Fic: "Temporary (Permanent)" (SGA)
I wrote this for the stargateanon comm. It's been up anonymously for two weeks over there, and my name was revealed today, so I can post here.
s2 gen/team fic. Thanks to blueswan9 for beta'ing it.
Given the whole warnings/summary thing, I feel like I should say *something*...okay.
Warnings: Deals with potentially upsetting topics, but ones that have been addressed on the show. ETA: Okay, I went away from keyboard for a while and realized I was being a moron. Deals with the aftermath of an offscreen, OC suicide.
Summary: Perspectives differ.
Private Eric C. Dale was pronounced dead at 18:03 Atlantis Standard time on the one hundred twelfth day of the second year of the Atlantis expedition. The cause of death was given by Dr. Carson Beckett as a single gunshot wound to the left temple, self-inflicted.
Private Dale's death certificate was the first document in his medical file following the initial physical forms forwarded from his last posting at McMurdo. He had been stationed on Atlantis for thirty-seven days.
***
"As the commanding officer, you should say something." Elizabeth's hands are folded in front of her, precisely at the center of the desk, her spine held so perfectly straight that John's back aches in sympathy. He doesn't even try that hard when he's at attention, and Elizabeth doesn't have a superior officer to report to. Nobody's holding her accountable for this.
Mostly because it's not her fault.
"I don't have anything to say," he replies, shifting his chair farther back from her desk so he can stretch his legs. His left knee has been popping lately, not painfully and not so it slows him down, but it's another reminder that even in the wild and Ancient-assisted playground of the Pegasus Galaxy, he's not getting any younger.
"You'll come up with something." Her hands are clenched so tight, the veins are standing out. He watches them with fascination, the faint tremor in the long bones, imagining the ache that must be forming. The one she's ignoring because "ache" doesn't appear on her agenda for the afternoon. "Morale could use it, Colonel."
"Yeah, it'll be great for morale if I get up there and say 'Dale cracked, just like any of us could. It could get to any of you at any time, so keep up those appointments with Heightmeyer, okay, kids?'"
She stares at him for a minute, and he might be sorry if it would do a damn bit of good.
"Is that what you'd tell his family?" she asks sharply.
He shrugs, slumps lower, stretches that damn leg a little further out and twists it to the left. Just pop already. "That's why I leave that part to you."
"He was one of ours, John." Her voice wavers the slightest bit on his name, less with grief than with uncertainty that she should be informal, here and now. "Somebody should have known what was going on with him."
"They're soldiers, Elizabeth, not children." Maybe the informality is inappropriate, but she started it, not him. And damn it, he's right, they're not children, even though some of them look so young it makes his stomach turn. "And I'm not their dad."
***
"I just think, in the name of common courtesy, that people should stop doing this." Rodney shakes his head and takes another bite of his sandwich, the unhappy crease in his forehead begging Teyla to join him in his indignation.
First she would like to clarify the source of it. "You believe that people are killing themselves to inconvenience you."
"No!" He drops the sandwich and stares at her, looking horrified. "That's not what I said at all!"
"I am sure that Private Dale did not intend any discourtesy by killing himself."
"Yeah, well, neither did Gaul or Griffin." He takes a spoonful of applesauce, frowns at it, and puts it back down. "But that doesn't make them any less dead."
She fails to see the connection between those incidents and this one. "You were not present when Private Dale died."
"I know that." He glares at her, then picks up the spoon again and eats the applesauce almost defiantly. Rodney's habit of transferring his emotions to his food never ceases to fascinate her. "But why do they do it? Permanent solution, temporary problem."
"The problem that you and Griffin were facing was far from temporary, and it could be said that Gaul's was not, either." Even a shortened lifespan spent knowing that the Wraith had tasted her would be far too much for her to bear. She suspects Gaul felt the same.
Rodney sighs and sits back in his chair. "I just don't understand it, Teyla. This is the greatest adventure anyone from Earth could possibly ask for. I just can't imagine how a state of mind could possibly be more important than living that adventure, experiencing it, seeing and learning as much as possible."
She smiles at him, thinking that the wonder in his eyes when he talks about what he sees in her home is, perhaps, her favorite thing about Rodney. "That is probably why you're a scientist and not a philosopher, Dr. McKay."
***
"I never met Dale." Ronon gives Rodney one of those looks, the ones that seem to classify him as something small and baffling and noisy, like a new cell phone or a Chihuahua.
"Yes, you did," he counters, glaring at Ronon and pointing to the next crate of delicate equipment he wanted loaded on the puddle jumper and which the Satedan would probably-- yes, there it was, definitely toss around like it was a box of rocks. "He came with us on the mission to Datana."
"Oh." Ronon frowns and stacks another crate. "The one who got sick?"
"No, the other one. The blond guy."
"Him? Huh." Ronon pauses for a minute. "Do you need anything else or can I strap these down?"
"That's it? Just 'huh'? A man kills himself and it turns out you depended on him for your life only a week ago and all you have to say is 'huh'?" Rodney takes a moment to project his shock and disgust at the man's callousness, then looks down at his checklist. "And go ahead, that's everything."
"I didn't depend on him for my life. Nothing happened on that mission."
"You are completely missing the point." That's nothing resembling a unfamiliar state for Ronon, Rodney knows, but still, having to explain himself over and over again got so very old. "A man is dead."
"A lot of people are dead." The slight cold edge that comes into Ronon's voice there reminds Rodney, a moment too late as ever, where he is and who he's talking to. "Look. Dale was a soldier, right? Soldiers have to count on each other. Maybe he realized that he wasn't up to being someone his comrades could count on anymore. So he took himself out of the way, so he wouldn't be a weak link." He yanks the cargo strap tight around the crates and snaps the keeper down. "From my way of looking at it, that's a noble act. And his choice. And over and done with, so what's the point of talking about it?"
Rodney stands there for a long moment. "Well. I suppose when you look at it that way, there's really no point at all."
***
"...so the Datanans are prepared to sign a trade agreement with the city, as soon as you are able to meet with their leaders and complete the friendship ceremony." Teyla pauses for a moment, her smile gentle and tactful as ever. Elizabeth envies the evenness of her teeth, which must be natural and not forced on her by painful adolescent years with a mouthful of wire and plastic. "Dr. Weir, would it be best if we discuss this later?"
She drops her pen to the desktop and sighs, covering her eyes with her hands. This meeting is not about Athosian orthodontics. It's about interplanetary politics and trade. And her mind is on something else entirely. "I'm sorry, Teyla. I didn't mean to waste your time."
"It's all right." Teyla sits back in her chair and clasps her hands in her lap. She studies Elizabeth's face carefully, so much so that it's difficult for Elizabeth to hold her polite and neutral mask. "Something is troubling you."
"I have to prepare a video message for Private Dale's parents. And I can't actually tell them anything." She's letting slip more than she should with even that much, so she forces herself to shrug and smile and pick up her pen again. "It's difficult."
"A leader's work often is." Teyla nods with understanding, and the sympathy in her eyes is enough to trick Elizabeth's mouth into opening again and letting more uncautious words sneak free.
"What's the Athosian view on suicide, Teyla? What would your people think of Eric Dale?"
Teyla frowns for a moment, and Elizabeth suddenly wonders if she ever gets tired of trying to explain things to people who have lived their lives a galaxy away from the Wraith. She wants to tell Teyla not to answer, but the other woman has already begun to speak.
"Private Dale," she says carefully, "placed himself and his feelings above the good of his people. He removed his abilities and energy from the group. That is as great a crime as murder, to us."
Teyla is gentle, and tactful, and leaves the office before Elizabeth has to pretend she knows how to respond.
***
"It's not actually a race, you know," Sheppard mutters, scooping up his water bottle and trying to time swallows around heaving breaths.
Ronon shrugs and swings his arms slowly, pleased by the easy pulse of blood in his veins. He's not losing his edge, not yet. "The enemy won't slow down just so you don't have to try as hard."
"Thanks for the tip." Sheppard pulls the bottom of his t-shirt up and wipes the sweat from his forehead. Ronon grins while the man can't see him.
"You want to go to the shooting range this afternoon?" he asks, picking up his own water bottle. He likes practicing with the Earth weapons. They're loud and some things about them are impractical, but they're fun.
"Can't. It's the service for Dale. Elizabeth wants me to say something."
Ronon nods. "Do I have to go?"
"No." Sheppard takes another sip of water and scowls off the edge of the catwalk they use for their runs. "I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't know why I have to say anything in the first place."
He must be joking. "You're the commander."
"Exactly. I'm not an...orator." There's a brief pause, and Ronon's about to ask if they're done when Sheppard says something even more inexplicable. "And it's not as if I'm responsible for this."
"Of course you're responsible." Sheppard's head whips around like the words were thrown at him. "You're the commander. You lost one of your men."
"Well, I didn't do it on purpose." He's glaring now, offended, and Ronon thinks again that Earth people won't possibly do well against the Wraith when they don't do well with the truth. "And I never asked to be in charge."
"But you are," Ronon says. That seems to be a typical Earth thing, stating the obvious, but in this case Sheppard doesn't like it. He shakes his head and walks away, and Ronon lets him go.
s2 gen/team fic. Thanks to blueswan9 for beta'ing it.
Given the whole warnings/summary thing, I feel like I should say *something*...okay.
Warnings: Deals with potentially upsetting topics, but ones that have been addressed on the show. ETA: Okay, I went away from keyboard for a while and realized I was being a moron. Deals with the aftermath of an offscreen, OC suicide.
Summary: Perspectives differ.
Private Eric C. Dale was pronounced dead at 18:03 Atlantis Standard time on the one hundred twelfth day of the second year of the Atlantis expedition. The cause of death was given by Dr. Carson Beckett as a single gunshot wound to the left temple, self-inflicted.
Private Dale's death certificate was the first document in his medical file following the initial physical forms forwarded from his last posting at McMurdo. He had been stationed on Atlantis for thirty-seven days.
***
"As the commanding officer, you should say something." Elizabeth's hands are folded in front of her, precisely at the center of the desk, her spine held so perfectly straight that John's back aches in sympathy. He doesn't even try that hard when he's at attention, and Elizabeth doesn't have a superior officer to report to. Nobody's holding her accountable for this.
Mostly because it's not her fault.
"I don't have anything to say," he replies, shifting his chair farther back from her desk so he can stretch his legs. His left knee has been popping lately, not painfully and not so it slows him down, but it's another reminder that even in the wild and Ancient-assisted playground of the Pegasus Galaxy, he's not getting any younger.
"You'll come up with something." Her hands are clenched so tight, the veins are standing out. He watches them with fascination, the faint tremor in the long bones, imagining the ache that must be forming. The one she's ignoring because "ache" doesn't appear on her agenda for the afternoon. "Morale could use it, Colonel."
"Yeah, it'll be great for morale if I get up there and say 'Dale cracked, just like any of us could. It could get to any of you at any time, so keep up those appointments with Heightmeyer, okay, kids?'"
She stares at him for a minute, and he might be sorry if it would do a damn bit of good.
"Is that what you'd tell his family?" she asks sharply.
He shrugs, slumps lower, stretches that damn leg a little further out and twists it to the left. Just pop already. "That's why I leave that part to you."
"He was one of ours, John." Her voice wavers the slightest bit on his name, less with grief than with uncertainty that she should be informal, here and now. "Somebody should have known what was going on with him."
"They're soldiers, Elizabeth, not children." Maybe the informality is inappropriate, but she started it, not him. And damn it, he's right, they're not children, even though some of them look so young it makes his stomach turn. "And I'm not their dad."
***
"I just think, in the name of common courtesy, that people should stop doing this." Rodney shakes his head and takes another bite of his sandwich, the unhappy crease in his forehead begging Teyla to join him in his indignation.
First she would like to clarify the source of it. "You believe that people are killing themselves to inconvenience you."
"No!" He drops the sandwich and stares at her, looking horrified. "That's not what I said at all!"
"I am sure that Private Dale did not intend any discourtesy by killing himself."
"Yeah, well, neither did Gaul or Griffin." He takes a spoonful of applesauce, frowns at it, and puts it back down. "But that doesn't make them any less dead."
She fails to see the connection between those incidents and this one. "You were not present when Private Dale died."
"I know that." He glares at her, then picks up the spoon again and eats the applesauce almost defiantly. Rodney's habit of transferring his emotions to his food never ceases to fascinate her. "But why do they do it? Permanent solution, temporary problem."
"The problem that you and Griffin were facing was far from temporary, and it could be said that Gaul's was not, either." Even a shortened lifespan spent knowing that the Wraith had tasted her would be far too much for her to bear. She suspects Gaul felt the same.
Rodney sighs and sits back in his chair. "I just don't understand it, Teyla. This is the greatest adventure anyone from Earth could possibly ask for. I just can't imagine how a state of mind could possibly be more important than living that adventure, experiencing it, seeing and learning as much as possible."
She smiles at him, thinking that the wonder in his eyes when he talks about what he sees in her home is, perhaps, her favorite thing about Rodney. "That is probably why you're a scientist and not a philosopher, Dr. McKay."
***
"I never met Dale." Ronon gives Rodney one of those looks, the ones that seem to classify him as something small and baffling and noisy, like a new cell phone or a Chihuahua.
"Yes, you did," he counters, glaring at Ronon and pointing to the next crate of delicate equipment he wanted loaded on the puddle jumper and which the Satedan would probably-- yes, there it was, definitely toss around like it was a box of rocks. "He came with us on the mission to Datana."
"Oh." Ronon frowns and stacks another crate. "The one who got sick?"
"No, the other one. The blond guy."
"Him? Huh." Ronon pauses for a minute. "Do you need anything else or can I strap these down?"
"That's it? Just 'huh'? A man kills himself and it turns out you depended on him for your life only a week ago and all you have to say is 'huh'?" Rodney takes a moment to project his shock and disgust at the man's callousness, then looks down at his checklist. "And go ahead, that's everything."
"I didn't depend on him for my life. Nothing happened on that mission."
"You are completely missing the point." That's nothing resembling a unfamiliar state for Ronon, Rodney knows, but still, having to explain himself over and over again got so very old. "A man is dead."
"A lot of people are dead." The slight cold edge that comes into Ronon's voice there reminds Rodney, a moment too late as ever, where he is and who he's talking to. "Look. Dale was a soldier, right? Soldiers have to count on each other. Maybe he realized that he wasn't up to being someone his comrades could count on anymore. So he took himself out of the way, so he wouldn't be a weak link." He yanks the cargo strap tight around the crates and snaps the keeper down. "From my way of looking at it, that's a noble act. And his choice. And over and done with, so what's the point of talking about it?"
Rodney stands there for a long moment. "Well. I suppose when you look at it that way, there's really no point at all."
***
"...so the Datanans are prepared to sign a trade agreement with the city, as soon as you are able to meet with their leaders and complete the friendship ceremony." Teyla pauses for a moment, her smile gentle and tactful as ever. Elizabeth envies the evenness of her teeth, which must be natural and not forced on her by painful adolescent years with a mouthful of wire and plastic. "Dr. Weir, would it be best if we discuss this later?"
She drops her pen to the desktop and sighs, covering her eyes with her hands. This meeting is not about Athosian orthodontics. It's about interplanetary politics and trade. And her mind is on something else entirely. "I'm sorry, Teyla. I didn't mean to waste your time."
"It's all right." Teyla sits back in her chair and clasps her hands in her lap. She studies Elizabeth's face carefully, so much so that it's difficult for Elizabeth to hold her polite and neutral mask. "Something is troubling you."
"I have to prepare a video message for Private Dale's parents. And I can't actually tell them anything." She's letting slip more than she should with even that much, so she forces herself to shrug and smile and pick up her pen again. "It's difficult."
"A leader's work often is." Teyla nods with understanding, and the sympathy in her eyes is enough to trick Elizabeth's mouth into opening again and letting more uncautious words sneak free.
"What's the Athosian view on suicide, Teyla? What would your people think of Eric Dale?"
Teyla frowns for a moment, and Elizabeth suddenly wonders if she ever gets tired of trying to explain things to people who have lived their lives a galaxy away from the Wraith. She wants to tell Teyla not to answer, but the other woman has already begun to speak.
"Private Dale," she says carefully, "placed himself and his feelings above the good of his people. He removed his abilities and energy from the group. That is as great a crime as murder, to us."
Teyla is gentle, and tactful, and leaves the office before Elizabeth has to pretend she knows how to respond.
***
"It's not actually a race, you know," Sheppard mutters, scooping up his water bottle and trying to time swallows around heaving breaths.
Ronon shrugs and swings his arms slowly, pleased by the easy pulse of blood in his veins. He's not losing his edge, not yet. "The enemy won't slow down just so you don't have to try as hard."
"Thanks for the tip." Sheppard pulls the bottom of his t-shirt up and wipes the sweat from his forehead. Ronon grins while the man can't see him.
"You want to go to the shooting range this afternoon?" he asks, picking up his own water bottle. He likes practicing with the Earth weapons. They're loud and some things about them are impractical, but they're fun.
"Can't. It's the service for Dale. Elizabeth wants me to say something."
Ronon nods. "Do I have to go?"
"No." Sheppard takes another sip of water and scowls off the edge of the catwalk they use for their runs. "I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't know why I have to say anything in the first place."
He must be joking. "You're the commander."
"Exactly. I'm not an...orator." There's a brief pause, and Ronon's about to ask if they're done when Sheppard says something even more inexplicable. "And it's not as if I'm responsible for this."
"Of course you're responsible." Sheppard's head whips around like the words were thrown at him. "You're the commander. You lost one of your men."
"Well, I didn't do it on purpose." He's glaring now, offended, and Ronon thinks again that Earth people won't possibly do well against the Wraith when they don't do well with the truth. "And I never asked to be in charge."
"But you are," Ronon says. That seems to be a typical Earth thing, stating the obvious, but in this case Sheppard doesn't like it. He shakes his head and walks away, and Ronon lets him go.