Falling
Prompt: Dancing in the Rain
Sam/Jack Ship Day 2024
One
"You alright?"
Shivering. She was shivering. Soaked to the bone and exhausted—and only just able to feel her fingers. Dizzy and on edge—forcing herself not to think about the pain—about the situation. She wanted to close her eyes—to succumb to the threatening blackness and give in to the welcome nothingness of sleep—but she didn't dare. So she kept her eyes wide open, staring determinedly off into the night.
Not that she could see anything. Not with water sluicing down her face, dragging dirt and muck from her hair down to seep into her eyes. She'd stopped trying to wipe it clean—it hadn't worked the first dozen times, so what was the point?
Hold on, Sam. Stay awake. Stay upright. Don't think about the pain.
One wrong step—that's all it had taken. One wrong step and the rest of everything had gone straight to hell. It was like a wretched metaphor for the rest of her life at the moment. It seemed that the universe meant for her to exist this way forever—bedraggled, broken, and bruised.
Mentally strained. Emotionally exhausted. Physically drained. Eventually it all had to kill her, right?
Another gust of wind hit her—knocking her off balance, and she dug in with her heel to keep from falling off her perch. Pain shot up from her ankle—like shards of glass cutting through her shin and thigh—and she bit back a cry. It was wicked, cruel irony that the only thing she could feel right now was pain.
So much—too much—too cold—Sam tried to flex her hands—praying that movement would start the blood flow—but all she managed to accomplish was to make the cuts on her hands bleed faster. She closed her eyes for a moment—just to focus on the situation—but found herself drifting—
"Carter?"
It was if he were speaking through the large end of a funnel—his voice sounded tinny and small, even though she could see that he was practically yelling at her.
Answer him, Sam. Answer him—tell him—
But she couldn't get her lips to move, and her jaw felt as frozen as her fingers. Her teeth grated against each other as she fought to unclench them, and her eyelids felt so, so heavy.
"Carter?" More forcefully, now. His voice penetrated the fog clouding her mind. "Are you alright?"
Cracking her eyelids, she flickered a glance up at the Colonel. She could feel her teeth chattering, yet couldn't hear them over the excruciation pounding in her skull. Somehow, she forced an answer, even though she couldn't feel her lips or cheeks. Little more than a whisper—inaudible through the storm. "I'm fine, Sir."
Yet, somehow, he heard her. His mouth drew tight as he studied her. "You don't look fine."
He was as wet, tired, and cold as she was. Injured—bruised. Even with the rain and the darkness, Sam could make out the gash on his forehead, and the abrasions along his jawline. His sleeve was ripped, and he'd lost his hat and glasses. Water ran in rivulets down from his hair to drip off his nose and chin, making pale furrows in the dirt coating his skin.
But he was on his feet, while Sam wasn't certain she even still had any.
They'd both taken damage—even in her state she knew she'd fared far worse than he had. He'd been following her down the mountainside when it had collapsed. He'd slid several feet and caught himself on a stable outcropping, while Sam had been overcome by the rubble.
If there was a bright spot in any of this debacle, it was that. He'd survived the fall with a few cuts, bumps, and bruises, while Sam had only just escaped with her life. How close it had been, she didn't know. The concussion—she was certain she had a doozy—was making it difficult to remember details, and the cold was dulling everything except the pain.
"Talk to me, Carter."
She tried to stand, but failed, falling backwards onto her perch. It was by sheer luck that she didn't slide off it. Sheer luck, and the fact that the Colonel's arms had caught her before she'd toppled over. Still, some stupid sort of bravado made her say, "I'll live."
His expression darkened, his eyes taking in far more than she'd hoped to reveal. "Not if we don't get you out of here."
Sam flinched as something—a twig? hail?—bounced off her head and a fresh wave of torment exploded through her being. Stifling a groan, she bent forward, bracing her head between her quivering palms, cursing as tears mixed with the blood running down her cheeks. It would be so easy—so very, very easy to just let go—
"Carter!"
His voice jerked her back to consciousness. "M'awake."
"Come on, Carter!"
Sobbing, she tried to shake the cobwebs out of her head and immediately regretted it. Her clothing felt heavy—and it seemed as if her tac vest was trying to smother her. Something was wrong in her chest—it hurt to breathe, and she could hear crackling when she tried. She'd broken a rib—or more. Squinching her eyes closed, she tried to stand, but fire ripped through her ankle again. Her stomach lurched, and she tasted bile—and worse—at the back of her throat. Sour and acrid and vile—
She turned to the side just before she wretched—but nothing came up. And the dry heaving only intensified the agony wreaking havoc in her skull.
"I'm sorry, Sir. I'm so sorry." Had she said the words or merely thought them? Felt them? They'd been living inside her for so long that she never thought she'd be rid of the guilt. But once the words were there, she couldn't stop them. "M'sorry—"
"Get up, Carter."
Too cold—too stiff—with fire racing through her head and side while the rest of her felt encased in ice. She tried to obey—
Hands—beneath her arms and braced around her ribs. Jostling—rough. Then more nausea as her body was hefted upwards. Rag doll—feet dangling—useless legs and arms—
"Get up!"
She didn't recognize the sound that emerged from her throat—some grotesque mix of a mewling squeal and a scream—she felt little other than the pain, and the frigid water slicing across her skin. Nothing else than the tightness of his arms around her body and the feel of her body swaying—swaying—
And something else—music? Humming. Broken—discordant— Some dark and awkward tune just beyond her cognition—
"Sir?" Barely a breath, and water trickled into her mouth on the word.
"Dance with me Carter." A quick order between the disjointed notes. "Just keep moving. You have to keep moving."
So heavy—her body felt lifeless, like unbaked clay. She made an attempt, but couldn't make her legs work—her feet had simply gone. "M'sorry, Sir. Can't."
"Move with me, Sam." Husky, now. His voice little more than a growl amidst the storm. "We're just having a little dance."
And there was the darkness again. Beautiful and deep and beckoning like a lover.
Inviting her into its blessed oblivion.
To be continued. . .