#doctordonovan:asks

          //    @doctordonovan​​​  asked for pain  (  inspired by a meme: sender has hidden an injury from receiver , and receiver finds out. )

          “ –– when doctor donovan got shot.”

          there was another half to that sentence,  a beginning that cam was surely supposed to have heard and paid attention to.  a half that was somehow important,  the main part of the sentence by designation of grammar and of content.  it’s in one ear and out the other,  forgotten in the wake of the final five words.  chill courses through him,  and cam rounds on the poor lieutenant fast enough that,  despite the months that current team has worked with him,  the man still straightens sharply as if expecting a harshness cam will never offer.    ❛ what do you mean, ‘when maeve got shot?’ ❜

          he clings to self control by a thread,  vowing to hold judgment until he has his answers despite the twisting in his gut.  he reminds himself that he’s seen her,  that she’s on her feet,  no visible injury.  whatever had happened,  it can’t have offered too much risk to her life.  it’s a paltry reassurance in the wake of the words when doctor donovan got shot.  shock comes half from the reality of the situation,  from the fear that he cannot quash even against the rational suggestions of his mind,  and half from the fact that she neglected to tell him.  for all plenty else has weighed upon their minds,  for all he doubted,  even for a flicker of a moment,  where and when he was when he first saw her face,  had maeve suffered such an injury,  he ought to have known.  she ought to have told him.

          lieutenant jans shifts uneasily,  from foot to foot,  rubs at the back of his neck.  “ we,  er…  we thought you knew.  we thought she’d have told you. “

          though cam’s impatient,  that last thread of control fraying with each passing moment,  and though he is of half a mind to give up on his nervous team and merely seek maeve out herself to demand answers ( something in him that he refuses to acknowledge quails at that suggestion,  however ),  he tries again,  this time his words more precise.    ❛ how did she get shot? ❜

          it’s ackler who speaks up when jans still hesitates.    “ you know there’s another you,  sir.  from that other reality.  he… “    for  a moment she hesitates,  confidence quailing as if she realizes the impact of the sentence she has to finish.  “ he shot her. in the arm. “  she glances fleetingly towards jans.  “ it might’ve been worse,  but jans reacted quickly. “

          he’s unfamiliar with the stillness that descends upon his mind,  with how,  for just a moment,  he,  along with the rest of the world,  freezes as if some deity hit a pause button.  anger usually spurs him to action,  drives him to lash out,  or,  at best,  to need to move to work through the emotion.  somewhere,  in the back of his mind,  a rational part of him recognizes immediately why his counterpart must have acted so — he had seen enough to know.  still,  understanding does nothing to combat simmering rage. his team awaits some reaction,  even ackler ( usually the more brazen of the lot ) looking progressively less and less certain.  

          the gratitude he owes jans  ( owes them all,  he suspects )  cannot gain purchase in his thoughts,  and though he’ll return later to offer it,  when stillness breaks,  it's with that need for action.  the other cameron mitchell,  the version of him who belonged to that other,  hellish reality,  remained yet in custody until such time as they could reverse his passage here.  as he moves through the corridors,  half-murderous and all too aware of the firearm he carries,  strides long and relentless,  those before him all too hastily move out of his way as if recognizing his mood.  one or two braver souls call after him,  asking if everything’s okay,  but they receive no answer.

          still,  he’s descended only two levels by stair before concern outpaces his fury.  for one flight longer,  he hesitates,  then redirects his course to seek out maeve instead.  it’s still there when he sees her,  for all he braces himself.  the fear that spikes through his chest,  the tension that courses up his spine and stretches across his shoulders,  up his neck,  and into his jaw.  the insidious thoughts of events so recently past yet so vividly etched into his mind,  of someone not her yet so so skilled at pretending.  he grits his teeth and ignores it.  instead,  without preamble,  without so much as pausing to catch her attention first,  or without consideration of the fact that he distracts her from her work,  here in the small laboratory where she passes much of her time,  he demands,    ❛ when were you planning to tell me he shot you? ❜    he lingers in the doorway,  steps suddenly leaden,  for all gaze looks her over for sign of injury,  for damage done ( not by him,  he reminds himself,  for all the man responsible shares his features ).  

        ❛ Nonsense. We’re not even close to ‘close’ yet. It’s not ‘cutting things close’ until your hair gets singed. ❜    Her cheery demeanor belies any anxiety she might feel. Five hundred years of running through the world by yourself with no librarian to save save the Library itself would do that to you. Immortality would do that to you. What’s a little danger if death cannot reach you, except through rare, specific artifacts ( and surely that scarcely counts ). 

          Sometimes she must remind herself: Maeve is not so invulnerable, and having adopted the Librarian as her charge, Nicole cannot drag her into the dangers to which she’s accustomed herself. Yet, she knows that her duty as Guardian is merely to ensure Librarians’ physical safety, and there’s something to be said for the therapeutic effects of a bit of excitement. She’s no therapist, of course: don’t quote her on it.

          // @doctordonovan​ sent,  ❝ before you do anything, try this and tell me what you think. ❞

          He’s scarcely set foot in the door; he hasn’t even had a moment to say hello before her words halt him not two strides into the kitchen. And pause he does, long enough to take in the situation, accumulated bowls in the sink, sugar and flour dusting the countertop, cakes set to cool upon a rack. As she spoke, she’d pushed a bowl of whipped frosting across the counter to him. Made from scratch, if the chocolate-smudged recipe on the counter is any indication. He recognizes the card upon which it’s written, his mother’s handwriting.

          ❛ I can’t even say hi first? ❜    he demands, for all he’s amused. Still, he approaches the counter, pulling the mixing bowl towards him, though his gaze lingers on her instead.    ❛ Did you follow that? ❜    He points to the recipe.    ❛ Because if so, I guarantee it needs more chocolate. And vanilla. Just, blanket statement, if there’s chocolate or vanilla or cinnamon in any of Mom’s recipes, just double it. Always. ❜    His mother does it herself, though she’d never admit it. Her little secret, she claimed on more than one occasion to her sons while Frank rolled his eyes, pretending not to hear.  

         // @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. 

         // @doctordonovan​ sent,  ❝ I am so very tired, Cam. ❞

          He scarcely needs to hear it, the words reaffirming only what he already knows. He can feel it, requiring no extra gifts of empathy, no additional sense, to feel her exhaustion almost as if it were his own. Exhaustion has become constant companion to them both, heartsick despair always warring with physical fatigue for prominence, as if it’s a competition and only one able to prove the victor. And in a way her exhaustion is his own, resonating at a frequency so familiar his own body responds in kind.

          The whispers are insidious, guilt stretching tendrils experimentally from his subconscious, searching for purchase it finds all too easily. He has been too harsh, frustrated by years of believing his best friend dead murdered gone, frustrated for lies he should not fault her for and yet cannot let go. He would have made different choices, had she given the option into his hands instead of making decisions for him.

          // @doctordonovan​​ sent,  ❝ what’s wrong with me? ❞

          Her words provoke a roll of the eyes, the exasperated quirk of a smile. She sounds too chipper for him to take the question at face value, to assume true offense taken. All too often they’re quick to feign indignation where there is none, to grasp at any opportunity to needle, to play at whatever game of wry humor this is that they indulge in.

          Already the others pile from the room, funneling through narrow doorway to disperse to various tasks, orders received and tasks clear. Their chatter rises as they do so, careful and attentive silence giving way to greater ease. SG-1 and the others chosen to accompany them had been among the first through the door, off to suit up before traveling down to planet’s surface. Only Maeve lingers. A few stragglers cast glances in their way, but they’re quick to turn, unwilling to linger.

         // @doctordonovan​ sent,  ❝ at least we’re both the same kind of stupid. ❞

          Cam has yet to forget. The disapproval etched upon General Landry’s face, his irritation at being interrupted. Teal’c’s raised eyebrow, signaling incredulity or interest ( Cam couldn’t say which with any certainty if his life depended upon it, yet he’s willing to guess the former ). Jackson’s unamused, almost tired fatigue, all tolerance for perceived bullshit ended. The furrow of Sam’s brow, confusion evident.

          Yet he swears, still swears, that he’s not stupid, that he’s not wrong. He surely can’t have dreamed the whole briefing nearly word for word. Sam’s technobabble, at the very least, lies beyond his imagination’s ability to supply.

          Landry had ordered him to the infirmary, and during each test Carolyn ran, Cam’s patience waned, good humor giving way to bitter frustration as her disbelief compounded upon his team’s and the general’s. Freed but ordered to take the rest of the day off while Sam took SG-1 off-world in his stead, Cam had retreated to the cafeteria, sulking over an untouched bowl of jello. Cubes lie now in fragments, torn apart by the edge of a spoon, though not one spoonful has he yet lifted to his lips.

          When Maeve joined him, dread settled in at the prospect of explaining to her his temper, his presence on base when he ought to be with his team. Yet he could not refuse to explain; not polite not kind not fair. He concludes with a bitter,    ❛ Or I’m just stupid and utterly losing my mind. ❜

          // @doctordonovan​ sent,  ❝ if you want me to leave, i’ll go.. ❞

          The words startle him more they they ought, coming now when some clearheadedness has returned, when the walls no longer seem to press quite so close about him, when he can, if painstakingly, move. For a moment, it takes all of his conscious effort to lower himself into a chair without merely collapsing, muscles weak and motor control weaker. Still he cannot go far, nor without support, but the small freedom of movement even across a room is cause for relief and not frustration ( at least, most of the time ) after the past few months.    ❛ Why would I… ❜    But he knows why, knows all too well. Only that the statement comes now and not months ago justifies his surprise. He’d given her cause enough to think he’d rather she be gone ( and at times, in the worst of it, he’d believed it himself ).

          ❛ That’s a dumb question. Maeve, I know I’ve been… ❜    — a dry laugh —    ❛ Well, frankly, I’ve been an ass. But… Look, I’m sorry. This is gonna sound just awful, but it wasn’t… wasn’t about you. I didn’t… Thank you. For sticking around even though I’ve… ❜    This time, the brief exhale of laughter is more bitter, and he leaves the sentence incomplete. He could joke, remark upon how much his father has enjoyed the company ( and truly he has ), but it runs so much deeper than that. She had chosen not to listen to him at his worst, when the words he spoke came only from anger at himself and at the universe, and she had chosen not to let those words drive her away. He can’t belittle that.