((now the air i tasted and breathed has taken a turn))
title: Damage Control
with: Sheppard, Beckett
rated: PG
disclaim: not mine in any universe
herein: episode tag for “The Siege” (1.19-2.01)
thanks: to betas twincy and webbgirl
for: the sg-rarepairings challenge >>> victoriaely requested Beckett/Sheppard with prompts of 1) tag for “The Seige,” 2) black, and 3) “the music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more” (Wordsworth). The story turned out more gen than I intended, and I’d be happy to take a shot at a genuinely slashy Earthside sequel if needed.
Sheppard sleeps lightly, wakes restless. Less than an hour has passed since he crawled into bed, still dripping from a quick shower. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep with the deep salt of sweat, blood, and gunpowder clinging to him, but he can smell it again now, coming off the dirty clothes he shoved into a corner. High-wire tension is still stringing beneath his skin. He scrubs at his face and pulls on fresh pants, a t-shirt. He slips on his radio, straps on his gun.
In a few more hours, he’s going to have a pretty spectacular adrenaline crash.
The mess is half-full and hushed. It’s late. The sky, the water, too much of the city is dark, and it only adds to the distance and wrongness of the night. At some point during the siege, he lost track of how time signifies the day and night, how time signifies more than death flying down on their heads. Sheppard pours himself coffee and stands by the window. He counts the other people in the mess in a series of short glances.
Sheppard’s not ready to crash yet; he only intended to take a quick nap. He’s no longer tired now, not in the least. The coffee is strong and surprisingly fresh. Fringe benefits from the Deadalus, no doubt. Sheppard’s own stage of the clean-up is over, has been over-the wraith who landed in the city are lined up in the morgue, the rest have gone off to terrorize the galaxy at large. He stands by the window and looks out over the city, the dark swaths of damage. Sheppard’s official stage of the clean-up is well over.
Far below, the ocean is silent and black.
Sheppard takes a large gulp of coffee, which is still hot enough to bite at his throat. He can’t afford the luxury of getting trapped in his own head. Probably not at all, but certainly not yet. Not now. The windows of the mess are open to a cool, damp breeze.
He drains the last of his cup and heads for the infirmary, tallying personnel as he goes. Weir has finally retreated to her room for a few hours’ sleep. Over the radio he checks in with a number of marines. Weir has already put together a list of the active, the injured, the dead, and the culled. Sheppard’s just mentally reviewing it while Caldwell is still busy with the Deadalus.
It’s a matter of time.
The soldiers he passes in the hall-and, goddamn, they’re all soldiers now, even the ones that aren’t-the soldiers that Sheppard passes in the hall have circle-darkened eyes, every one of them. Bruise-rimmed eyes. Sheppard himself can wait a few more hours to sleep because he can’t sleep now, when each second is complete unto itself, numbered and finite. He can imagine his time in the Pegasus Galaxy laid out with perfect linearity.
Stop. Stop it.
Sheppard knows he can’t afford to get trapped in his own head. He takes a quick turn, down a hall and into a transporter; it lets him out near the infirmary. If he’s looking for an unofficial status report, right now the infirmary is every bit as relevant as the gateroom. The sharp astringency in the air almost makes him break his stride, but he pushes through the flashpoint of nausea and finds Beckett performing a quick exam on McKay and Zelenka.
“Major,” Beckett greets him quietly. McKay grunts, and Zelenka’s eyes keep flickering around the room without pausing. The infirmary is hushed as well, but significantly more crowded than the mess had been. Sheppard leans against the wall. There isn’t an empty bed or chair in sight. Still, the infirmary is hushed and dim. Even McKay’s voice doesn’t rise above a clipped murmur.
“Yes Carson, but I don’t think the wraith are good for anyone’s blood pressure. Maybe you could explain that their terrifying nature only serves to shorten the lifespan of their food supply.”
“I’ll have to put together a seminar.” Beckett ducks his head so that McKay looks him in the eye. “Rodney, you need to drink more fluids, or I will find a bed for you and start an IV.”
“Fine.” McKay’s foot is jackhammering away, but not connecting with enough force to make noise. Zelenka stands a few feet to the side, muttering quietly to himself.
“You both are due back here in four hours.” Beckett hands them each a little paper cup holding several pills. “If you’re even five minutes late I’ll have you locked up, and you can go cold turkey.”
Sheppard knows it’s a bluff. McKay and Zelenka are still on active duty; too much damage has been done to the city to let them detox in peace. Hell, most the science staff and half the marines are coming down, but no one has as far to crash as McKay and Zelenka. For the time being, Simpson has quietly assumed their administrative duties.
As they leave-complete with a military-trained medic-Sheppard turns to watch McKay’s hand, fingers tense and spidering as if he were still typing at a laptop. “How are they holding up?”
Beckett lets go of a quiet sigh and turns to Sheppard. “I’m weaning them off slowly, both for their own sakes and so they can still work. They’re not addicts, but their bodies were starting to depend on the drugs.”
Sheppard nods and notes the stiffness in Beckett’s shoulders. “I’ve been through the Atlantis personnel, but how are Teyla’s people?” he asks, pretending for the moment that information hadn’t yet found its way to the military report.
“The Athosians faired relatively well.” Beckett closes his eyes to think. “Two deaths, one missing presumed culled, and five minor injuries. I released the injured Athosians at their insistence.”
Sheppard nods again, crossing his arms to resist the urge to punch at something. Too much adrenaline is still shaking around his system. Teyla’s with the other Athosians, performing a ceremony for the injured, the dead, the culled. The missing. Sheppard’s listed Ford as MIA, not AWOL. It’s the least he can do. Sheppard looks out over the infirmary without really seeing the rows of patients, some injured and some aged. Beside him, Beckett is doing the same. Looking, with something blank and silent glazing his face.
Ford’s blank eye. Sheppard didn’t think to ask earlier, didn’t have a chance to ask Beckett if it’s a dead eye or if it’s…super-evolved.
“Ford,” Sheppard says. The words catch in his chest. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t do any good. “I was wondering.”
Beckett nods and waves for Sheppard to follow him. “I have the data in my office.”
The office is small, probably an Ancient storage closet. Sheppard perches on the edge of the desk and watches the fine tremor in Beckett’s hands as he opens several files on his laptop.
“I need to know what the enzyme has done to Ford’s mind.” Sheppard frowns, half at the situation and half at himself. He hadn’t meant to say that, not right off. Beckett doesn’t seem to notice.
“Obviously, there’s no terrestrial analogue to the wraith enzyme, but based on the scans of the lieutenant’s brain activity and on my own observation of his behavior, I’d hazard that the cognitive affects are similar to amphetamine abuse-euphoria, overwhelming confidence, eventual paranoia.” Beckett sounds like he’s reciting a speech. His eyes don’t leave the computer screen the entire time, and he fiddles with the data’s display, flipping between Ancient and earth-based formats.
“Ford is currently listed as MIA.” Sheppard chooses his words carefully, but there’s nowhere particularly safe for his feet, caught in a synesthesia like trying to walk over sand dunes. He clears his throat and forges ahead. “The SGC will need to see that the decision has the medical records to back it up.”
“I imagine that Doctor Heightmeyer would be able to give you a more accurate assessment of Lieutenant Ford’s mental state, but doubtless the enzyme impaired his judgment.” Beckett still won’t look up, and Sheppard feels a wave of heat. He expected compassion, whatever guilt Beckett might be feeling, not this detached mask of professionalism. It’s alien on Beckett.
“Ford didn’t ask for this.” Sheppard tries to keep his voice casual, but he can hear himself, hear the frustrated growl bleeding to the surface. “It wasn’t him. The enzyme was in his head, and it made him-”
“At this point, I doubt that compartmentalizing Lieutenant Ford from the enzyme running through his bloodstream will do any good, Major.” Beckett closes his laptop.
Sheppard snaps his mouth shut. He swallows and counts to three. “How long can he keep running? How long before-”
“Honestly, Major, I have no idea how the human body will handle long-term exposure to the Wraith enzyme.” Beckett levers himself up out of his chair, turns to the crowded shelf along the back wall, and pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher there.
Sheppard calculates the tense angle of Beckett’s shoulders. There are still a lot of words knotted up in his own chest, but they can wait. “Well, you’re busy, so I’ll get out of your hair, doc.”
“Aye, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” Beckett half-turns, head tilted down so that shadows fall over his eyes, and gestures toward the closed door. “Hermiod transported the more critical patients back to our infirmary. The Ancient scanners are more effective than what they have on the Deadalus.” It’s the strange bitterness in his voice that keeps Sheppard from walking out the door.
“Well, it’s good you can help the patients who are still here.” What the fuck is he supposed to say?
“At this point I’m no better than a bloody drug dealer.” Beckett’s voice is oddly calm. It happens in detached slow motion. Beckett smiles wryly and slams the glass down just hard enough for it to break in his hand. They both stare.
Sheppard snaps out of it first, looking around for some band-aids. Something. Exhaustion’s catching up; he should’ve snapped out of it before it happened.
“Bloody hell.” Beckett holds up his palm, watching blood well to the surface. The glass only broke into a few pieces, but it left an inch-long cut near the heel of Beckett’s hand.
“Do you want me to get someone?”
“No.” Beckett frowns, carefully plucking a few fragments of glass from his hand. “No, it’s not serious. There should be gauze and ointment just outside and to the left, third shelf.”
Sheppard steps outside and finds the bandages. Back in the office, he tells the door to lock and drags the second chair to Beckett’s side of the desk. Beckett takes the gauze from him, and Sheppard takes it back.
“So you can only run damage control. You’re no different than the rest of us,” Sheppard says.
“I should flush this out, but it’s quite shallow and there doesn’t appear to be any fragments left in the cut.” Beckett fumbles open the antibacterial ointment with one hand. Sheppard takes it away from him, sighs, and decides to go for blunt. After all, Beckett hangs out with McKay.
“Carson, you’re not a drug dealer.”
“No, I’m not. Drug dealers don’t sample their own wares. At least the good ones don’t.” Beckett’s voice is small and stripped down. Sheppard doesn’t want to look up at him. He wants to leave and allow Beckett to fall apart in private. Instead, he holds the injured hand steady and smears the ointment into the cut. He expects Beckett to start crying, and while Sheppard doesn’t want to deal with the mess of it, he wouldn’t think less of Beckett either. Everyone has to find a way to cope with the comedown; you don’t and you go insane. Beckett doesn’t have the practice.
“We were a civilian expedition. You’ve all done well.” It’s true. Sheppard can’t say better than I expected because he had to expect they would rise to the challenge. They did.
“Of course. We’re a talented group,” Beckett says, soft and hollow.
Silence settles between them as Sheppard tapes the bandage to Beckett’s hand. Some people should never have to see a warzone, but that’s always the way. Wars are never contained. Sheppard wipes a thin trail of blood from the crease between Beckett’s thumb and first finger. Violence can’t be static; it twists and bleeds out into residential areas. Always. Beckett shakes his head, long enough that Sheppard almost tells him to stop, almost asks why. Sheppard waits him out instead, fingertips smoothing out the edges of the tape.
“Initially, I went into emergency medicine,” Beckett explains. “I was good at research, kept hold of genetics as a secondary interest. Read through the published work in my utter lack of spare time.” His hand closes for a split-second, a reflex that leaves a ghost of warmth against Sheppard’s fingers. “It’s not what I wanted to do. I wanted to be around people, helping people.”
“What happened?” Sheppard asks.
“I burned out six months after becoming Chief Resident. I couldn’t handle it.” Beckett cups his hand, moving his thumb carefully and watching the wide, white bandage crinkle. Sheppard slides his fingers up to the inside of Beckett’s wrist, feeling Beckett’s pulse flicker beneath the delicate skin.
Sheppard suspects he should say something about experience and maturity and how he’s confident in Beckett’s leadership abilities, but he also suspects he’d discover whether or not Beckett will in fact throw a punch when sufficiently provoked. Which means Zelenka would win the pot.
“I didn’t know you started in emergency medicine,” Sheppard says.
“You didn’t think they’d lay the health of an entire expedition on someone who had no practical experience outside a lab?” Beckett laughs roughly, but it’s more rueful than hysterical.
“Well, I’m not exactly well-versed in the SGC hiring policies, but when you put it that way.” Sheppard rolls his neck for a second, stretching the muscles. He closes his eyes and hears the dead echo of gunfire. When he opens them again, Beckett is watching with wide black eyes. Dilated pupils. Sheppard can’t imagine how no one noticed. He tightens his hand around Beckett’s wrist.
“Nothing you saw in an emergency room could’ve prepared you for a warzone.” Sheppard keeps his gaze.
Still, Beckett is not crying, but holding on with a clench-jaw tenacity that Sheppard wouldn’t have expected. Not now that the emergency has passed. The effort distorts the shape of Beckett’s mouth.
“They wouldn’t put an addict in charge either. Good thing it was only exhaustion,” Beckett says thickly.
The sharp edges click into place at the old tone of confession. Sheppard wonders, almost giddily, if Beckett’s a Catholic too, and swallows the impulse to laugh. Beckett lowers his head, hiding his eyes in his uninjured palm, and is very still. Sheppard slides his hand up Beckett’s arm, and the touch is warm and solid. Grounding for both of them, Sheppard hopes. He’s the last person who can offer Beckett absolution, but he slides his hand higher up to Beckett’s neck, rubbing his thumb against the hard tendons.
Beckett raises his head, and the moment’s passed. Sheppard lets his hand fall away. “You need a break.”
“I can’t right now. There’s still too much to do.”
“Just make sure you get some rest before your staff notices. They might stage a mutiny.” Sheppard smiles. He has no idea where the energy for a real smile came from.
“Nothing to worry about there.” Beckett smiles back, tired but real. “Before we left Antarctica, Rodney made me a pamphlet on how to cow the underlings.”
Sheppard huffs in laughter. “Well, if anyone would know.”
“Aye.” Beckett rolls his eyes, but warmly. Almost normally.
Sheppard pauses at the door. “Carson, you’re going to talk to someone, right?”
“Of course, Major.”
Beckett says it with such a perfect level of false cheerfulness that Sheppard has no idea if he actually will. Sheppard runs a hand through his hair and leaves to check the progress they’re making on the South pier because that’s all he can do right now.
......
thanks for reading; feedback always appreciated
with: Sheppard, Beckett
rated: PG
disclaim: not mine in any universe
herein: episode tag for “The Siege” (1.19-2.01)
thanks: to betas twincy and webbgirl
for: the sg-rarepairings challenge >>> victoriaely requested Beckett/Sheppard with prompts of 1) tag for “The Seige,” 2) black, and 3) “the music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more” (Wordsworth). The story turned out more gen than I intended, and I’d be happy to take a shot at a genuinely slashy Earthside sequel if needed.
Sheppard sleeps lightly, wakes restless. Less than an hour has passed since he crawled into bed, still dripping from a quick shower. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep with the deep salt of sweat, blood, and gunpowder clinging to him, but he can smell it again now, coming off the dirty clothes he shoved into a corner. High-wire tension is still stringing beneath his skin. He scrubs at his face and pulls on fresh pants, a t-shirt. He slips on his radio, straps on his gun.
In a few more hours, he’s going to have a pretty spectacular adrenaline crash.
The mess is half-full and hushed. It’s late. The sky, the water, too much of the city is dark, and it only adds to the distance and wrongness of the night. At some point during the siege, he lost track of how time signifies the day and night, how time signifies more than death flying down on their heads. Sheppard pours himself coffee and stands by the window. He counts the other people in the mess in a series of short glances.
Sheppard’s not ready to crash yet; he only intended to take a quick nap. He’s no longer tired now, not in the least. The coffee is strong and surprisingly fresh. Fringe benefits from the Deadalus, no doubt. Sheppard’s own stage of the clean-up is over, has been over-the wraith who landed in the city are lined up in the morgue, the rest have gone off to terrorize the galaxy at large. He stands by the window and looks out over the city, the dark swaths of damage. Sheppard’s official stage of the clean-up is well over.
Far below, the ocean is silent and black.
Sheppard takes a large gulp of coffee, which is still hot enough to bite at his throat. He can’t afford the luxury of getting trapped in his own head. Probably not at all, but certainly not yet. Not now. The windows of the mess are open to a cool, damp breeze.
He drains the last of his cup and heads for the infirmary, tallying personnel as he goes. Weir has finally retreated to her room for a few hours’ sleep. Over the radio he checks in with a number of marines. Weir has already put together a list of the active, the injured, the dead, and the culled. Sheppard’s just mentally reviewing it while Caldwell is still busy with the Deadalus.
It’s a matter of time.
The soldiers he passes in the hall-and, goddamn, they’re all soldiers now, even the ones that aren’t-the soldiers that Sheppard passes in the hall have circle-darkened eyes, every one of them. Bruise-rimmed eyes. Sheppard himself can wait a few more hours to sleep because he can’t sleep now, when each second is complete unto itself, numbered and finite. He can imagine his time in the Pegasus Galaxy laid out with perfect linearity.
Stop. Stop it.
Sheppard knows he can’t afford to get trapped in his own head. He takes a quick turn, down a hall and into a transporter; it lets him out near the infirmary. If he’s looking for an unofficial status report, right now the infirmary is every bit as relevant as the gateroom. The sharp astringency in the air almost makes him break his stride, but he pushes through the flashpoint of nausea and finds Beckett performing a quick exam on McKay and Zelenka.
“Major,” Beckett greets him quietly. McKay grunts, and Zelenka’s eyes keep flickering around the room without pausing. The infirmary is hushed as well, but significantly more crowded than the mess had been. Sheppard leans against the wall. There isn’t an empty bed or chair in sight. Still, the infirmary is hushed and dim. Even McKay’s voice doesn’t rise above a clipped murmur.
“Yes Carson, but I don’t think the wraith are good for anyone’s blood pressure. Maybe you could explain that their terrifying nature only serves to shorten the lifespan of their food supply.”
“I’ll have to put together a seminar.” Beckett ducks his head so that McKay looks him in the eye. “Rodney, you need to drink more fluids, or I will find a bed for you and start an IV.”
“Fine.” McKay’s foot is jackhammering away, but not connecting with enough force to make noise. Zelenka stands a few feet to the side, muttering quietly to himself.
“You both are due back here in four hours.” Beckett hands them each a little paper cup holding several pills. “If you’re even five minutes late I’ll have you locked up, and you can go cold turkey.”
Sheppard knows it’s a bluff. McKay and Zelenka are still on active duty; too much damage has been done to the city to let them detox in peace. Hell, most the science staff and half the marines are coming down, but no one has as far to crash as McKay and Zelenka. For the time being, Simpson has quietly assumed their administrative duties.
As they leave-complete with a military-trained medic-Sheppard turns to watch McKay’s hand, fingers tense and spidering as if he were still typing at a laptop. “How are they holding up?”
Beckett lets go of a quiet sigh and turns to Sheppard. “I’m weaning them off slowly, both for their own sakes and so they can still work. They’re not addicts, but their bodies were starting to depend on the drugs.”
Sheppard nods and notes the stiffness in Beckett’s shoulders. “I’ve been through the Atlantis personnel, but how are Teyla’s people?” he asks, pretending for the moment that information hadn’t yet found its way to the military report.
“The Athosians faired relatively well.” Beckett closes his eyes to think. “Two deaths, one missing presumed culled, and five minor injuries. I released the injured Athosians at their insistence.”
Sheppard nods again, crossing his arms to resist the urge to punch at something. Too much adrenaline is still shaking around his system. Teyla’s with the other Athosians, performing a ceremony for the injured, the dead, the culled. The missing. Sheppard’s listed Ford as MIA, not AWOL. It’s the least he can do. Sheppard looks out over the infirmary without really seeing the rows of patients, some injured and some aged. Beside him, Beckett is doing the same. Looking, with something blank and silent glazing his face.
Ford’s blank eye. Sheppard didn’t think to ask earlier, didn’t have a chance to ask Beckett if it’s a dead eye or if it’s…super-evolved.
“Ford,” Sheppard says. The words catch in his chest. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t do any good. “I was wondering.”
Beckett nods and waves for Sheppard to follow him. “I have the data in my office.”
The office is small, probably an Ancient storage closet. Sheppard perches on the edge of the desk and watches the fine tremor in Beckett’s hands as he opens several files on his laptop.
“I need to know what the enzyme has done to Ford’s mind.” Sheppard frowns, half at the situation and half at himself. He hadn’t meant to say that, not right off. Beckett doesn’t seem to notice.
“Obviously, there’s no terrestrial analogue to the wraith enzyme, but based on the scans of the lieutenant’s brain activity and on my own observation of his behavior, I’d hazard that the cognitive affects are similar to amphetamine abuse-euphoria, overwhelming confidence, eventual paranoia.” Beckett sounds like he’s reciting a speech. His eyes don’t leave the computer screen the entire time, and he fiddles with the data’s display, flipping between Ancient and earth-based formats.
“Ford is currently listed as MIA.” Sheppard chooses his words carefully, but there’s nowhere particularly safe for his feet, caught in a synesthesia like trying to walk over sand dunes. He clears his throat and forges ahead. “The SGC will need to see that the decision has the medical records to back it up.”
“I imagine that Doctor Heightmeyer would be able to give you a more accurate assessment of Lieutenant Ford’s mental state, but doubtless the enzyme impaired his judgment.” Beckett still won’t look up, and Sheppard feels a wave of heat. He expected compassion, whatever guilt Beckett might be feeling, not this detached mask of professionalism. It’s alien on Beckett.
“Ford didn’t ask for this.” Sheppard tries to keep his voice casual, but he can hear himself, hear the frustrated growl bleeding to the surface. “It wasn’t him. The enzyme was in his head, and it made him-”
“At this point, I doubt that compartmentalizing Lieutenant Ford from the enzyme running through his bloodstream will do any good, Major.” Beckett closes his laptop.
Sheppard snaps his mouth shut. He swallows and counts to three. “How long can he keep running? How long before-”
“Honestly, Major, I have no idea how the human body will handle long-term exposure to the Wraith enzyme.” Beckett levers himself up out of his chair, turns to the crowded shelf along the back wall, and pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher there.
Sheppard calculates the tense angle of Beckett’s shoulders. There are still a lot of words knotted up in his own chest, but they can wait. “Well, you’re busy, so I’ll get out of your hair, doc.”
“Aye, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” Beckett half-turns, head tilted down so that shadows fall over his eyes, and gestures toward the closed door. “Hermiod transported the more critical patients back to our infirmary. The Ancient scanners are more effective than what they have on the Deadalus.” It’s the strange bitterness in his voice that keeps Sheppard from walking out the door.
“Well, it’s good you can help the patients who are still here.” What the fuck is he supposed to say?
“At this point I’m no better than a bloody drug dealer.” Beckett’s voice is oddly calm. It happens in detached slow motion. Beckett smiles wryly and slams the glass down just hard enough for it to break in his hand. They both stare.
Sheppard snaps out of it first, looking around for some band-aids. Something. Exhaustion’s catching up; he should’ve snapped out of it before it happened.
“Bloody hell.” Beckett holds up his palm, watching blood well to the surface. The glass only broke into a few pieces, but it left an inch-long cut near the heel of Beckett’s hand.
“Do you want me to get someone?”
“No.” Beckett frowns, carefully plucking a few fragments of glass from his hand. “No, it’s not serious. There should be gauze and ointment just outside and to the left, third shelf.”
Sheppard steps outside and finds the bandages. Back in the office, he tells the door to lock and drags the second chair to Beckett’s side of the desk. Beckett takes the gauze from him, and Sheppard takes it back.
“So you can only run damage control. You’re no different than the rest of us,” Sheppard says.
“I should flush this out, but it’s quite shallow and there doesn’t appear to be any fragments left in the cut.” Beckett fumbles open the antibacterial ointment with one hand. Sheppard takes it away from him, sighs, and decides to go for blunt. After all, Beckett hangs out with McKay.
“Carson, you’re not a drug dealer.”
“No, I’m not. Drug dealers don’t sample their own wares. At least the good ones don’t.” Beckett’s voice is small and stripped down. Sheppard doesn’t want to look up at him. He wants to leave and allow Beckett to fall apart in private. Instead, he holds the injured hand steady and smears the ointment into the cut. He expects Beckett to start crying, and while Sheppard doesn’t want to deal with the mess of it, he wouldn’t think less of Beckett either. Everyone has to find a way to cope with the comedown; you don’t and you go insane. Beckett doesn’t have the practice.
“We were a civilian expedition. You’ve all done well.” It’s true. Sheppard can’t say better than I expected because he had to expect they would rise to the challenge. They did.
“Of course. We’re a talented group,” Beckett says, soft and hollow.
Silence settles between them as Sheppard tapes the bandage to Beckett’s hand. Some people should never have to see a warzone, but that’s always the way. Wars are never contained. Sheppard wipes a thin trail of blood from the crease between Beckett’s thumb and first finger. Violence can’t be static; it twists and bleeds out into residential areas. Always. Beckett shakes his head, long enough that Sheppard almost tells him to stop, almost asks why. Sheppard waits him out instead, fingertips smoothing out the edges of the tape.
“Initially, I went into emergency medicine,” Beckett explains. “I was good at research, kept hold of genetics as a secondary interest. Read through the published work in my utter lack of spare time.” His hand closes for a split-second, a reflex that leaves a ghost of warmth against Sheppard’s fingers. “It’s not what I wanted to do. I wanted to be around people, helping people.”
“What happened?” Sheppard asks.
“I burned out six months after becoming Chief Resident. I couldn’t handle it.” Beckett cups his hand, moving his thumb carefully and watching the wide, white bandage crinkle. Sheppard slides his fingers up to the inside of Beckett’s wrist, feeling Beckett’s pulse flicker beneath the delicate skin.
Sheppard suspects he should say something about experience and maturity and how he’s confident in Beckett’s leadership abilities, but he also suspects he’d discover whether or not Beckett will in fact throw a punch when sufficiently provoked. Which means Zelenka would win the pot.
“I didn’t know you started in emergency medicine,” Sheppard says.
“You didn’t think they’d lay the health of an entire expedition on someone who had no practical experience outside a lab?” Beckett laughs roughly, but it’s more rueful than hysterical.
“Well, I’m not exactly well-versed in the SGC hiring policies, but when you put it that way.” Sheppard rolls his neck for a second, stretching the muscles. He closes his eyes and hears the dead echo of gunfire. When he opens them again, Beckett is watching with wide black eyes. Dilated pupils. Sheppard can’t imagine how no one noticed. He tightens his hand around Beckett’s wrist.
“Nothing you saw in an emergency room could’ve prepared you for a warzone.” Sheppard keeps his gaze.
Still, Beckett is not crying, but holding on with a clench-jaw tenacity that Sheppard wouldn’t have expected. Not now that the emergency has passed. The effort distorts the shape of Beckett’s mouth.
“They wouldn’t put an addict in charge either. Good thing it was only exhaustion,” Beckett says thickly.
The sharp edges click into place at the old tone of confession. Sheppard wonders, almost giddily, if Beckett’s a Catholic too, and swallows the impulse to laugh. Beckett lowers his head, hiding his eyes in his uninjured palm, and is very still. Sheppard slides his hand up Beckett’s arm, and the touch is warm and solid. Grounding for both of them, Sheppard hopes. He’s the last person who can offer Beckett absolution, but he slides his hand higher up to Beckett’s neck, rubbing his thumb against the hard tendons.
Beckett raises his head, and the moment’s passed. Sheppard lets his hand fall away. “You need a break.”
“I can’t right now. There’s still too much to do.”
“Just make sure you get some rest before your staff notices. They might stage a mutiny.” Sheppard smiles. He has no idea where the energy for a real smile came from.
“Nothing to worry about there.” Beckett smiles back, tired but real. “Before we left Antarctica, Rodney made me a pamphlet on how to cow the underlings.”
Sheppard huffs in laughter. “Well, if anyone would know.”
“Aye.” Beckett rolls his eyes, but warmly. Almost normally.
Sheppard pauses at the door. “Carson, you’re going to talk to someone, right?”
“Of course, Major.”
Beckett says it with such a perfect level of false cheerfulness that Sheppard has no idea if he actually will. Sheppard runs a hand through his hair and leaves to check the progress they’re making on the South pier because that’s all he can do right now.
......
thanks for reading; feedback always appreciated