Chapter Text
The shock sets in and stays with her for a while—he’s seen it enough times, from his friends in the force, from his brother surviving two tours and not wanting to go back for a third—then not coming back from the third—from his dad who would wake up screaming sometimes—he thought it was from pain until the same situation almost happened with him.
Closes his eyes and he just repeatedly smacking into the ice.
Or explodes in a downtown theater after giving a six out of ten speech.
Pulled her away from the crowd as she bucked against him, wanting to save her friend, the friend who saved her life.
She was honest with Denya—told him when Denya didn’t immediately report her, she knew they could trust her, knew they were working on the same side.
There was a plan for alternate galaxy communication, but it died in the city center with her.
For the next day and a half, she didn’t move.
Wouldn’t eat or sleep, just laid on her back in the bed, the only movement was her hand rubbing over her stomach, a really noticeable bump now—figures if she got pregnant the first time they had sex in this galaxy, or the last time they did in their own, that she’s around six months now.
He lays beside her, strokes her arm or her hair, reads to her from other novels he’s bought with his wage increase. When she doesn’t seem to react to those, he starts telling her stories of his childhood, crashing a car into a huge hay bale at the age of fifteen without even a learner’s permit and how he knew from the speed that he wanted more, more of that adrenaline coursing through him, knew then he wanted to be a pilot.
Sometimes he tells her the plots of tv shows or movies, and when he gets to Ms. Doubtfire she cracks a smile, he grins back. She gets a little better after that, he still has to help her out of bed, get washed and ready, go with her to the market, and help her to the couch to stare at the fire while he prepares all the meals.
She lays on her side, her body dormant and still, but he can see the rush of thoughts in her unblinking eyes.
He got two days off—one because of the promotion and one was their rest day—but when he goes to Tomin, asking who he talks to about getting more days off because Seevis is no where to be found, the other man looks at him fully insulted.
“Your wife should be caring for you and doing those tasks,” Tomin explains, buffing his armor until it shines.
“She does, but she’s sick right now and with the baby, she needs—”
“If she is sick, then the Ori will heal her if she needs it. It is not a man’s job to—”
He stops listening after that because there’s no sense in arguing how things are done here. It’s not going to help their cause or help them get home.
Walks home in defeat after buying a few herbs from the market, thinking that one must make a relaxing tea or scent or something, and finds her sitting up on the couch, her eyes wild, on hand clutching her stomach and the other digging into the cushion.
“You okay?” Questions over his shoulder as he locks the door and double checks it. When he turns back, she’s shaking and starting to cry. “What happened?”
“It’s stupid.” The first words she’s spoken in almost two days. Her voice is small and hoarse, and she clears her throat.
She’s talking and it’s a start. He doesn’t placate her into telling him or force her.
Simply takes her hand, rounding to the front of the couch, the heat from the fire licking at his legs and the back of his neck, and sits beside her.
She ends up sprawled over him, her body sideways, her head resting beneath his chin, his hand stroking her hair, pulling it away from her shoulders, drawing little swirls and marks there. Her stomach presses into his and he gets to feel the movement of a child he’s neither of them wanted, but now he would fight tooth and nail to keep. Pictures the little guy doing somersaults swirling from top to bottom and starting over again.
After a few minutes of their breathing together, of a crackling fire that she side eyes, at her playing with the loose threads on his collar, her cold nose nuzzling at his neck. Her breathes even out against his skin and if she falls asleep, at least she’ll get a decent rest.
There’s no one in the villager he can talk to about this. None of the men seem to know or care what goes on with their wives, and that might be another reason why there’s no kids younger than eight in this village. He’s guessing a lot of them don’t make it, through the indifference of the spouses, or through Denya’s mediation.
If he asks the right person, maybe he can get some suggestions on herbs or plants that can help settle her down. He doesn’t want to sedate her or for her to comply with everything he suggests—half of their conversations is pithy banter about things they disagree on—but she was in shock for at least a day, knows she has some lingering anxiety and maybe some PTSD, and even though he’s been field trained to deal with basic injuries like a bash on her hairline, he doesn’t know how to help her mind.
But she surprises him by trusting him.
“I had a bad dream.”
Lets him in, even though he refused to let her help Denya because he can’t come home one day and find her in the village center all ashes to ashes.
Doesn’t say any encouraging words, doesn’t tell her to continue, because right now she’s in a very fragile place, and he has to let her make the decision to trust, to make the choice to let him in, to allow him to take care of her.
“I was upstairs in bed. Laying on my back.” The tickle of her finger against his collar, the side of his throat is growing faster, more nervous. “I had my hands on my stomach and the baby was kicking up a storm.”
Pauses to swallow, can feel it against his chest, the hollowness in hers, the exhaustion in her movements. Trying to shift to get more comfortable, but her shaking arms collapse her back into place. Reaches his hands to help her, but they freeze in the air as she speaks.
“There was a fire in the canopy of our bed, and from it came—a—a—a face.”
Pillows her head against one hand resting on his chest, and with the other, curls her fingers into his shirt, fisting the material. “It got lower and lower and hotter and hotter.”
Her eyes squint as she forces herself to remember, and he can’t help himself—slips his hand within hers to take the fabric’s place, cold fingers curling against his, fitting with perfection. “The face had teeth—and it opened it’s mouth—lower and hotter—until—until—”
Reads between the lines, gathering her closer to him. Doesn’t tell her that it was just a dream because she knows that—doesn’t need to hear that. What she needs to hear she’s afraid to say, but he knows her, knows how strong she is to a fault, how she stood there, wasting away before him and gave him back his legs because she could.
“It’s okay to be scared,” speaks it into her hair that doesn’t smell like flowers or fruit anymore, just the empty scent of water.
With that one sentence her breathing evens.
Doesn’t know what it was that made her this way, whether it was being host to a Goa’uld, or some survivalist trait from before that. She complains, but never about the stuff that matters. Never about being tired, or the drafty window, or the bullet wound she sported for so long.
Not about the kid she’s carrying all in the front.
“It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
He can still smell the burning flesh and he didn’t even know Denya that well. Still feels the guilt because she alone saved Vala and when it came time for them to reciprocate the favor, he refused to. Can’t shake the image of her in the town, wind blowing around her charred skin like the corpse when they first got here. “The last months haven’t exactly been easy.”
She shakes her head against him, and he doesn’t know what she’s disagreeing with him about, but he lets her, allows her to cry in the peace and safety of his arms because he can. Drops a kiss to her shoulder and lets his lips linger, stitching the feeling into his memory.
“I’m here. I got your back.”