He Can't Stop Building / SGA
Title: He Can’t Stop Building
Rating: G
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: This is what was left when he was gone.
Summary: Rodney's grief is replaced by something else. (Spoilers for Sunday.)
In the long, unbearable days trailing Carson’s death, there wasn’t much to square away. John and Elizabeth, unsure of who should write the letter to Carson’s grandmother, made the task a joint effort. Rodney packed away his things, Teyla arranged the memorial, and Ronon lived in a silence reserved for the dead.
Personally, Rodney didn’t know what to make of it. The SGC saw the loss as just another casualty piled on top all the others, another stack of paperwork to be filed with the correct agencies. But to the expedition, it was not unlike losing one’s trigger finger or eyesight-something vital and irreplaceable, bits and pieces no one could make up for.
The only SGC paper-pusher who seemed to understand was Woolsey, who, weeks later, sent a package with Caldwell. In it was a stack of envelopes with names scribbled in Carson’s “doctor” handwriting (chicken scratch, which Rodney had always mocked him for). The envelopes contained letters for each of them. It was just the sort of heart-breaking, sentimental thing Carson would do, and Rodney grieved all over again. That grief lasted only a short while (seconds, actually), until it was replaced by hurt; Elizabeth and Teyla’s letters were long, thickening the envelopes with the bulk of several pages. John and Ronon’s (though Rodney didn’t know what Carson could’ve possibly written to Ronon that would take more than a small paragraph) were the same.
But Rodney’s was thin.
He excused himself and headed towards his balcony, the one he and John used to bid Sam the whale goodbye. It was sunny outside, and the light felt warm against his body as he carefully broke the envelope’s seal. There was only one sheet of paper inside.
With an aching heart, Rodney unfolded it.
We were the first.
And between those words were Carson’s reassurance that of all the things someone could do with their life, discovering Atlantis was one of the greatest; and of all the ways someone could die, saving another was the most honorable; and of all the lucky people out there, he was one of the luckiest to have lived and died the way he wanted.
To have been one of the first to ever see the city, and to die between her walls.
Rodney closed his eyes, held the paper to his chest, and breathed deep.
FIN.
Rating: G
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: This is what was left when he was gone.
Summary: Rodney's grief is replaced by something else. (Spoilers for Sunday.)
In the long, unbearable days trailing Carson’s death, there wasn’t much to square away. John and Elizabeth, unsure of who should write the letter to Carson’s grandmother, made the task a joint effort. Rodney packed away his things, Teyla arranged the memorial, and Ronon lived in a silence reserved for the dead.
Personally, Rodney didn’t know what to make of it. The SGC saw the loss as just another casualty piled on top all the others, another stack of paperwork to be filed with the correct agencies. But to the expedition, it was not unlike losing one’s trigger finger or eyesight-something vital and irreplaceable, bits and pieces no one could make up for.
The only SGC paper-pusher who seemed to understand was Woolsey, who, weeks later, sent a package with Caldwell. In it was a stack of envelopes with names scribbled in Carson’s “doctor” handwriting (chicken scratch, which Rodney had always mocked him for). The envelopes contained letters for each of them. It was just the sort of heart-breaking, sentimental thing Carson would do, and Rodney grieved all over again. That grief lasted only a short while (seconds, actually), until it was replaced by hurt; Elizabeth and Teyla’s letters were long, thickening the envelopes with the bulk of several pages. John and Ronon’s (though Rodney didn’t know what Carson could’ve possibly written to Ronon that would take more than a small paragraph) were the same.
But Rodney’s was thin.
He excused himself and headed towards his balcony, the one he and John used to bid Sam the whale goodbye. It was sunny outside, and the light felt warm against his body as he carefully broke the envelope’s seal. There was only one sheet of paper inside.
With an aching heart, Rodney unfolded it.
We were the first.
And between those words were Carson’s reassurance that of all the things someone could do with their life, discovering Atlantis was one of the greatest; and of all the ways someone could die, saving another was the most honorable; and of all the lucky people out there, he was one of the luckiest to have lived and died the way he wanted.
To have been one of the first to ever see the city, and to die between her walls.
Rodney closed his eyes, held the paper to his chest, and breathed deep.
FIN.