The small cottage they took shelter in had been lovely, had been. Now it was in shambles. The former occupants had grabbed what they could before being overrun by Jaffa. The Jaffa had circled around and were headed back to the gate with a handful of slaves in tow.
She wrapped his wrist with all the strips of cloth she could make from the pillow case. She was waiting for him to complain and tell her 'enough'. He had gone down hard as the bolt of energy from the staff weapon shot past. He turned his head away from her and with eyes closed against the pain swallowed convulsively. She thought he was going to be sick but he held it together. As he turned back to her she saw him wince. She opened her mouth to ask but he beat her too it and said nothing else was broken. She was sure his left wrist was broken and the bandages were merely to brace it so he could continue fighting and keep these poor people from going through the gate to a life of slavery. Running out of strips of cloth she tied the ends together, maybe a tad too tightly. He swore under his breath then offered a brief thanks.
Maybe she should have been a bit more gentle but she was annoyed with his bad mood and the gruff treatment to the local who, in turn, failed to warn them of the Jaffa's approach.
She wasn't sure she believed that his only injury was his wrist, he held himself a little too stiffly for just that. So she inhaled as she leaned close to him. Thank goodness no smell of burnt flesh or the scent of fresh blood but the aroma of charred uniform was evident over the scent of sweat and that of Jack O'Neill.
"Let me see your side."
"It's fine."
"I have something topical for burns."
He unzipped his tack vest, turned to his side and pulled up his charred t shirt. Blisters were already starting to form right above his waist line. He looked away as she rubbed the ointment on. He grabbed it out of her hand. It was all too damned close, too personal, the feel of her fingertips on his bare skin.
"I can do that myself." he barked at her.
"How?" She said as she snatched the tube of cream back. It was his right side and with his left hand incapacitated, it was too awkward for his right hand.
She smoothed on more of the ointment and he let her, huffing at the indignity and the pain.
He was so damned mad at Daniel. He was so glad he was off ogling some ruins miles from here, cause if he were closer he might beat him to death. All morning long "Did you meet that guy?", "Did you know about him?", "How long have they been going out?", "Think it's serious?". And all he wanted to do was forget he ever laid eyes on that man, Carter's 'friend', what ever the hell his name was.
The ointment felt good on her fingertips, she had burned herself the other morning. She had thought after that night of dinner and dancing and sex they would have a great but cozy breakfast, maybe in bed. But Pete wanted what she couldn't give, parts of her that she wasn't allowed to share. And her breakfast was a cup of tea that burned her fingertips in the making and proven cool and insipid in the drinking. Touching the colonel's bare skin proved more disturbing than she would ever have imagined, especially after that night with another man.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you." she said. And neither of them was quite sure what she meant.