Reaction to Orithain's Mutuality.
He gave me dog tags.
Yes, thatís what they are: small rectangles of metal with the whole obligatory name, rank and serial number pressed in them. They even have the black rubber guard around them to keep them from jangling together.
But... dog tags.
It isnít as if we havenít discussed something like this as a way of identifying civilian members of off-world teams in case the worst happens and physical identification canít be made.
Heís standing there, looking at me with that hopeful, little-boy grin on his face, and I canít figure out why the hell heís so excited about giving me a way to identify my dead body when...
Oh. Okay, for a genius Iím pretty damn dense. Iíve seen these before - no, not these exactly as thereís a small lump in the middle of his chest under his t-shirt. The lump thatís four inches below one made by the collar I gave him.
Sheppard, Jonathan M., USAF, and a series of numbers thatís actually close to the distance between the earth and the sun. I should have noticed this sooner; after all, Iíve had the originals hanging in my face often enough, though admittedly, Iím usually too distracted with the reason why theyíre hanging there to concentrate on them.
He gave me dog tags. His smile grows as he recognizes my understanding. Now, no matter what happens, neither of us will be lost.
Thereís really only one thing left to say, so I do.
"Put them on me, John. Please?"
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