It had been a fairly dreadful day, Becker reflected as he eased his way out of his SF kit and into his black undershirt. He still wasn't sure which of the three hurt more; the dead girl, toxic and painful Therocephalian bite, or the salt which Matt had packed into the wound to prevent the venom from spreading. Yes, the bite wound would leave a scar on his leg, but in the quiet of his own head, Hilary Becker admitted be was more concerned by the scar on his hear left behind by the dead girl. Damnit, he should have done a better job checking the school before hunting for the Therocephalian! Another innocent life lost because of his mistake.
At seminary, he'd been spiritually content but physically restless. Officer's training at Sandhurst kept him too intellectually challenged and physically exhausted to complain. For a time after he'd earned his commission, he'd thought that the camaraderie and respect of his men would be enough to fill his heart, to make him feel the contented peace he'd felt when he was studying at seminary. A tour in the desert of Afghanistan proved that military service was just as much of a double-edged sword as seminary had been. His men were wounded and killed in the line of duty and each one of them took a piece of Becker's psyche with them. He'd distanced himself, become aloof, built a mental fortress to keep himself contained so the deaths didn't hurt quite so much. And for a time, it worked. But the inside of his fortress howled and whimpered with desolation.
He'd joined the ARC, been drawn into their mission and the lives of his teammates, and then yet again he'd retreated inside his emotional fortress when Jenny, Danny, Abby, Connor, and Sarah had all been torn away from him. He was resigned to it; there was no point of emotional balance.
The tapping of a woman's high heels disrupted his train of thought. Jess flushed and stammered when she realized she'd caught him changing. He self-consciously pulled the shirt on faster to save her embarrassment. But not before she'd seen the black shadow of the tattoo on his lower back.
"dew of pietas est laniatus. Lord Byron", Jess murmured not even realizing that she'd spoken the word aloud. "The dew of compassion is a tear."
Becker hung his head, hardly daring to breath. Jess of all people would know enough Latin to translate the quote, much less recognize it. He shouldn't have been surprised. His eyes closed at the feather soft brush of lips across his cheek.
""Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries"" she countered with a whisper. ""Without them, humanity cannot survive. ""