Ficlet: Not Dark Yet (But It's Getting There)
Title: Not Dark Yet (But It's Getting There)
Author: Pepper
Rating: PG
Featured Character(s): Sam, Jack
Pairing(s): Smidgeon of S/J
Summary: Now is not the time for either of them to break.
A/N: What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING? Why am I writing this instead of finishing my remix? Stupid brain.
Got this from the prompt amnesty here: "Walls, dank alley, dust on their toes." (Okay, it's more mud than dust, but mud went better with dank.)
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They scramble around the corner, both seeing the dip in the wall and diving for it at the same time, flattening themselves against the cold, dank stone and panting as quietly as possible. The sounds of pursuit pass by the entrance to the alley, and Jack leans his head back against the wall for a moment. He's grimy all over, so the damp sensation as grey-green mildew leeches into his hair and through the cloth of his T-shirt isn't enough of an impetus to move quite yet. The feeling of mud and god knows what else between his bare toes is really unspeakably nasty, though. A wave of nausea washes through him, the world swimming unpleasantly in and out of focus, and the ache in his head swelling to a fever-loud crescendo. But he instantly dismisses the notion of passing out. That's crazy talk. He's endured much worse.
The nausea recedes, thankfully, and the headache has been a permanent fixture for the last few days so he's learnt to ignore it. He glances sideways at Carter, and realizes with a jolt that she's crying, silently and unselfconsciously. Her face is tilted up to the light, brows contracted and mouth turned down, the tears washing pale paths down her grubby cheeks. They have to get out of here, though: now is not the time for either of them to break.
"Ready to go again, Sam?"
She blinks opened her eyes, the whites pinked, lashes darkened with tears, and for a fleeting moment he imagines the soft, wet brush of those lashes against his thumb. "I'm ready," she says quietly, her voice perfectly steady, and quickly wipes her face with her sleeve - which just makes things worse, but appearances are the last thing they're worrying about, right now. He glances around, and then up.
She follows his glance, and starts looking for handholds. "Too slippery," he whispers, and they exchange a look. They've been here before. She offers her cupped hands.
With a grimace, he brushes the worst of the mud from the alley off on his pant-leg, and then puts his foot gently into Carter's surprisingly warm hands. She hefts him easily, and he catches at the low-hanging gutter, scrambling up before it breaks under his weight and drops him down on top of her, in a panicky rush that has nothing to do with training. Then he leans over, taking the time to place his weight more carefully, and reaches down for her. She stands on tiptoe, and they lock their hands firmly around one another's wrists - and hear the yell of discovery.
With no breath to swear, he hauls as she leaps, feet scrabbling for purchase against the slimy wall as footsteps pound towards them. For a moment, her wide blue eyes meet his, full of the knowledge that she's not going to escape. He tugs desperately, chanting 'nonononono' under his breath to anyone or anything who might be listening. He doesn't believe, but he can't lose her now, he can't he can't he can't... They are right below already, and Sam kicks out violently as someone grabs for her foot, pushes off against an angry, upturned face... And then the balance tips, and she is up, and they're falling backwards, clutching at one another as they slip and slide, and then catch themselves, and scrabble up and over like monkeys, away from the voices that rise to follow them angrily. Connecting rooftops give them an escape route that they don't hesitate to take, flying on instinct and luck. They're long past due some of the latter.
Four hours later, and they're sitting in silence, watching as a stream washes away the mud and blood from their feet. It's fucking freezing, but he'll take that over septicemia, any day. He stares at her torn toenails, noticing the last flakes of varnish that still cling to them, in a shade of pink like the inside of seashells. He wonders what she'll do when that's gone.
He thinks she might be crying again, but they're safe for the moment so he doesn't look. He's not willing to let go, not yet. Later, he tells himself - like always. Later. He tries to think of something to say, but nothing particularly comes to mind. He's not got it in him to be comforting, any more, and she doesn't deserve the grief-fuelled anger that he's trying to ignore. Later.
"It's all wrong," she whispers.
He doesn't disagree.
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END.