoulders and moves even closer to the fire. She still hasn’t warmed back up by the time Brittany returns from the creek, and it registers with Santana that Brittany isn’t wearing her duster. “Where’s your coat?”
“There’s blood all over it,” Brittany explains, joining her. “I don’t like the way it smells.”
“Here.” Santana pulls off the blanket and holds it out. “Put this on.”
“But--”
“You’ll get sick,” Santana interrupts. “You’re the one that got shot, remember? Just take it.”
Reluctantly, Brittany takes the blanket and drapes it over her shoulders. “Thank you.” She looks at Santana for a moment, then without warning steps closer and puts her arm around Santana’s shoulders, sharing the warmth of the blanket.
Santana stiffens but doesn’t move away. “What are you doing?”
“You’re cold too,” Brittany says.
“I don’t need--”
“Do you think that just because you didn’t get shot you can’t get sick?” Brittany asks mildly. “I can see you shivering, Santana. Your lips are practically blue.”
Santana scowls. “You’re exaggerating.”
“And you’re being ridiculous,” Brittany retorts. “I’m not going to eat you, for God’s sake, I’m just trying to keep you from getting pneumonia.”
Unexpectedly, Santana finds herself fighting back a smile. “You did pull a gun on me,” she points out. “Can you blame me for being nervous?”
“But I didn’t shoot you, did I?” Brittany says, glowering. “Although I’m starting to regret that.” Santana grins, and after a moment spent gaping wordlessly at her, Brittany grins back, her expression tinged with wonder and disbelief. “You’re teasing me.”
“I’m not completely without a sense of humor,” Santana agrees. She rolls her shoulders and orders herself to relax, and after a few minutes, actually begins to do so. As jumpy as Brittany makes her feel, there’s also something comfortable about being around the other girl. It’s a strange dichotomy that Santana doesn’t care to contemplate. “Where do we go from here?”
“Finn and I have a safe house set up not too far away,” Brittany says. “We’ll leave for it in the morning.”
“What if Finn hasn’t it made it here yet? Are we just going to leave without him?”
“He knows where the safe house is, he can find it on his own.” Brittany’s arm tightens around Santana, and she strokes her shoulder. “He’s okay, Santana. Don’t worry about him.”
She wants to believe Brittany, but years of disillusionment and disappointed hopes stand in the way. “How do you know that?”
Brittany looks at her. “You just found each other again. Do you really believe he’s going to let anything keep him from you now?”
The sentiment behind the words touches something inside of Santana and she feels her heart tremble. She clenches her jaw against it and stares into the fire. “That’s incredibly naive.”
“Maybe. But I believe in Finn,” Brittany says quietly. “What do you believe in, Santana?”
She moves away from the comfort of Brittany’s warmth, back into the bracing, mind-clearing snap of the cold night air. “Myself.”
Santana can feel the other girl’s gaze burning into her back as Brittany murmurs, “What a lonely way to live.”
“Yeah.” There’s a strange pressure on Santana’s chest, like the weight of an invisible boulder is crushing down on her. Everything inside of her feels tight and pulled taut, and she raises a hand for silence as Brittany begins to speak, knowing that she’s at the end of her rope. “I’m going to try and get some sleep,” she says, deliberately keeping her back turned to the other girl. “You should do the same. Good night, Brittany.”
She walks away, and Brittany lets her go.
---
“Santana.”
Her eyes pop open and she snaps to wakefulness and awareness. The fire has died down, and the sound of cicadas and frogs echo in the cold air. Every so often, lightning bugs flare and illuminate the darkness. “What?”
Soft footsteps mark Brittany’s approach, and the sand behind Santana shifts as Brittany kneels down at her back. “You’re cold.”
She realizes then that she is, curled up on her right side and facing the fire, hands tucked underneath her chin as she shivers. Still, the denial is automatic. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.” The blanket lands on top of Santana, and a moment later, she feels Brittany stretch out behind her and burrow under it as well. “But we’ll pretend I’m the one who’s freezing if it’ll make accepting my help a little easier for you.”
Her arm hooks over Santana’s waist, and Santana squeezes her eyes shut. “Brittany--”
“Be quiet. You’re cold. Let me help keep you warm.”
Warm isn’t the word for it. Every inch of Santana that Brittany is touching feels like it’s on fire, and when she shifts closer, curling herself around Santana’s body, Brittany only fans the flames. Santana is still shivering, but not because she’s cold.
Brittany is quiet for so long that Santana is beginning to think she’s fallen asleep when she asks, “Better?”
Throat tight with unexpressed emotion, Santana nods, not trusting herself to speak.
“Good.” Brittany pauses, then raises her head to hover over Santana’s, long blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me,” she says softly, “but you can.”
There are so many different things that Santana wants to say in response that she doesn’t know where to begin. Instead, she reaches up and winds a lock of Brittany’s hair, glowing golden in the firelight, around her finger. It feels both intrusive and intimate, and at the same time, completely natural. “Is this why they call you the Sunshine Kid?”
“Yes,” Brittany says quietly. Her lips twitch in a self-deprecating smile. “It was only the second or third time Finn and I had robbed a stagecoach, so we weren’t very good at it yet. My hat almost got knocked off and some of my hair came down. Next thing you know, the papers are calling me the Sunshine Kid.”
“It suits you,” Santana says. She lets Brittany’s hair uncoil from around her finger and looks away, back to the fire. “I’ve been alone for a long time.”
Brittany rests her forehead against Santana’s cheek, and her breath is warm against Santana’s ear. “You’re not anymore.”
For the first time, Santana begins to believe it.
---
When Santana wakes again, it’s mid-morning, and Brittany is still wrapped around her.
“I know you’re going to say I should have woken you up so we could get on the road,” Brittany begins without preamble as soon as Santana stirs. “But you looked like you were finally getting some rest, and I was tired too, and, well, I just didn’t.”
In the midst of this speech, Santana yawns and shifts lazily onto her back. Brittany is resting her injured arm across Santana’s waist and is propped up on her other elbow, chin in hand. Her hair is a mess, she looks pale and sleepy, and she’s staring Santana down with a determined expression. “Go on, tell me I was wrong,” she continues belligerently. “I’ll even let you punch me if you want; I owe you one. But I don’t regret letting you sleep.”
There are a dozen clever things Santana can think of to say in response, but what comes out isn’t one of them. “You’re still here.”
It’s stupid, because where else would Brittany be? If she’d had any thought of abandoning Santana, she could have done so back at Puckerman’s, or the previous evening after Santana had disinfected her wound and fallen asleep. Brittany hasn’t done anything to give Santana reason to think she’d disappear in the dead of night, and yet there’s still a small part of Santana that is surprised to see her.
Surprised and pleased, although she’d rather take a bullet herself than admit as much. She can feel herself blush, and has to struggle not to fidget under the intensity of Brittany’s gaze.
“Every step of the way,” Brittany says softly, her eyes intense on Santana’s. Then she smiles. “Does this mean you’re not going to hit me?”
“I’m not going to hit you,” Santana agrees. “At least not for another few days.”
“You’re sweet.” Brittany sweeps Santana’s hair away from her neck and lets her fingers linger, tapping a gentle rhythm against her collarbone. “But I guess we should probably get going now, huh?”
The temperature is still cool but the sunshine is warm on Santana’s face, the same way Brittany is warm pressed up against her side. The last thing that Santana wants to do is get up and leave, but she makes herself agree anyway. “Probably.”
“Damn it. I knew you were going to say that.” Brittany heaves a sigh and throws back the blanket before levering herself to a sitting position and then standing up. She holds out her right hand for Santana to take. “I can tell you’re going to be the responsible one in this relationship.”
Santana cocks a brow as Brittany helps her to her feet, and the other girl blushes. “I mean, we’re friends,” she says. “Friendships are relationships.” She tries to tug her hand free as the tips of her ears turn bright pink. “You know what I mean.”
Santana hangs on. “I know what you mean,” she assures, squeezing Brittany’s hand.
The uncertainty in Brittany’s eyes begins to fade. “So you’re admitting that you like me.” Her mouth twitches up in the beginning of a smile, and the shift is so lovely that it takes Santana’s breath away.
“I like you,” she manages.
“I’m glad,” Brittany says, sounding almost shy. “I like you too.”
Somehow they’re standing so close together that Santana can feel the heat from Brittany’s body. Brittany isn’t doing anything but watching her and holding her hand, but it suddenly feels like so much more than that, so much more than Santana can handle. She releases Brittany’s hand and takes a step back, trying to regain some perspective. “Do you want to get us packed up, or put out the fire and cover our tracks?”
A blush still rides high on Brittany’s cheeks. “I’ll pack and get the horse ready to go.”
Santana nods and heads straight for the remains of the fire before she can do or say something stupid. She empties the canteen over the smoldering coals, then piles sand on top of them. Brittany’s duster is lying discarded near the boulder, so Santana takes that and the canteen down to the creek. She manages to scrub most of the dried blood off the duster’s sleeve, then refills the canteen and heads back up to the campsite.
Brittany has the horse saddled and is waiting beside it, stroking its muzzle and talking quietly to it. She doesn’t look up as Santana approaches.
“Here.” Santana thrusts the damp coat at her, feeling awkward and embarrassed and not sure why. “I got most of the blood off.”
“Thanks.” Brittany smiles and glances at her briefly as she pulls the duster on. “Good as new.”
Santana runs a fingertip around the ragged bullet hole in the sleeve, plucking at the loose threads. “When we have time, I’ll patch it for you.”
“It shouldn’t take too long to get to the safe house,” Brittany says. “I think I can stand having a hole in my coat until then.”
“You’re so brave,” Santana says dryly, pleased when Brittany laughs. “Are you ready to go?”
Brittany nods. “I just need you to give me a boost.” Santana does, and to her surprise, once Brittany is on the horse, she scoots back and pats the saddle in front of her. “Up.”
“But I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“I do. I won’t let us get lost, promise.”
“If you say so.” Santana swings up into the saddle, and Brittany immediately wraps her injured arm around Santana’s waist and leans against her back. “Oh, I see. You just want a way to prop yourself up.”
“I did get shot trying to haul your ass out of the middle of a shoot-out,” Brittany says mildly, adding, “Just follow the creek upstream for a while.”
Santana flicks the reins, and the horse sets off at a brisk trot. “That was not my fault.”
“Whose fault was it?”
“Yours and Finn’s!” Santana exclaims. “You two were the ones holding up the bank.”
Brittany rests her chin on Santana’s shoulder. “You were the one who interrupted us and distracted me so that clerk could get away and send in the Marshals.”
“If you’d been robbing a stagecoach or a train like you usually do, you wouldn’t have been there for me to distract,” Santana says.
“You have a point there,” Brittany admits. “But I refuse to take the blame for that. We only robbed the bank because Puck told us to.”
“Puck?” Santana turns her head to glance at Brittany, nearly coming nose-to-nose with her in the process. “Who the hell is Puck?”
“Noah Puckerman,” Brittany says. “He’s--I guess you could say he’s the brains of the operation.”
“Noah Puckerman?”
Brittany pats Santana’s leg affectionately. “You know, you don’t have to repeat everything I say.”
Santana narrows her eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a real smartass?”
“Just you,” Brittany says cheerfully. “My parents were too refined to use language like that, and since I’ve been with Finn, everyone else has been too scared of me.” She pokes the back of Santana’s neck with her index finger. “On account of pulling guns on them, you know.”
Santana has a feeling she knows the answer to her next question, but she asks it anyway. “Where are your parents now?”
The good humor fades from Brittany’s expression. “They were killed,” she says softly. “Around the time I met Finn and Puck, actually, so...”
“This is part of the story that you want me to get from Finn first,” Santana finishes.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Santana squeezes the hand that Brittany is resting on her hip. “This whole mystery thing is pretty damn annoying, though, just so you know.”
“I just don’t want to step on Finn’s toes, that’s all,” she replies. “I’m not very mysterious at all.”
Brittany lays her cheek on Santana’s shoulder, her nose nuzzling against Santana’s neck. It should be intrusive and irritating and downright off-putting, and if anyone else tried it Santana would deck them, but all she can think through the sudden static in her brain is how nice it is, and how much nicer it would be if, instead of Brittany’s nose against her neck, it were Brittany’s lips.
Shit.
“It’s mysterious enough for me,” she mutters, and does her best not to think of anything at all.
---
They ride for most of the day. Sometimes Brittany dozes, and truth be told, Santana even manages to nod off a time or two. Fortunately the horse (whom, Brittany informs her with asperity when she refers to the animal as an it, is a her named Clementine) is the most even-tempered that Santana has ever been around, and doesn’t go astray or buck them off even during the few minutes when they’re both asleep.
Most of the time, though, they’re awake, and they talk. Brittany tells Santana about her childhood on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, where she grew up with her parents and Dutch immigrant grandparents, though she doesn’t touch on her parents’ death. She’s fluent in Dutch, and proves it by refusing to speak anything else until Santana counters by speaking in Spanish, something she hasn’t done since her papi died.
When Brittany relents and switches back to English, Santana does too, and she keeps talking, telling Brittany about everyone at Emma’s Place and regaling her with stories of a childhood spent running half-wild with Finn. She tells Brittany things she’s never told anyone, things that only Finn knows, and what’s strange is that it feels completely natural to do so. She’s spent years on her own, never letting her guard down, never trusting anyone, and Brittany has managed to obliterate her defenses in the course of a single day. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and makes Santana feel like a whole person for the first time in years, and she has no idea what to do with that.
Brittany is snug against Santana’s backside, her arm slung low across Santana’s belly, when she pulls Santana’s right hand off the reins and turns it over, tracing the scar down the length of her palm.
“You don’t have a scar,” Santana notes, shivering at the tickle of Brittany’s thumb.
“Nope,” Brittany agrees. “I’m just your stand-in, remember? Not an official sister.” She points, directing Santana’s attention back in front of them. In the distance, a barely-visible plume of smoke is rising above the treetops. “See that? We’re getting close.”
“You think that’s coming from the safe house?” Santana’s hands clench, one around Brittany’s, one around the reins. Clementine’s head jerks against the sudden pull and she lets out a nervous whinny, prancing sideways in irritation. “Finn must already be there!”
“If that’s him,” Brittany cautions. “I’ve never known anyone else to use the cabin since Finn and I have, but someone else could have found it since the last time we’ve been here.”
Santana squeezes her knees against Clementine’s flanks, urging the horse into a trot. “Who else would be here? We’re miles from the nearest town, in the middle of nowhere.”
“Not exactly,” Brittany says. “There’s an abandoned silver mine not far from here. Before it shut down, miners stayed in the cabin, so it’s not like no one knows it exists. If anyone decided to come back for some reason--”
“Well, we’re about to find out,” Santana interrupts. “Hang on.”
She digs her heels into the horse’s flanks and Clementine takes off at a gallop, making a beeline for the smoke. In direct opposition to Santana’s order, Brittany pulls her hands away; when her arms circle around Santana’s waist again a few moments later, she’s holding one of her revolvers.
Brittany’s hesitancy should probably make Santana cautious, but all she can think about is the possibility of Finn waiting at the end of the ride. Brittany had asked Santana what she believed in, and she’d answered truthfully that she believed in herself; but she’s beginning to believe in Brittany, and she wants to believe in Finn again. She hangs on to that as the cabin comes into view.
Brittany’s free hand slides from Santana’s hip up her side, tapping out a warning against her ribs. Santana forces herself to tug on the reins and slow the horse to a staid walk.
“Relax,” Brittany murmurs.
Santana grits her teeth and speaks from the corner of her mouth. “It’s hard to relax when you’ve got a gun in my lap.”
Brittany makes an amused sound. “At least I don’t have it aimed at you.”
“Good point.”
The wooden cabin looks like it has seen better days. Dozens of shingles are missing from the sagging roof, and the exterior walls are weather-beaten and worn. The front steps are bowed, and sections of the railing that runs around the front porch look rotten and on the verge of collapse. It looks every inch a cabin that has been abandoned and forgotten.
As they get closer to it, Santana can make out a horse tied to a hitching post near the cabin’s front porch. Brittany’s fingers press more firmly into her ribs. “Look, it’s Charlie!”
It takes her a moment to figure out that Brittany is talking about the horse. Santana peers more intently at it, recognizing it as the horse they’d left behind for Finn at the bank. It’s a brown-and-white paint, named--
“Charlie?”
“He’s Finn’s horse,” Brittany explains.
“He’s my horse,” Santana says. Tears sting in her eyes in direct contrast to the laughter that bubbles in her throat. “I can’t believe Finn kept him.”
The front door of the cabin opens and a tall, bearded man steps out onto the porch. Santana’s breath catches in her throat. “Finn.”
She kicks Clementine into a canter, quickly closing the last yards to the cabin. As soon as she’s reined the horse to a stop, Santana slides out of the saddle, pausing just long enough to help Brittany down as well. When she turns around, Finn is already there, whole and unharmed, and Santana launches herself into his arms.
He crushes her to his chest, lips brushing the crown of her head. “You’re safe, you’re safe,” he murmurs against her hair.
Santana wants to ask him how he got away from the Marshals, how he met Brittany, and how they both ended up robbing banks. What comes out is, “I can’t believe you still have Charlie.”
Finn’s arms tighten around her. “I was bringing him back to you.”
Santana doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she settles for doing both.
---
It’s supposed to be an easy job: Ride along in one of the passenger cars of the train as a plainsclothed guard, a last line of defense against any thieves that might make it past Puckerman’s uniformed guards.
It’s dangerous, he supposes--it seemed like trains and banks were always being hit nowadays, by people who were too lazy to work but could somehow muster the energy to steal from and frighten others--and Finn knows he should probably be more concerned by it than he is. But it pays well, and that’s the most important thing, because Finn has a plan, and the first step in that plan is getting money. The second step is going home.
Okay, so it isn’t the most sophisticated plan--Santana was always the one with wild ideas and harebrained schemes; Finn mostly went along for the ride--but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad one. He has it all mapped out in his head. When he’s earned enough money (and he’s not sure how much; he figures he’ll know it when he makes it), he’s going home. He’s going to pay off Sheriff Tanaka so he isn’t arrested and hanged for a murder he didn’t commit, and then he’s going to become the killer that everyone already thinks he is.
He imagines it a lot; sneaking into the Lopez house one evening and surprising Terri and Shelby, letting them see him just long enough to watch the recognition flash into their eyes, the awareness that they’re going to die overwhelming them before he takes his gun and blows their brains out. Bang, bang.
With Sandy, Finn will take his time, because even though Terri and Shelby helped frame him, they’re just cogs in a bigger game. Sandy is the one with the plan, the one who wants Santana and the Lopez land so badly that he was willing to murder her father for it. And not just murder him, no; shoot him in the back, like a coward.
With Sandy, Finn will take his time. He’ll use his knife.
And when that’s done, he’ll take Santana and his mother and this time the three of them will leave together to find a new home. This time, there will be no looking back.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Finn jumps in his seat a little, jolted from a daydream he didn’t realize he’d slipped into by the stranger’s voice. There aren’t many people in this passenger car; aren’t many people in any of the cars, really. With the number of train heists on the rise, Puckerman’s had taken to buying up most of the passenger tickets when they were shipping large sums of money, both to give their guards more room to manuever in case of a robbery, and to keep civilians from getting hurt.
As Finn focuses on the person who had interrupted him, he realizes that there’s nobody else in this car; just him and this girl.
He had noticed her when she was climbing aboard because she reminded him of Santana. Not because they look at all alike--this girl has cornsilk hair and bright blue eyes and moves with a kind of easy grace that looks so thoughtless that Finn knows she must have been born with it, while Santana is shorter and darker and stalks through life like a pissed-off bull charging through a barn door--but because he sees Santana in the blonde’s smile.
She’s smiling at him now, and it’s as warm as sunshine on a summer day. Finn remembers the first time Santana ever smiled at him like that--they were seven, and he’d stood in the river in front of their tree stump and stuck his hand deep into the recess underneath it. When he pulled it out, a twelve pound catfish had its jaws clamped around his elbow. It hurt like a bitch and he still had the scars left from tiny teeth marks, but Santana had looked at him and beamed and called him her hero.
Finn had felt ten feet tall that day. Santana has always made him feel that way.
“I don’t think my thoughts are even worth a penny,” Finn says, finally answering the blonde’s question.
“I bet they are,” she says seriously. “Everyone’s thoughts are worth something. They’re important.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Brittany Pierce.”
“Finn Hudson.” He shakes her hand, then asks, “Where are your parents? I saw you when you got on board,” he explains hastily, not wanting it to seem like he’s been watching her. “I figured they were your parents.”
“They are. We’re sitting in there.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder at one of the other passenger cars. “I saw that you were all alone and I thought I’d come say hi.” She smiles again. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Finn shifts in his seat, studying her. “What would you say if I told you what I was thinking wasn’t very nice?”
“That there’s probably a good reason for that, and that you can think whatever you want. There’s a big difference between thinking something that’s not very nice, and doing something that’s not very nice.” She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially. “I only give out pennies for nice thoughts, though.”
“Nice thoughts, huh? I can do that.” Finn crosses his arms and looks up at the ceiling of the car, thinking. “I was just imagining my sister’s reaction when I get to go home and see her again.”
“Have you been away from home for a long time?”
“Awhile.”
Brittany makes a sympathetic noise. “My parents just had to sell our farm. I’m not sure where home is anymore.”
Finn lowers his gaze to look at her. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Home is more about the people you’re with, anyway. We’ll find a place.”
Brittany stands, and Finn straightens up in his seat, reaching out a hand as if to stop her. “Hey, where are you going?”
“To get a penny from my father, silly,” she says with a smile. “I don’t carry them around in my pocket with me.”
The gunshot that follows is completely incongruous with Brittany’s friendly words and demeanor. A puzzled frown furrows her brow and she starts to turn to the sound of the shot, which came from the passenger car where her parents are sitting.
Finn grabs her around the waist and flings her to the floor between their two seats as more gunshots follow the first, this time accompanied by panicked screams. Her eyes are bright and bewildered as she stares up at him. “I’m a guard for Puckerman’s,” he explains quickly. “I’m going to see what’s going on. Stay here, okay? Don’t get up.”
Brittany nods furiously. “My parents--”
“I’ll find them.” Finn gives her a reassuring smile and stands up, pulling the Colt revolver from his jacket pocket.
He does find the Pierces, but like everyone else in their car, they’re already dead.
---
“It was an inside job. The robbers had paid off most of the guards on the train, and when they made a move for the money, the other guards tried to stop them, and things got out of hand. Puck and I managed to kill all of the robbers, but all of the passengers except Brittany were killed. She didn’t have any other family or anywhere else to go, and neither did I, so when Puck suggested that we start running our own inside jobs...neither of us had anything else to do. And it was a lot of money. I was going to use it to come back for you.”
Santana and Finn are sitting side-by-side on the front porch steps, her right arm looped through his left, their hands entwined. She rests her head on his shoulder as he speaks, letting the sound of his voice wash over her and sweep away years of loneliness and fear. When he finishes his story, Finn turns his head and presses a kiss to the crown of Santana's head. They just stay that way for a while, doing nothing but breathing each other in.
Late afternoon is fading into twilight by the time Santana is able to bring herself to speak. "I don't need my home back, Finn," she says quietly. "I just need you. You are my home."
She feels a shudder run through his body. "When did my mother die?" When Santana doesn't reply, he adds, "I know she's dead, Santana. I know you wouldn't have left if you had any reason to stay."
"A few months after papi died,” she says. “The doctor said it was pneumonia. I gave her the medicine he left, and I tried everything I could think of to help, but nothing worked. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t say that in the weeks leading up to her death, Carole Hudson had seemed to lose all hope of ever seeing her son again, and that when her illness struck, had surrendered to it without a fight.
Finn seems to sense her reticence and guesses what it means. “Things would have been different if I’d been there.” His voice roughens, taking on a sharp edge that is wholly unfamiliar to her. “Our parents should still be alive and we should still be with them, and neither of those things are true because of Terri and Shelby and Sandy. I’m going to kill them.”
It isn’t so much the words as the vehemence with which Finn says them that has Santana jerking upright and turning to face him. “Finn.”
His eyes are dark with years of frustrated pain and grief. “They ruined our lives. Now that I know you’re safe, I can go back and make them pay.”
It isn’t as though Santana hasn’t had similar thoughts--when her papi lay dying, when she watched Carole Hudson waste away, when she was out on her own, dirty and exhausted and starving during her search for Finn. She was angry and frightened and alone, and if she had been given an opportunity to kill Terri, Shelby, or Sandy without any repercussions, she might have seized it.
Now, though, she is none of those things. The people at Emma’s Place had shown her kindness and generosity when she’d done nothing to deserve either. Brittany, who has every reason to feel threatened by her, has accepted Santana without reservation and only seems to want her friendship in return. Finding Finn was the last piece of the puzzle, the final thing that shattered the walls she’d built around her heart, and Santana already feels more like the girl she used to be just by being near him. Unfortunately, their reunion doesn’t seem to have had the same effect on Finn.
“I hated them for a long time,” she says carefully. “But I don’t any more. I don’t care about them at all. We’re together again; that’s all that matters to me.”
She can see the tic of Finn’s jaw as he clenches his teeth. “It’s not right, Santana. It’s not fair.”
“And who ever told you life was fair?” Santana counters, a bit more harshly than she’d intended. “I don’t remember your mother saying that, and I’m damn sure my papi never did.”
Finn pushes himself to his feet and off the porch in one quick movement, and Santana follows him up, talking to his back when he turns away from her. “What if you did kill them?” she continues. “What good would that do? It wouldn’t bring our parents back. It wouldn’t change anything.”
Santana pulls up short as Finn whirls around to face her, his features pulled taut with rage. “It would make me feel better!”
Finn is nearly a foot taller than she, with broad shoulders and a well-muscled frame to go along with it. If any other man turned on her in such a way, Santana would feel alarmed, but with Finn, she doesn’t even hesitate before stepping closer. “Don’t try to sell me that bullshit, Finn Hudson. Nobody knows you better than I do, and I know that wouldn’t make you feel better.” She places her hands on either side of his face, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of whiskers beneath her palm. “Nobody knows you better,” she says again. “You deciding to grow a stupid beard isn’t going to change that.”
He shakes his head, expression miserable. “I’m not the boy you used to know. I’m not a good person.”
“Oh yeah?” she retorts. “Join the club.”
That earns her a smile. Santana drops her hands to Finn’s shoulders, feeling them start to relax beneath her touch. “If you don’t want to go home, what do you want to do?” he asks. “You must have something in mind. You were always the smart one anyway.”
“Go west,” she replies immediately. For years, she hadn’t bothered to think past find Finn, but the question of what now? has been eating away at the back of her mind since seeing him inside Puckerman’s. “Or south, to Mexico,” she continues. “Somewhere far from here, where nobody knows us and we can all start over.”
“All?” Finn echoes. “You mean you, me, and--”
“Brittany, of course.” Santana frowns. “She’s coming with us, Finn. There’s no way we’re leaving her behind.”
“Of course we aren’t,” he says, his expression entirely too bemused for Santana’s liking. “I just didn’t expect you to--”
“What?” Santana snaps irritably.
Finn grins, looking delighted. “Like her.”
“Why wouldn’t I like her?” She feels unaccountably defensive, which is made worse by the knowledge that Finn can tell. Santana crosses her arms over her chest and scowls up at him. “She’s nice. I like nice people.”
“You don’t like anyone,” he points out.
“I’ve stuck with your worthless ass for years,” she grumbles.
“That’s true.” He tugs affectionately on a lock of her hair. “Maybe you’re not the smart one after all.”
“Very funny.” Santana hesitates, reluctant to seem too interested in Brittany. “Why did she stay with you?”
Finn looks confused. “Brittany?” She nods. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she didn’t have to stay, did she?” Santana asks. “I mean, if she had asked, you would have given her some of the money you two stole and let her leave, right?”
“Of course,” he says, bristling. “I never forced her to help me, Santana. Her parents were dead, and she asked to come along with me. I couldn’t tell her no and just leave her there on her own. But she didn’t have to stay.” A line forms between his eyes as he frowns, looking troubled. “I’ve never really thought about it before. I guess I always figured she stayed because we became friends.”
“She’s like another sister to you.”
Finn nods, a little wary. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” she says honestly. “I’m glad you found someone like Brittany to take care of you when I couldn’t.” She smiles, reaching out to give his arm an affectionate slug. “I worried about you a lot, you know. I guess I didn’t need to.”
“She’s a really good person, Santana,” he says. “And she doesn’t deserve to live like this. Neither of you do.” He takes both of her hands in his, regarding her steadily. “You’re right. About Sandy and Terri and Shelby and all of that, you’re right. I still think they deserve to die for everything they’ve done, but you and Brittany are more important than any of that. So tomorrow morning, we’ll pick a direction and just...go. No looking back.”
“I like the sound of that.” She turns their hands so she can see the scar that bisects Finn’s left palm. “If Brittany is really like a sister to you, you should tell her. She thinks she was just a stand-in for me, and she needs to know she’s not.”
“I’ll tell her,” Finn says. He studies Santana thoughtfully. “You really do like Brittany, don’t you?”
Her first instinct is to deny it, but her resolution wilts under Finn’s knowing gaze. “I like her,” Santana agrees softly, looking away. “I like her very much.”
Finn looks as though he wants to say more, but his gaze goes distant and he holds a hand up for silence. “Do you hear that?”
Santana peers around his shoulder. In the distance, in the growing darkness, she can just make out a lone horse and rider approaching the cabin. “Someone’s coming."
“Brittany!” Finn has Santana’s elbow and is hustling her back up the cabin’s front steps without even turning around. The front door opens and Brittany steps out onto the porch, a rifle in each hand. “We have a visitor.”
Brittany hands Finn his Winchester, accepting Santana when Finn passes her off. “Anyone we know?”
“Don’t know yet.” He checks to make sure the rifle is loaded before turning around to squint at the mysterious rider who is quickly coming closer. “Still too far away.”
Santana tugs her arm free of Brittany’s grip with no small effort. “I’m not some helpless child you have to protect,” she huffs. She reaches to take the Colt from the holster on Brittany’s right hip, only to have Brittany’s hand come down on top of hers, trapping it against the butt of the revolver.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to get a gun, what does it look like?” Santana yanks ineffectually on the weapon, unable to move it with Brittany pressing her hand down. “Brittany.”
Brittany bats Santana’s hand away, then pulls the gun out of its holster and gives it to her. “Stay behind me,” she warns.
Santana deliberately steps in front of her. “You’re the one with the bullet hole in your arm,” she snaps. “You stay behind me.”
“Both of you just shut up and try not to get shot.” Finn steps up to the edge of the porch, rifle at the ready. “And stay back.”
Santana circles around to Finn’s right and presses herself against the railing’s support column, peering around it to watch their visitor approach. From the corner of her eye, she sees Brittany mimic her movements on the opposite side of the porch. They exchange a quick glance and nod, then Santana returns her gaze to the front and cocks her gun.
A couple dozen yards away from the cabin, the rider pulls up short. “What’s with the army, Hudson? Is that any way to greet your boss?”
Finn and Brittany both visibly relax, and the latter looks Santana’s way. “It’s Puck.”
“Puck.” Santana watches as he kicks his horse into a canter the rest of the way to the cabin and Finn descends the steps to greet him. She releases the hammer on the Colt and flicks the safety on before handing it back to Brittany. “I’m going to go say hello.”
Part 4