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.