AN: Here's a one shot, post ep. 4, before ep. 5. After Capt. James gets shot.

Please review :)

Lacey.

Xox

Today, I forgot my cape

He tries to take a breath, but pain is pounding into his torso, tearing through organs and weighing his chest down, steals the air right back.

The adrenaline that had managed to keep him conscious, keep his thoughts somewhat comprehensible, keep him with her before being hoisted up into the chopper of waiting doctors, is starting to recede, pull back to a part of his brain he isn't sure he can access as dizziness begins to take hold.

He tries to take another breath, tries to fight back the sickness that swirls deep in the pit of his stomach and the bile that claws at his throat, eyes barely catching glimpses of lush golds and greens as the Afghan landscape passes beneath the open sided chopper. His body trembles, bones shaking and muscles tensing, and he bites back a groan as he fights to stay in control, to keep the pain at bay; a battle he's quickly losing.

He tries to blank the buzzing in his ears, blink past the grey spots invading his vision, attempts to ignore the way his body shifts as his world tilts to the left.

Fingers search for a gun that should be there, but he can't find it. He can't find it and he swallows against the panic, because needs it...

"Easy, Captain," a voice, firm and unfamiliar, feminine and sure. He lifts sluggish eyes to land on hers; blue and stormy, worry barely detectable against the determination. He tries to pull some fortitude from her, pulls the last remaining bit of strength from the well inside of his body; the same stuff that's stopped him from passing out, giving in to the pain that crashes into him with every breath, every stubborn beat of his trembling heart.

Unfocused pupils scan over busy bodies, all dressed in camo's and helmets; watching him, watching outside the helicopter, watching for insurgents.

Watching.

His body shifts again, and he groans as fire spreads through his torso, down his legs.

The world isn't listing, the chopper is.

"Hang in there, Captain," her voice again; the medic. She's too close. Too far away. "Stay with us, okay?"

He nods, movements stiff, jerking, takes nearly all of his energy. Eyes burn as lids falter, heavy, his breathing laboured. He remembers - he can't forget; those eyes widening as She gasps, just knowing, before the bullets slam into him as she watches, helpless, and he cries out, because she's too close and too far away.

And then the air is taken from his lungs, chest caving in, and he's falling, arms flailing as he tries to catch hold of something, someone, tries to save himself.

A hand grips his, strong and firm, squeezes a little too tightly, and he forces himself to keep his eyes trained on it, until his eyes can focus, until he can focus, until he can pull in a shallow breath. And another. And another.

"That's it, Sir," a voice, rough and soft, familiar, coaches him.

Smurf.

"We're almost there," the medic affirms, somewhere near him, out of sight, but he still nods again, barely, hand still gripping tight, as tight as he can, because he can't let go. Because if he lets go, he'll fall.

"Can't..." he tries, barely a whisper, raspy. "Breathe...Can't..."

It's too hard. Everything; breathing, talking, keeping it all in order, under control. His skeleton rattles as body shakes, teeth clenching together so hard, he's afraid they're going to snap. Words around him – above him, beside him, behind him – they all blur together, and he can feel his resolve cracking, his heart quivering. And he just won't stop shaking.

"Okay, Captain. Easy now," she's above him, her features moulding into one mess, barely makes sense. "We've touched down, just hang on."

The hand is sliding from his grasp, and he tries to reach for it, to grab it back, but his body wont listen, muscles refuse to work, to take direct orders.

And then he's falling.

His eyes try to roll back into his head as a loud hum or orders and directions fly around him, over him, next to him.

Where's Dawes?

He tries to force eyes to focus, to do their job, but the world is greying, everything smudges together; a blend of motion and radio static. He can't find her, but she was there, right there, promising to get him out, get him home.

His body aches, is on fire and ice cold.

God, it hurts.

Agony washes over him; rigid muscles and fisted hands, nails digging into palms. His body burns, chills him to the bone, and he just wants to get warm, but he's so hot.

Too hot.

"Stay with us, Captain James," another voice, a new one, male and authoritative, but he can't find a face, can only see blue sky above him as Afghan sun beats down on him, relentless, and he's flying.

Voices, hurried, professional, relay above him, but they don't make sense. Nothing makes sense.

He remembers; her face, her eyes.

"Dawes..." he forces out, can taste metal in his mouth, on his dry tongue, and then the air is getting caught somewhere between throat and lungs, choking him. No one is listening, and he needs them to listen. "She...'cause...I...she.." But he can't find the words, can't make them understand.

It was his fault.

"Two more minutes," the faceless doctor promises, before the sky disappears, is replaced with white, bright white, and lights; fluorescent and burning his eyes. He tries to nod again, but nothing works, everything is beyond his control. Eyes slide closed.

Something is different. He can feel something slipping loose inside of him, like everything is just slipping away. He's skydiving; weightless, falling. The voices are barely a breath in his ear, a distant hum of a bee, fading out.

He isn't breaking, he's merely surrendering.

And then there's nothing but darkness.

Darkness with images that haunt and torture; her green eyes, Smurf's betrayed ones. His lips on hers. A dead goat. A farmers grief stricken pleas.

It was his fault.

He'd taken his eyes off the ball, put everyone at risk, brought personal onto the battlefield. Had taken every last piece of their trust, their respect, had smashed and shattered it then tossed the shards at their feet.

But now there's nothing. Nothing but darkness. Darkness...

...and pressure.

Pressure on his chest, on his heart, his ribs, on his mouth as air is forced into stagnant lungs. Pressure of a silent demand, Her prayer whispered into the back of his mind; "Breathe, Sir. Just breathe. Don't you check out on me, not like this. C'mon, Boss-man, just breathe, dammit. 'Cause, I swear to God, if you don't take a breath for me, right this fucking minute, I will -"

He gasps, the pain of forgotten air entering lungs, expanding battered and broken ribs, forcing his eyes open, to focus on the doctor smiling above him, relief smoothing his brow as he removes his interlocked hands from his chest.

"Not giving up, are you soldier?"

"N-no, Sir," he forces past parched lips, the words reverberating throughout his body. He's dog tired, his bones ache, body burns relentlessly.

"Captain James?" A question; a surprised, familiar soft tone; Jackie. He forces eyes to lock onto her as she joins his side, hands gripping the metal bars of the bed as she yanks them up, so he can't fall out - like he can actually move – doctors and nurses buzzing around them as his heavy hand seeks one of hers, grabs onto her desperately.

"Dawes," he tries, and Jackie runs a hand through his hair, grounds him, hand gripping his. "Tell..." It hurts, aches and tremors, fire and ice, bone deep. "I...she...my fault." He can't breathe, can't find the words. His body is weak, wants to give in, heart stammering, and then someone's pulling his arm, straightening it out before stabbing him, quick and precise. He barely jerks, before warmth, this time soothing, begins to spread through his arm, and a darkness creeps up on him, wraps his arms around his constricting chest, as his eyes hold Jackie's. "Tell...her..." he breathes.

And then, there's nothing.