Footsteps
By Gumnut
12 Feb 2004

It was late at night and most people were asleep.

It was so very quiet and the silence smothered him. The hum of the air conditioning was unusually loud, its steady thrum echoing the pain in his chest, a throb not solely caused by his injury.

Sleep eluded him and exhaustion drained him. Catch-22 in its rawest form.

He shifted in the bed, the white infirmary sheets rustling with his unrest. They were thick sheets, good quality, stamped with the logo of the USAF. His fingers traced its outline.

Damnit, he had to get out of here.

It was hard to move, but he needed to do something, escape. The concrete floor was cold on the soles of his bare feet and he shuffled awkwardly, stomach muscles protesting at every step, but he slowly made his way to the door, and between the movement of the infirmary staff, he made a silent escape.

The hallways were empty, a fact he was thankful for. He had no wish to see anyone, or for anyone to see him. But now he was out here, he had no idea where he wanted to go.

A distant sound answered his thoughts.

Idly, he followed it.

It echoed off the corridor walls. The simple sound of footsteps.

It led him deeper into the mountain, down stairs, along hallways. It seemed to taunt him, yet he found he had to follow. He could not let the rhythmic click of heels escape his hearing. And each time he thought he was almost upon the person creating the trail of sound, he would come around a corner and they would not be there, the heels still dancing on concrete off in the distance.

He continued to follow, his steps becoming more determined, his pace more desperate. It was a lure, a taunt, an end to a rainbow he could never reach.

Suddenly they stopped.

He turned the corner.

A dark haired woman hesitated, noting something down on her clipboard, before entering a room. Her heels clicked a steady beat on the concrete floor.

Abruptly she turned, and for just a moment, there was another woman standing there, the echo of red hair and brown eyes burned into his retinas.

“Sir?”

Sergeant Lyn Johns of Records Management looked up at him enquiringly. “Sir, is there something I can do for you?”

He blinked, reality slamming down hard. His voice was hoarse. “No, carry on.”

She looked at him strangely before turning and entering the records office, the sound of her heels bouncing off the walls.

Jack O’Neill backed up, stumbling in confusion. Why was he here? What the hell was going on?

He crept into a nearby empty room, the dark reassuring in its blankness, its obscuring of detail a relief. He sat down just inside the door, listening to the Sergeant going about her business, the rustle of paper, the occasional humming, the sound of her footsteps.

Heels on concrete.

Such a reassuring sound.

Eventually, lulled by its presence he drifted off to sleep, his hands curled up supporting his head, his legs drawn up protectively. The silence no longer threatened.

And for a moment in his dreams she was there again, her soft brown eyes smiling at him.

“Colonel, you are going to be fine.” And she turned away, her footsteps echoing across the infirmary.

His heart beat in time to the soft click-clack

Heels on concrete.

He was safe.

**********
FIN.

In the name of Janet Fraiser, an illustration of how those in our lives can be taken so inexplicably and abruptly without the chance of a goodbye. Keep the memories alive, because there will come a time when they are all there is left.