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She doesn't even realize she has it until she leans forward and it falls out from underneath her jacket.
She reaches to pick it up from the floor, but the movement upsets the current delicate balance of her inner ear. The knock she took to the side of the head is starting to make itself known and the world starts spinning and she leans against the wall, wanting it to stop.
She could also do without the nausea and muffled hearing so she tries to block it out. Block all of it out, and she idly wonders if there is some way she can manipulate the laws of physics once more so they can all go back in time to stop this from even happening. But she knows they can't, so she keeps her eyes closed and takes a deep breath instead.
The dizziness slowly recedes and makes way for memories just as vivid and it makes her ache in a way the battle she's just come through doesn't. It's an ache she only associates with him. One that is always constant, yet changing.
For as long as she's known him, it's been there. Sometimes it feels like a dull pain that starts in one part of her body and slowly seeps out into each and every crevice it can find. Then, there are the times when it is more like an acute pain; one where the epicenter is located near her heart or chest and it makes it difficult to breathe or move or do anything.
Over the years, she thinks she has learned to cope with the ache – really, she has – which is probably just as well, because she sure as hell hasn't been allowed the cure and she knows it’s because the ache is one that can only be satiated by means of throwing herself at him and letting him hold her and touch her and soothe her until the pain disappears. Only it isn't allowed, so she suffers. And she'll continue to suffer until it's too late.
Like today. Maybe. She doesn't know, but the smell of blood and scorched earth and burning flesh tells her enough. The way the Alkesh moved overhead, or how an explosion to her left caught her off-balance, or when the colonel fell to the ground and smoke emanated from his chest and his cap lay discarded by his head.
It's all too much and the ache returns harder than before.
She opens her eyes and gasps for air as she clings onto something – anything – to help her focus and keep this side of conscious. Material folds around her fingers as she tightens her grip on the green ball cap in her hand. It takes a while, but the spots in her vision start to fade and the high-pitched ringing lessens to an annoying hum.
She continues to study the cap. It's well-worn and when she lifts it to her nose, she discovers it's still warm and smells of him. It brings a little comfort, but not enough. Nothing will until she can see him and touch him – to see his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes, and how each breath will tickle her neck if she was to lean in just a little too close.
She banishes the thought as quickly as it appears and instead lets her fingers reverently trace the peak of his hat. It's rugged and strong and resilient. Just like him. The thought gives her the stability she needs.
She folds the cap in half, just like he has a hundred times before, and tucks it safely back inside her jacket. Because for now, she decides it is enough to ease the ache.