Compass

There's dirt and grime imbedded in your skin, becoming a part of you. You think the retching screams and metallic twang of blood might be a part of you also but you're not sure. All you can say for certain is that there's a hand with a firm grip on your shoulder urging you to get up and move, to keep fighting.

***

You're half running, half jogging, going as quick as you can but not quick enough. There's someone behind you, chasing. The muted sound of weapons fire can attest to that but a stronger presence is in right in front of you. The urge to follow it drowns out the heavy footsteps gaining on your position.

***

You're still now. The air silent but for the stifled breath from the man crouched next to you in the brush. The same man who has his arm protectively covering your chest. He's wounded you suspect but then again so are you if the blood-soaked tourniquet wrapped around your arm is anything to go by. Even in this pitch-black darkness, the faintest amount of moonlight shines off his eyes making them black. His black eyes stare at you and you think you can almost read his thoughts, feel his pain...almost.

***

There's a fog in your head, right between your eyes. You feel like it's been there forever, but forever is a very long time and you're sure you have more important things to do. The hand is back, fingers slightly brushing over your face, gently sweeping the fog away. Your eyes manage to open to find his. Not black but brown, his gaze both soothes and moves you but you don't have time to contemplate why as he hauls you to your feet and you unerringly follow.

***

He has you crushed up against a tree, held by the weight of his body pressing against yours. His breathing is hoarser but much quieter than before. Rough, calloused fingertips splay over your lips in a wordless request. You can see the enemy marching past through the various branches and such, blocking you from their predatory eyes. The symbol emblazoned upon their foreheads burns like acid in your brain. "Ba'al", your lips form, but no sound comes out. When the soldiers are gone, he closes his eyes and rests his head on your shoulder, exhaling a shaky breath.

***

You realise how beautiful this planet is as the gate slowly locks in place, once again forming an event horizon. The smell of sweat and tears is hardly noticeable amidst the cool night air and fragrant alien plant life. His eyes are once again black but there is no luminant moon tonight, it doesn't matter, his eyes are half lidded anyway. You rise slowly from your leaning place on the DHD as he hands you your P-90, funny, you don't remember putting it down. You head toward the gate, home.

***

It doesn't surprise you that you can tell you're in the infirmary by the smell of the place before you even open your eyes or register the lulling beeps emanating from the various machines around you. It also doesn't surprise you to find him staring at you from the adjacent bed. The pain in your arm is gone, along with the dirt and grime. You wonder who the lucky nurse was this time. Probably Terry; he's always had a thing for you.

Your eyes follow him as he gets out of bed, making his way over to you. You raise your covers in a dance you're both so familiar with as he climbs in, wrapping himself around you. You wrap your arms around him as tight as you can without jarring your injured arm. He places his head under your chin, lips against your neck, faintly touching your pulse.  "Autem noster resarcio circuitus, Jack."

The End



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