A/N: Sorry for the long absence. Blame the fanatical shippers. And Natters. That aside, another chapter.
Sims forced one foot in front of the other. Dawn had long ago past, and the light of Kobol scorched his retinas. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the three phosphorent dots of his night sights. He had spent all night searching for Baltar around the wreckage, ducking overflying Cylon ships.
Right.Left.Right.Left.
He could barely keep his eyes open. He didn't know how long he had been awake. He didn't know if he had been seen.
One more mile. Just one.
His gear felt like it was made of lead. His webbing was cutting into his shoulders, arm and leg. Force of will kept his gun up and panning back and forth. He had been repeating the 'one more mile' mantra for an hour.
Callie.
That word, that face, put his boots in motion. The thought of her. The thought of her alone, with Sullivan and Tyrol to protect her. Cylons would barely have any resistance before they caught and killed her. His feet burned as they struck the ground.
Callie.
The thud of his boots seemed distant. His eyes watered as the sun slowly starting climbing. His world seemed to shake as he continued walking. A plume of smoke, the smell of excrement. He was close. The clearing loomed in front of him. He tripped. He crawled. He stood again, staggered. Everyone looked up at him. Tyrol, Seelix and Sullivan had guns drawn. He smiled, the world spun, and he collapsed.
Darkness claimed Sims briefly, before he struggled back to consciousness. He was somewhere soft and bright. Rounded shadows formed above him, and he forced his eyes open. Tyrol and Sullivan were above him, hovering. Sullivan looked well rested, helmet off and under his arm. Tyrol, however, looked like hell.
"Hey Chief."
"Hey Gunny. You didn't find Baltar, did you?"
"No sir. Not a sign of him. Not a sign of anything."
A softer voice cut in. Small hands pulled at his helmet straps.
"Hey Gunny. Don't try to move, okay?"
Callie. His heart leapt into his mouth as a few windblown strands of brown hair flapped into his line of sight. His helmet was pulled up, and he heard it clunk to the ground beside him.
"Frack," muttered the chief under his breath, "Well, I guess we're okay where we are now, but we have to find the vice-president sometime. Right now, you need some rest."
"Aye, sir. Can I ask how things went here tonight?"
"No, rack out."
"Sullivan?"
"Crashdown got excited, so he's ziptied over there."
"What the hell? What happened?"
"He tried to get his sidearm back, so I gave him one upside the head and tied him at the wrists and ankles."
"Chief?"
"I approved. He's been causing trouble. Now, get out of that gear and get some sleep, marine."
"Aye sir."
He felt small hands crawl over his body armor, undo clasps. He sat up, pulled off his webbing and armor and pushed it aside. Pulling his pistol out of the leg webbing, he placed it in his hand, on his chest. He lay back down into Callie's lap, and promptly fell asleep.