A Month of Sundays (1/1)
Title: A Month of Sundays
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA
Word count: 1,822
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Stargate franchise, unfortunately.
Summary: On Sunday, Rodney didn't go fishing with Carson. He doesn't know how to deal with Monday or any of the rest of the days that follow that decision.
Nearly everyone who writes for Stargate: Atlantis has done their own take on “Sunday.” I figured I’d try my hand at it; let me know what you think.
Sunday
Sunday was busy, busier than any rest day Rodney had ever taken before Not that he’d had all that many rest days before and not that he really rested on this one, or any day of rest. Or ever, really.
But Sunday was the Great Day of Rest, or something like that, where nobody could be working, or so he had been told. Katie was still working, and that’s why he had been there, not with Carson, not fishing, because seriously, who liked fishing? Nobody, not Rodney, that’s for sure. Hip waders and fishing lines and those nasty little hooks that were perfect for getting lodged in your hands, that’s what fishing was, that’s why he didn’t want to go. That’s why he didn’t go fishing with Carson.
That’s why they had all been there, why Carson had been there, why he had…
No. Too soon, don’t think about it, just keep working.
Monday
The structure was still sound, which was a good thing. Rodney had made Zelenka check because really, he didn’t trust himself at the moment, and that fact scared him. He was always sure, always confident, always knew what was going on. But not now.
Now he didn’t know anything.
Tuesday
Rodney kept working, stayed in his lab, waved everyone away. Sheppard came, and then Ronon, even Elizabeth. Rodney cocked his head to the side, wondered why Teyla hadn’t come. Remembered that she had been hurt in the explosion.
The first explosion. Not the one that had killed…
No. Still too soon. Rodney buried his head in his calculations and lost himself again.
Wednesday
Rodney blinked, found himself standing in Carson’s quarters, saw the picture he was holding in his hands. Himself and Carson. Carson alive, smiling, happy. Alive.
He heard Ronon talking, responded, remembered none of it. Rodney was wearing nice clothes, what his mother would call his Sunday clothes - how appropriate, part of his mind thought, Sunday - and he didn’t mind, barely noticed though he normally hated to dress up (work tends to get messy, he thought, and messy dress clothing is nobody’s friend) because today, today, in a few hours he would have to carry this box back to Earth.
It wasn’t this box he was worried about, though, not really. It was the other one, the one in the gate room. The one that Carson was in.
He had to carry that box as well, though it was well beyond anything he had ever carried before. Habitually, his mind ran through calculation after calculation weight height length depth and he knew he wouldn’t be carrying it alone, Sheppard would be there, and Ronon, and others, and it didn’t matter, didn’t matter because Carson would not be carrying the box with them, he would be in the box, and…
And Ronon was still talking, and Rodney was still answering him, but he didn’t know what he was saying still, wouldn’t remember that the other man had even been here as soon as he left. Because it felt wrong, packing up Carson’s things, looking at what Carson had had with him here, but he hadn’t wanted anyone else to do it. It had to be him, and he knew it, owed at least that much to his friend.
Elizabeth was suddenly there, and he was in the gate room, and everyone was there Teyla looks like hell and listening but his mind was wandering, wandering but at least she’s alive.
And then he had to walk forward, take his place, grasp the handle and listen to that awful bagpipe nonsense but Carson would have loved it and then he walked into the event horizon and felt it swallow him whole.
Thursday
Rodney hated lying. Hated telling Carson’s family in the first place, but hated telling them that it had been Iraq, had been Afghanistan, didn’t even remember which lie he’d chosen.
The church had been lovely, and there had been so many people packed into it to say goodbye. They had lowered the casket into the ground, poured the dirt onto it, and left. Just like that.
Just like that, they had gone back to Atlantis. Without Carson.
And then he had imagined that he had the chance to talk to Carson, to say what he hadn’t had the chance to say when the man had been alive, been beside him. Carson had been his best friend, and now, he finally said the words aloud, to Carson’s ghost, to his own rambling hallucinations. Told him about the funeral, about his family. About his own feelings, the friendship he’d never realized he’d appreciated.
Rodney slept that night, deeply, without dreaming. The sleep of the dead.
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
A week. That’s all that Rodney allowed himself to think. One week ago today, he hadn’t gone fishing with Carson.
Monday
If he had gone himself that day, instead of sending those two junior scientists, would Carson still be here? Would it have mattered? Would Rodney himself have been the direct cause of Carson’s death, then, would it have been his belly with the explosive tumor?
Tuesday
Sunday was supposed to be fishing and Carson or lunch with Katie or anything fun, really, even fishing could have been fun. He should have gone fishing, should have just gone and tried to catch a space trout, stood in the water in those stupid waders up to his hips and...
…and saved Carson.
Wednesday
Rodney didn’t think of Carson today, not until Teyla had made an offhand comment, and something inside him broke a little. Was he forgetting? Could he?
Thursday
Rodney hated fishing, but he went to the mainland with Sheppard and Ronon when they went to check something out, something unrelated to fish entirely. He sent his companions on their way and worked his own path down to the water, tackle box in hand, ridiculous vest on his chest and waders pulled up too high. He stood in the water with his rod and cast the line over and over again until he felt a tug, reeled it in, inspected his find closely before smiling briefly and looking up at the sky.
“Space trout,” he said, holding it up as one would an offering. “You weren’t kidding about the space trout.”
Friday
It had been delicious space trout, too, Rodney thought, better than the meal he remembered from his childhood. Carson would have loved it.
Saturday
Rodney was hard at work like he always was, and the team looked worried; it wasn’t that them wanted to see him miserable, but he was acting like nothing had happened, as if he could go right now to the infirmary and chat with Carson.
“Are you feeling well, Dr. McKay?” Teyla tried delicately, and Rodney waved her out, reminded of the days right after the... accident. He was fine.
“You sure you’re okay, Rodney?” Sheppard asked, pausing at the door on his way past. Rodney nodded, didn’t even look up from his work, and Sheppard kept moving.
It was Ronon who finally got through to him. “You lose it yet?” the large man asked as Rodney was leaving for the day.
“What?” Rodney asked, stopping in his tracks and turning to stare at Ronon.
Ronon shrugged. “You gotta let it out, McKay,” he said, patting his shoulder in what Rodney could identify but not understand as compassion. “Me, I hit things and shoot things and beat things until I feel better, helps me deal.” He shrugged. “Don’t think you’re that type, but you gotta get it off your chest somehow.”
Rodney stared, unable to speak, mouth literally hanging open. “Off my chest… let it…” he sputtered. Ronon just looked at him.
“If you want to spar, I know it’s not your thing, but if you think it’ll help you…” Ronon shrugged. “You know how to find me.”
Ronon walked off and Rodney watched him go before walking to a transporter and, somehow making it back to his quarters. He walked in, shut the door behind himself, and yelled as loudly as he could. He screamed at the Fates, threw things, ended up sobbing as he lay, curled up on his bed, finally exhausting himself and falling asleep.
Ronon stood in the hallway outside, waving off the Marines who had come to check on the sounds. “He’s fine,” Ronon grunted. “He’s… dealing.”
Sunday
Two weeks ago, Rodney hadn’t gone fishing with Carson. It was because he had hated fishing, he knew, not because he hadn’t liked Carson. He had been selfish and stupid and… well, himself, and he had gotten out of it.
Ronon’s advice had been good though, better than Rodney had expected, and he had gotten it off his chest, to quote the larger man. Not completely off, not gone, but at least Rodney felt like he could breathe again, like he wasn’t being crushed under its weight any more. He was… dealing. Making it. Doing okay.
Sunday
Three weeks ago, Rodney hadn’t gone fishing with Carson.
But even if he had, Rodney knew now, as soon as the first explosion had gone off, their trip would have been cancelled, and Carson would still have been in the infirmary, would still have done that surgery, would still have saved the life lying before him. Would still have handed the cooler with the tumor in it to the Hazmat team. Would still have died.
Because that’s who Carson had been. Not just a doctor, not just a friend, not just a brilliant man. He had been a hero, moreso than Rodney felt that he himself had been on that day, on the days before that, since then. He had been kind and self-sacrificing, the kind of man who would refuse to follow an order that would save his own life but forsake that of another, the kind of man who would quite literally take those tables and turn them completely. Carson had been a hero, was still a hero, and Rodney would make sure that he would always be known as such.
That’s what friends were for, right? For remembering, for keeping you there when you’re gone, for laughing about what you had said or done that one time, for telling others who hadn’t known you how amazing you had been, for keeping you in their hearts.
Sunday
A month ago, Rodney hadn’t gone fishing with Carson.
A month later, Rodney stood in the infirmary, talking to a new doctor. He pointed to a picture that sat on Dr. Keller’s desk, a group of white-coated people, smiling naturally, standing in a circle around one seated man, who was smiling up at the people around him.
“That’s Dr. Carson Beckett,” Rodney said, pointing to the man in the middle. “Let me tell you about him…”
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA
Word count: 1,822
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Stargate franchise, unfortunately.
Summary: On Sunday, Rodney didn't go fishing with Carson. He doesn't know how to deal with Monday or any of the rest of the days that follow that decision.
Nearly everyone who writes for Stargate: Atlantis has done their own take on “Sunday.” I figured I’d try my hand at it; let me know what you think.
Sunday
Sunday was busy, busier than any rest day Rodney had ever taken before Not that he’d had all that many rest days before and not that he really rested on this one, or any day of rest. Or ever, really.
But Sunday was the Great Day of Rest, or something like that, where nobody could be working, or so he had been told. Katie was still working, and that’s why he had been there, not with Carson, not fishing, because seriously, who liked fishing? Nobody, not Rodney, that’s for sure. Hip waders and fishing lines and those nasty little hooks that were perfect for getting lodged in your hands, that’s what fishing was, that’s why he didn’t want to go. That’s why he didn’t go fishing with Carson.
That’s why they had all been there, why Carson had been there, why he had…
No. Too soon, don’t think about it, just keep working.
Monday
The structure was still sound, which was a good thing. Rodney had made Zelenka check because really, he didn’t trust himself at the moment, and that fact scared him. He was always sure, always confident, always knew what was going on. But not now.
Now he didn’t know anything.
Tuesday
Rodney kept working, stayed in his lab, waved everyone away. Sheppard came, and then Ronon, even Elizabeth. Rodney cocked his head to the side, wondered why Teyla hadn’t come. Remembered that she had been hurt in the explosion.
The first explosion. Not the one that had killed…
No. Still too soon. Rodney buried his head in his calculations and lost himself again.
Wednesday
Rodney blinked, found himself standing in Carson’s quarters, saw the picture he was holding in his hands. Himself and Carson. Carson alive, smiling, happy. Alive.
He heard Ronon talking, responded, remembered none of it. Rodney was wearing nice clothes, what his mother would call his Sunday clothes - how appropriate, part of his mind thought, Sunday - and he didn’t mind, barely noticed though he normally hated to dress up (work tends to get messy, he thought, and messy dress clothing is nobody’s friend) because today, today, in a few hours he would have to carry this box back to Earth.
It wasn’t this box he was worried about, though, not really. It was the other one, the one in the gate room. The one that Carson was in.
He had to carry that box as well, though it was well beyond anything he had ever carried before. Habitually, his mind ran through calculation after calculation weight height length depth and he knew he wouldn’t be carrying it alone, Sheppard would be there, and Ronon, and others, and it didn’t matter, didn’t matter because Carson would not be carrying the box with them, he would be in the box, and…
And Ronon was still talking, and Rodney was still answering him, but he didn’t know what he was saying still, wouldn’t remember that the other man had even been here as soon as he left. Because it felt wrong, packing up Carson’s things, looking at what Carson had had with him here, but he hadn’t wanted anyone else to do it. It had to be him, and he knew it, owed at least that much to his friend.
Elizabeth was suddenly there, and he was in the gate room, and everyone was there Teyla looks like hell and listening but his mind was wandering, wandering but at least she’s alive.
And then he had to walk forward, take his place, grasp the handle and listen to that awful bagpipe nonsense but Carson would have loved it and then he walked into the event horizon and felt it swallow him whole.
Thursday
Rodney hated lying. Hated telling Carson’s family in the first place, but hated telling them that it had been Iraq, had been Afghanistan, didn’t even remember which lie he’d chosen.
The church had been lovely, and there had been so many people packed into it to say goodbye. They had lowered the casket into the ground, poured the dirt onto it, and left. Just like that.
Just like that, they had gone back to Atlantis. Without Carson.
And then he had imagined that he had the chance to talk to Carson, to say what he hadn’t had the chance to say when the man had been alive, been beside him. Carson had been his best friend, and now, he finally said the words aloud, to Carson’s ghost, to his own rambling hallucinations. Told him about the funeral, about his family. About his own feelings, the friendship he’d never realized he’d appreciated.
Rodney slept that night, deeply, without dreaming. The sleep of the dead.
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
A week. That’s all that Rodney allowed himself to think. One week ago today, he hadn’t gone fishing with Carson.
Monday
If he had gone himself that day, instead of sending those two junior scientists, would Carson still be here? Would it have mattered? Would Rodney himself have been the direct cause of Carson’s death, then, would it have been his belly with the explosive tumor?
Tuesday
Sunday was supposed to be fishing and Carson or lunch with Katie or anything fun, really, even fishing could have been fun. He should have gone fishing, should have just gone and tried to catch a space trout, stood in the water in those stupid waders up to his hips and...
…and saved Carson.
Wednesday
Rodney didn’t think of Carson today, not until Teyla had made an offhand comment, and something inside him broke a little. Was he forgetting? Could he?
Thursday
Rodney hated fishing, but he went to the mainland with Sheppard and Ronon when they went to check something out, something unrelated to fish entirely. He sent his companions on their way and worked his own path down to the water, tackle box in hand, ridiculous vest on his chest and waders pulled up too high. He stood in the water with his rod and cast the line over and over again until he felt a tug, reeled it in, inspected his find closely before smiling briefly and looking up at the sky.
“Space trout,” he said, holding it up as one would an offering. “You weren’t kidding about the space trout.”
Friday
It had been delicious space trout, too, Rodney thought, better than the meal he remembered from his childhood. Carson would have loved it.
Saturday
Rodney was hard at work like he always was, and the team looked worried; it wasn’t that them wanted to see him miserable, but he was acting like nothing had happened, as if he could go right now to the infirmary and chat with Carson.
“Are you feeling well, Dr. McKay?” Teyla tried delicately, and Rodney waved her out, reminded of the days right after the... accident. He was fine.
“You sure you’re okay, Rodney?” Sheppard asked, pausing at the door on his way past. Rodney nodded, didn’t even look up from his work, and Sheppard kept moving.
It was Ronon who finally got through to him. “You lose it yet?” the large man asked as Rodney was leaving for the day.
“What?” Rodney asked, stopping in his tracks and turning to stare at Ronon.
Ronon shrugged. “You gotta let it out, McKay,” he said, patting his shoulder in what Rodney could identify but not understand as compassion. “Me, I hit things and shoot things and beat things until I feel better, helps me deal.” He shrugged. “Don’t think you’re that type, but you gotta get it off your chest somehow.”
Rodney stared, unable to speak, mouth literally hanging open. “Off my chest… let it…” he sputtered. Ronon just looked at him.
“If you want to spar, I know it’s not your thing, but if you think it’ll help you…” Ronon shrugged. “You know how to find me.”
Ronon walked off and Rodney watched him go before walking to a transporter and, somehow making it back to his quarters. He walked in, shut the door behind himself, and yelled as loudly as he could. He screamed at the Fates, threw things, ended up sobbing as he lay, curled up on his bed, finally exhausting himself and falling asleep.
Ronon stood in the hallway outside, waving off the Marines who had come to check on the sounds. “He’s fine,” Ronon grunted. “He’s… dealing.”
Sunday
Two weeks ago, Rodney hadn’t gone fishing with Carson. It was because he had hated fishing, he knew, not because he hadn’t liked Carson. He had been selfish and stupid and… well, himself, and he had gotten out of it.
Ronon’s advice had been good though, better than Rodney had expected, and he had gotten it off his chest, to quote the larger man. Not completely off, not gone, but at least Rodney felt like he could breathe again, like he wasn’t being crushed under its weight any more. He was… dealing. Making it. Doing okay.
Sunday
Three weeks ago, Rodney hadn’t gone fishing with Carson.
But even if he had, Rodney knew now, as soon as the first explosion had gone off, their trip would have been cancelled, and Carson would still have been in the infirmary, would still have done that surgery, would still have saved the life lying before him. Would still have handed the cooler with the tumor in it to the Hazmat team. Would still have died.
Because that’s who Carson had been. Not just a doctor, not just a friend, not just a brilliant man. He had been a hero, moreso than Rodney felt that he himself had been on that day, on the days before that, since then. He had been kind and self-sacrificing, the kind of man who would refuse to follow an order that would save his own life but forsake that of another, the kind of man who would quite literally take those tables and turn them completely. Carson had been a hero, was still a hero, and Rodney would make sure that he would always be known as such.
That’s what friends were for, right? For remembering, for keeping you there when you’re gone, for laughing about what you had said or done that one time, for telling others who hadn’t known you how amazing you had been, for keeping you in their hearts.
Sunday
A month ago, Rodney hadn’t gone fishing with Carson.
A month later, Rodney stood in the infirmary, talking to a new doctor. He pointed to a picture that sat on Dr. Keller’s desk, a group of white-coated people, smiling naturally, standing in a circle around one seated man, who was smiling up at the people around him.
“That’s Dr. Carson Beckett,” Rodney said, pointing to the man in the middle. “Let me tell you about him…”