Content Warnings: None

Disclaimer: “Stargate SG-1” and its characters are the property of MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp., Showtime/Viacom and USA Networks, Inc. This story is for entertainment purposes and the author (me) is not getting paid for it. No copyright infringement is intended. (Really.)

Author’s Note: This very brief ficlet was inspired somewhat by the Plumb song “Unnoticed”. It’s meant as a tribute to those who quietly make a difference, in the SGC and everywhere else. I should point out that I don’t own Plumb or their song “Unnoticed” either, and since I have rather blatantly borrowed a line from the song, I hope nobody sues me about it.

Her name was Carrie.

She was probably in her early forties, still attractive in a way, with brown hair threaded with silver and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. She smiled often and laughed easily and one day we ended up sitting next to each other in the commissary.

The rest of the team was offworld with SG-15 but I got left behind because of a leg injury and Carrie must have seen me sitting alone. She carried her plate over and sat down next to me with a grin and a quiet hello.

We talked for a while, easy, casual conversation. She told me about her seven kids, the youngest of whom was two. We laughed over her four-year-old’s loud comments in church last Sunday. She asked if I’d seen the latest Mel Gibson movie.

And then she finished her waffles and was gone, with a smile and the lingering scent of cinnamon. It wasn’t until after she was gone that I finally managed to place that voice, to connect it with the gentle hands on my face the last time an alien poked me full of holes and I ended up in the infirmary. Carrie was my favorite nurse, and I hadn’t even known her name or her face.

Her name was Carrie and she died today when a member of SG-12 who had been exposed to a hallucinogen offworld shot up the infirmary. I was there for my checkup; I took out the crazed Captain Allison, but not in time.

I saw Carrie’s eyes in those last few seconds. She looked more regretful than frightened, and I could almost see her struggling to say the words tell my family, but she died before her lips could form the sounds.

Her name was Carrie and she was mother to seven, angel to a thousand. Her name was Carrie and after her death I’m left with a strange empty feeling, all because of gentle hands, a few minutes of friendly conversation, a four-year-old’s antics and the lingering smell of cinnamon.