I know I'm dead.
I know I'm not supposed to be here and yet I am.
I seem bound to this world; I can't go through the Stargate and I wonder about that.
Is it because I am human and bound to my home world?
But what about other humans carried to other worlds; do their souls come here, come home to their ancestral world?
Yet even as I think it, I don't care about the answer.
I only care that I can't follow her through.
It seems to me as if I am stuck in the Gate Room until she returns.
And then all I do is follow.
I don't know how much time has passed; how long I have been dead.
When I was alive.
When I was.
I never pushed.
I never tried for more than she willingly gave.
And now I shadow her through the base.
Into places where I would never have dreamed of going then.
But never followed when I was alive.
Like the shower.
Military, communal showers, I suppose I saw Sam in the all and all once or twice.
OK, I know I did.
Might as well be honest, though there is no one else to call me on it.
I always thought humans lied to protect themselves, their pride.
And so now I choose honesty.
Because who will know.
I follow her into the locker room; yes, into the shower.
I don't know what mission she was on, where she was, who was hurt.
Time seems to work differently, for me, now.
But someone is hurt, or something went wrong.
Because she is facing the wall, forearms pressed against the tile wall, so the water hides her face.
And I can see her shoulders hunching, tensing, as she tries to hide how much they shake.
She is so strong, and she can't stop crying.
I move behind her, tracing the muscles on her back.
Ghosting over them, yes. I am the ghost and she doesn't feel me.
But I trace from memory the feel of the scars that mar her back.
Those I patched up and those that have come since.
And I judge the next doctor and the next, by the marks that didn't fade.
I think I could do better; could have done better.
But I'm here and not here as I shadow her in the shower.
This mark from Anubis; this from the Replicators.
This one from a childhood injury; she laughed when she told me that tale.
And I graze each; each inch of her skin.
She flinches, and I jerk back, the part if me that remains anyway.
Maybe, she felt me, felt my love, my.
But it is not so.
The new one; the one with the dark tresses and a not entirely human accent.
I can feel Sam draw to her and I wonder how long?
Because this is not new.
Somewhere I have lost enough time for this one and Sam to find each other.
And I lost the time it took them to become familiar enough for this one to know as well as I do her scars.
Did she laugh when Sam told her about falling from a tree at her godfather's house?
I draw back; I don't want my shadow clouding this for Sam.
I don't want this shadow to stand between these two and what may be.
And I don't want to know if it doesn't.