#doctordonovan:027

[duefaith-a]

         // @doctordonovan​ sent,  [ TELL ]  for receiver to look towards sender after a battle and realize they’re bleeding.

          The SGC was in many ways their refuge — against the prying eyes of a world that would have too many questions for its own good, and against the threats of a universe that sometimes ( just sometimes ) seemed dead set on stripping from them life, limb, and liberty. And within its halls lingered a false sense of security, the conviction that nothing could touch them, that they were safe. There’s evidence aplenty to the contrary, reports detailing incursions, foothold scenarios barely averted. Somehow, this is different.

          Cam knows the somehow. What’s read on a page is never truly real to him, and the abstract existence of such past situations can have no bearing on his life. It does have a bearing when he’s in the midst of it, when his team is at risk, when she is on base. Not that reality leaves much time for worrying, consuming all thought with the immediate need for a plan, for action. All truth told, the thought that Maeve is not in fact off world, that, though he doesn’t know for sure, she’d likely somewhere here ( unless by some fleeting kindness of fate she had not yet arrived, or left early, or… but fate is never so kind ), is far from forefront of his thoughts.

          Until, at least, the dust is settled, fatigue offset by the remaining hum of adrenaline, as they tally the damage done and begin setting things to rights. Personnel to account for, to direct to infirmary or assign to a task. Cam’s directing a group gathered from those wandering corridors looking lost when he catches a glimpse from the corner of his eye. He offers remaining, hurried instructions, gives a pointed look at a poor lieutenant into whose responsibility he dumps the rest, and then he turns, her name upon his lips to call her back, to let him catch up.  

          Jogging steps close the distance.    ❛ Hey, are you okay? ❜    The words come, reflexive, a standard question to ask after all that’s transpired. The worry hits only after they’ve left his lips — he’s always too slow to notice what should be immediately obvious. He forgets the last question ( it doesn’t matter anymore, regardless ), supplanting it with another.

          ❛ Maeve, what happened? ❜    He had reached for her arm, intending to pull her into an embrace, but instead he pushes back the hair which half-obscures the injury. The question is dumb as the last, scarcely requiring an answer. And, again, he doesn’t wait for one.    ❛ Let’s get you to the infirmary. ❜    An edge of panic slips through in his tone, for all he strives to keep his voice even. Common sense might acknowledge that there is not so much blood as to warrant such concern, but experience whispers back the subtle and insidious nature of head injuries and concussions. 

          She’ll protest, he expects, concerned as she always is for the other injured, insistent that she is fine and that she ought to help. The thought would be almost laughable, were he less worried, and instead his grip upon her arm tightens, the gesture part reassurance and part concern.