His fingertips travel slowly, deliberately, over the sealed cross on his stomach. Closed now. No fingers, friendly or not, will probe it, grasping the source of his power and hate, again.
It is empty, and he is free.
He traces the shape, meaningless to his people. He has seen it on paper here, though; O'Neill's slashed ink scoring through a paragraph of his mission report; following Major Carter's name in the birthday card she had given him.
A mistake or a kiss.
He wishes he'd known before that they were both the same thing, even now, when he was clean.
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