Breaking Point

The roof of his mouth was sticky though his body was husk-dry. His leg was jerking spasmodically, fatigue the only anesthetic for the searing pain of the bullet.

He was filthy, bloody, sweaty and there was a splinter of wood working its way into the palm of his hand, rubbing up an unhealthy heat.

And Jack, smelling clean, fresh water, mint gum and detergent, was beside him, his arm wrapped around Daniel.

Daniel's hand clutched a little tighter at Jack's shoulder, making sure he was real, and Jack's thumb ran lightly over Daniel's waist.

Once. Twice.

Soft touches.



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