SGA GEN FIC: Fault (6/?), Rated T
SUMMARY: And even though Colonel Sheppard had made the call, he knew it was still all his fault. Tag for Misbegotten. Carson + team fic.
SEASON/SPOILERS: Season 3. Tag for Misbegotten.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not a doctor, but medical stuff is researched with some dramatic licensing, but nothing worse than what we'd see on the show, really.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis or anything associated with it. I'm simply borrowing, but I promise to return all in one piece. Eventually.
Sounds were muffled. Carson felt like his head was stuffed with cotton and he blinked his eyes open to only find himself greeted by an extremely blurry world around him. His eyes threatened to close again. Why was he so tired?
"Dr. Beckett?"
His name. Someone was calling his name. He squinted to see a shadow a few inches from his face. No, not a shadow. A person. It was a person.
"Dr. Beckett."
He wanted to respond, but his brain refused to cooperate. Instead, he turned his head, managing only a groan. His throat hurt and his head dully throbbed, he vaguely realized, and he had no idea why.
"Surgery's finished, Carson. We're moving you into recovery."
Surgery? Why did he need surgery? His eyes closed and he drifted off again.
/His head felt heavy, his eyelids hard to blink open. But something was wrong and he knew that he needed be awake, no matter how difficult it was to do so. He tried to lift his hand to his head, to rub it, but found he couldn't.
His wrists were tied down. His eyes flew open.
Michael's half-Wraith, half-human face greeted him, only a few feet from his eyes. He stared a moment; it hadn't taken long for the transformation to begin, shorter than it had before, it seemed. Michael started walking around him and that's when Carson realized he'd been tied to the gurney in the center of his main medical tent.
"How many have reverted?" he finally spat out. The drug he'd been given was clearing quickly and he remembered the events prior. Merrin probably gave him a short-acting sedative, as he'd often been inquisitive about medicine in general while learning how to administer the injections.
"Those you saw in the forest, plus a few more."
Only a few? He felt a sense of dread enter him as he thought of the fact that there had been roughly two hundred converted humans on the planet. And if only a few…
"And the others?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
Michael almost smiled. "They will serve as an offering to the hive that's coming for us."/
He jerked at the memory, his stomach churning. His mind was still heavy, bogged down. Surgery, he thought…had Michael performed…? No, that wasn't it. His head was aching slightly, throat hurting, heart pounding. His eyes felt glued shut. But still the nausea persisted. He heard the sound of retching. It took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn't just the one hearing it, he was the one doing it as well.
"Gross, Carson!"
Rodney's voice. Not Michael. Atlantis. He had to be in Atlantis.
Hands were settling him back against a soft pillow and he finally managed to crack his eyes open, his head protesting at the sudden surge of bright light. His mouth was dry and tasted awful. He grimaced.
"Come on, Carson. Least you can do after puking on my shoes is to wake up this time."
This time? Had he vomited before? He squinted past the brightness, still feeling like there was a layer between him and the rest of the world. "Rodn'y," he croaked. He sounded as bad as he felt. He wondered if he looked any better. He felt a soft and slender hand grab his and squeeze gently. The world slowly came into focus.
Rodney was standing to his left, wearing only what Carson could describe as a relieved grin. He turned his head slightly to find that it was Elizabeth's hand griping his and she, too, flashed him a big smile. Just beyond them were Teyla and Ronon. And at the far foot of the bed stood Colonel Sheppard, his hands awkwardly crossed.
He squinted at them a moment. What had happened?
"You had surgery," Elizabeth told him gently.
Huh, had she read his mind or had he managed to say that last part out loud? He blinked at her. "'lizabeth," he mumbled, which was an improvement over a croak, but not by much.
"Why is he so disorientated? Where's Biro? Or that sadist Harper?" Rodney's voice again, but Carson didn't feel like turning his head.
"He's still coming out the anesthesia, Rodney. You should have enough experience with that to know it takes a while." Sheppard. His hands were no longer awkwardly crossed, they now gripped the edge of the bed, resting on either side of the clips holding a chart.
A chart. His chart. That would give him answers.
"I don't have as much experience as you do, Colonel."
But how could he get at said chart? His body felt like lead, the anesthesia apparently still in his system. He lifted a hand up, only to find an IV line in his way. The other arm revealed an arterial line in his wrist. Bloody wonderful. Though foggy, he was well aware of the presence of those were probably only the beginning of the rest of the things his staff had plugged into. He moved his right hand again, gaining enough slack on the IV line to reach up to his face, feeling the oxygen cannula in place under his nose and explaining the dryness in his nose and mouth.
"Leave that alone, Carson."
His hand was guided back to the bed and he sighed, swallowing. He winced at the soreness in his throat. So he'd also been intubated, most likely for the surgery.
"My chart," he mumbled. "'ass up my chart."
"Your chart is not something you need to read right now, Dr. Beckett." Biro. He blinked, finding the woman at the foot of his bed. Hadn't Sheppard just been there?
Biro had moved around to his right, his chart in her hand. "Still nauseous?" she asked.
Still? When had he been before? He didn't remember that. He'd never experienced general anesthesia before and if this was how one felt waking up from it, he hoped he could avoid it again for the rest of his life. He felt disjointed and tired beyond belief.
"Carson?"
Carol's eyes were peering at him over the rims of her glasses. Oh right, she wanted an answer. He nodded. She turned, giving orders to someone just out of his sightline. Drug orders, he knew, but if asked could not for the life of him remember what she'd asked for.
"It can't be normal for him to be this out of it." Rodney again.
"It is perfectly normal, Dr. McKay," Biro answered. "Dr. Beckett's vitals are within acceptable ranges, he just needs to work the anesthesia out of his system." A nurse returned, handing off a vial and syringe. He frowned. A vial of what?
"Compazine, Carson," Biro answered. Apparently he must have said that last part out loud, or his staff and friends were excellent at reading his mind. Biro brought the vial closer for a moment so that he could blurrily read the label. He waved it away and she started measuring out the amount.
"Dr. Harper will be by shortly to do a full exam, but surgery went well."
Surgery. That's right, he'd had surgery.
/"You're exactly what I need."/
Suddenly, it flooded back to him.
"Hematoma," he said, pleased to realize it wasn't mumbled this time around.
"Yes," Biro comfirmed. "Epidural hematoma, to be exact. Glad to see you remember." She held up the syringe. "Want to confirm your full name, birthday, and where you are for me as well?"
He could do that. "Carson Angus Beckett," he started. His throat hurt and he grimaced again at the soreness.
"The rest and I'll give you this and get you some ice chips for your throat."
Magic words. "January 5, 1969," he continued. "And I'm in my own infirmary." He blinked. "Head full of cotton, though."
"I'm sure," Biro commented as she reached for his IV line. "Pain rating on the one to ten scale? Harper will be by in ten minutes to give you a full report, and I imagine you'd like to remember it."
He would and considered her question for a moment. The remnants of the anesthesia did seem to be keeping the headache at a manageable level, he realized, though he recalled that most patients didn't report much post-operative pain after a craniotomy. Only the incision seemed to truly painful at the moment.
"Four," he finally answered. "Fuzzy enough to not care really though."
"And the compazine will help a little more with that as well." She inserted the needle into his IV port, pushed the plunger down, and removed it. "I'll get Julie to bring by some ice chips," she promised and walked away. Rodney moved into her vacated spot.
"Angus, seriously?" he asked.
"My father's name," he responded, grimacing again at the sour taste in the back of his mouth. It didn't help the lingering nausea and he hoped the compazine kicked in quickly. "And no judging, Rodney, or should I say-"
"Nothing," Rodney interrupted loudly. "You'll say nothing. Oh look, Carson, the nurse has ice chips!"
Sure enough, Julie was there, handing up a cup and spoon to Elizabeth. He eyed it eagerly, Rodney's full name temporarily forgotten, and lifted his hand towards the cup in Elizabeth's hand. He missed it by a couple of inches and frowned.
"I think your coordination is still a bit off," Elizabeth commented. "Why don't I help?"
"I can do it," he insisted. "Where's the bed…?" He moved his hand blindly. It was Rodney, however, that found it and put in his hand. When the bed rose, he was hit with an immediate wave of dizziness and nausea he hadn't been anticipating. He tried taking deep breaths through the cannula and while it helped the dizziness fade, the extra oxygen only magnified his nausea. The compazine hadn't really had a chance to take effect and he swallowed desperately.
It was Sheppard who, out of nowhere it felt, shoved a basin under his chin just in time. He panted.
He was sick of vomiting.
"You done, doc?"
He nodded, looking up to find the rest of his friends had taken a few steps away from the bed, leaving John standing there, basin in hand. The Colonel gave him a lopsided smile.
"So your birthday is January 5th?" he asked. "That's my birthday, too, you know."
"Aye," he answered weakly, realized that he'd thought of changing the subject, and that, for the moment, Sheppard didn't seem at all irritated, though his brain told him he should be. "Though you're a couple of years older."
John just shook his head. "Don't remind me." His face sobered. "I'm glad you're okay, Carson."
The shift in tone was unexpected and Carson didn't know what to make of it. And he didn't get much of a chance to try, as Rob Harper chose that moment to arrive and roughly ordered everyone out. That included Elizabeth and the precious cup of ice chips, unfortunately, though Julie came to his rescue with another cup.
He started to nod off near the end of Harper's report. Harper had performed a craniotomy that evacuated the clot at the edge of frontal lobe that thankfully, hadn't required much shaving of his hair. The injured blood vessel had been ligated and he was awake and aware of time and place. Harper expected a full recovery in a few weeks.
All things considered, it could have been much worse. He could have been dead.
Or still in Michael's clutches.
Michael. As the anesthesia finally cleared, he found himself finally able to actually *think* about what might have happened. Before the blinding pain had stopped him short, the puzzle pieces jumbled. Now, with the pain at bay, he wondered if he could finally fit the pieces together.
/"If your memory's coming back, you should remember what happened the last time you tried to rejoin the Wraith." He didn't brother struggling. He knew he was trapped.
Michael was angry. "It will be enough to escape this rock!"
"So what do you need me for? I mean, there must be a reason you're keeping me alive." Again, he was bold with his words. Michael would certainly kill him, whether he cooperated or not.
"I need to know what security measures Colonel Sheppard put in place before he left."
Okay, that. He didn't know the exact details, but he knew it was a bomb. And that was probably what Michael wanted to know. He wouldn't let him. "What're you talking about?" he asked, trying his very best to pretend he hadn't even heard of such a thing.
"The more my memory returns, the more I begin to doubt that he would have left us here without setting up some kind of failsafe." Michael met his gaze and it took all his willpower to not turn away.
"There's no way off this planet!" he insisted, pitching his voice a bit to sound convincing. "That *was* the failsafe!"/
Failsafe. Colonel Sheppard had set one up, and he had been aware it existed, though most of the details were unknown. He ignored the pang of guilt at sharing even the little bit of information he had known with Michael, and instead thought about the idea of a failsafe.
Michael could have done the same thing.
Had Michael ensured that even if Carson were rescued, something would stop him from trying to remember the probe? Perhaps that something included a bleeding blood vessel and resulting clot?
He'd tried harder to remember what exactly Michael had discovered towards the end of the Daedalus' return to Atlantis. The CT scan there hadn't seen any active bleeding. Just more of a concussion effect, though he knew that bleeding was a complication that could manifest itself hours later and couldn't be activated by one's thoughts.
He also knew that on Earth, bugs didn't suck the very life out of humans, either.
He needed to see his scans. Compare them to Colonel Sheppard's from last year, as he was the only person that had any experience with a Wraith mind probe. However, he doubted he'd be able to really do so any time soon as it would require him to get out of bed. That was something his staff wouldn't be letting him do a for a couple of days, he feared. And while his headache had been decreased full the level it had been before surgery, he would admit he felt rather poor, like he hadn't slept in days and his body ached slightly all over. His hands shook when he tried to feed himself some ice chips earlier, his throat was still sore, and his stomach revolted at the idea of eating any time soon.
Still, he was here. He was alive. He'd been wrong. Michael hadn't broken him yet.
He knew the information he needed was his head, lurking. There had to be something he could from this bed. After all, he felt like he was close, but he wanted to speed up the process. He'd revealed too much, gave into the probe and somehow, he had to try and fix it. Not just for his sanity, but for everyone else's safety.
He pushed the call button, summoning a nurse. Julie appeared at his bedside.
"I want to see Dr. Heightmeyer," he told her. "And Colonel Sheppard."
Part 7
SEASON/SPOILERS: Season 3. Tag for Misbegotten.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not a doctor, but medical stuff is researched with some dramatic licensing, but nothing worse than what we'd see on the show, really.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis or anything associated with it. I'm simply borrowing, but I promise to return all in one piece. Eventually.
Sounds were muffled. Carson felt like his head was stuffed with cotton and he blinked his eyes open to only find himself greeted by an extremely blurry world around him. His eyes threatened to close again. Why was he so tired?
"Dr. Beckett?"
His name. Someone was calling his name. He squinted to see a shadow a few inches from his face. No, not a shadow. A person. It was a person.
"Dr. Beckett."
He wanted to respond, but his brain refused to cooperate. Instead, he turned his head, managing only a groan. His throat hurt and his head dully throbbed, he vaguely realized, and he had no idea why.
"Surgery's finished, Carson. We're moving you into recovery."
Surgery? Why did he need surgery? His eyes closed and he drifted off again.
/His head felt heavy, his eyelids hard to blink open. But something was wrong and he knew that he needed be awake, no matter how difficult it was to do so. He tried to lift his hand to his head, to rub it, but found he couldn't.
His wrists were tied down. His eyes flew open.
Michael's half-Wraith, half-human face greeted him, only a few feet from his eyes. He stared a moment; it hadn't taken long for the transformation to begin, shorter than it had before, it seemed. Michael started walking around him and that's when Carson realized he'd been tied to the gurney in the center of his main medical tent.
"How many have reverted?" he finally spat out. The drug he'd been given was clearing quickly and he remembered the events prior. Merrin probably gave him a short-acting sedative, as he'd often been inquisitive about medicine in general while learning how to administer the injections.
"Those you saw in the forest, plus a few more."
Only a few? He felt a sense of dread enter him as he thought of the fact that there had been roughly two hundred converted humans on the planet. And if only a few…
"And the others?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
Michael almost smiled. "They will serve as an offering to the hive that's coming for us."/
He jerked at the memory, his stomach churning. His mind was still heavy, bogged down. Surgery, he thought…had Michael performed…? No, that wasn't it. His head was aching slightly, throat hurting, heart pounding. His eyes felt glued shut. But still the nausea persisted. He heard the sound of retching. It took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn't just the one hearing it, he was the one doing it as well.
"Gross, Carson!"
Rodney's voice. Not Michael. Atlantis. He had to be in Atlantis.
Hands were settling him back against a soft pillow and he finally managed to crack his eyes open, his head protesting at the sudden surge of bright light. His mouth was dry and tasted awful. He grimaced.
"Come on, Carson. Least you can do after puking on my shoes is to wake up this time."
This time? Had he vomited before? He squinted past the brightness, still feeling like there was a layer between him and the rest of the world. "Rodn'y," he croaked. He sounded as bad as he felt. He wondered if he looked any better. He felt a soft and slender hand grab his and squeeze gently. The world slowly came into focus.
Rodney was standing to his left, wearing only what Carson could describe as a relieved grin. He turned his head slightly to find that it was Elizabeth's hand griping his and she, too, flashed him a big smile. Just beyond them were Teyla and Ronon. And at the far foot of the bed stood Colonel Sheppard, his hands awkwardly crossed.
He squinted at them a moment. What had happened?
"You had surgery," Elizabeth told him gently.
Huh, had she read his mind or had he managed to say that last part out loud? He blinked at her. "'lizabeth," he mumbled, which was an improvement over a croak, but not by much.
"Why is he so disorientated? Where's Biro? Or that sadist Harper?" Rodney's voice again, but Carson didn't feel like turning his head.
"He's still coming out the anesthesia, Rodney. You should have enough experience with that to know it takes a while." Sheppard. His hands were no longer awkwardly crossed, they now gripped the edge of the bed, resting on either side of the clips holding a chart.
A chart. His chart. That would give him answers.
"I don't have as much experience as you do, Colonel."
But how could he get at said chart? His body felt like lead, the anesthesia apparently still in his system. He lifted a hand up, only to find an IV line in his way. The other arm revealed an arterial line in his wrist. Bloody wonderful. Though foggy, he was well aware of the presence of those were probably only the beginning of the rest of the things his staff had plugged into. He moved his right hand again, gaining enough slack on the IV line to reach up to his face, feeling the oxygen cannula in place under his nose and explaining the dryness in his nose and mouth.
"Leave that alone, Carson."
His hand was guided back to the bed and he sighed, swallowing. He winced at the soreness in his throat. So he'd also been intubated, most likely for the surgery.
"My chart," he mumbled. "'ass up my chart."
"Your chart is not something you need to read right now, Dr. Beckett." Biro. He blinked, finding the woman at the foot of his bed. Hadn't Sheppard just been there?
Biro had moved around to his right, his chart in her hand. "Still nauseous?" she asked.
Still? When had he been before? He didn't remember that. He'd never experienced general anesthesia before and if this was how one felt waking up from it, he hoped he could avoid it again for the rest of his life. He felt disjointed and tired beyond belief.
"Carson?"
Carol's eyes were peering at him over the rims of her glasses. Oh right, she wanted an answer. He nodded. She turned, giving orders to someone just out of his sightline. Drug orders, he knew, but if asked could not for the life of him remember what she'd asked for.
"It can't be normal for him to be this out of it." Rodney again.
"It is perfectly normal, Dr. McKay," Biro answered. "Dr. Beckett's vitals are within acceptable ranges, he just needs to work the anesthesia out of his system." A nurse returned, handing off a vial and syringe. He frowned. A vial of what?
"Compazine, Carson," Biro answered. Apparently he must have said that last part out loud, or his staff and friends were excellent at reading his mind. Biro brought the vial closer for a moment so that he could blurrily read the label. He waved it away and she started measuring out the amount.
"Dr. Harper will be by shortly to do a full exam, but surgery went well."
Surgery. That's right, he'd had surgery.
/"You're exactly what I need."/
Suddenly, it flooded back to him.
"Hematoma," he said, pleased to realize it wasn't mumbled this time around.
"Yes," Biro comfirmed. "Epidural hematoma, to be exact. Glad to see you remember." She held up the syringe. "Want to confirm your full name, birthday, and where you are for me as well?"
He could do that. "Carson Angus Beckett," he started. His throat hurt and he grimaced again at the soreness.
"The rest and I'll give you this and get you some ice chips for your throat."
Magic words. "January 5, 1969," he continued. "And I'm in my own infirmary." He blinked. "Head full of cotton, though."
"I'm sure," Biro commented as she reached for his IV line. "Pain rating on the one to ten scale? Harper will be by in ten minutes to give you a full report, and I imagine you'd like to remember it."
He would and considered her question for a moment. The remnants of the anesthesia did seem to be keeping the headache at a manageable level, he realized, though he recalled that most patients didn't report much post-operative pain after a craniotomy. Only the incision seemed to truly painful at the moment.
"Four," he finally answered. "Fuzzy enough to not care really though."
"And the compazine will help a little more with that as well." She inserted the needle into his IV port, pushed the plunger down, and removed it. "I'll get Julie to bring by some ice chips," she promised and walked away. Rodney moved into her vacated spot.
"Angus, seriously?" he asked.
"My father's name," he responded, grimacing again at the sour taste in the back of his mouth. It didn't help the lingering nausea and he hoped the compazine kicked in quickly. "And no judging, Rodney, or should I say-"
"Nothing," Rodney interrupted loudly. "You'll say nothing. Oh look, Carson, the nurse has ice chips!"
Sure enough, Julie was there, handing up a cup and spoon to Elizabeth. He eyed it eagerly, Rodney's full name temporarily forgotten, and lifted his hand towards the cup in Elizabeth's hand. He missed it by a couple of inches and frowned.
"I think your coordination is still a bit off," Elizabeth commented. "Why don't I help?"
"I can do it," he insisted. "Where's the bed…?" He moved his hand blindly. It was Rodney, however, that found it and put in his hand. When the bed rose, he was hit with an immediate wave of dizziness and nausea he hadn't been anticipating. He tried taking deep breaths through the cannula and while it helped the dizziness fade, the extra oxygen only magnified his nausea. The compazine hadn't really had a chance to take effect and he swallowed desperately.
It was Sheppard who, out of nowhere it felt, shoved a basin under his chin just in time. He panted.
He was sick of vomiting.
"You done, doc?"
He nodded, looking up to find the rest of his friends had taken a few steps away from the bed, leaving John standing there, basin in hand. The Colonel gave him a lopsided smile.
"So your birthday is January 5th?" he asked. "That's my birthday, too, you know."
"Aye," he answered weakly, realized that he'd thought of changing the subject, and that, for the moment, Sheppard didn't seem at all irritated, though his brain told him he should be. "Though you're a couple of years older."
John just shook his head. "Don't remind me." His face sobered. "I'm glad you're okay, Carson."
The shift in tone was unexpected and Carson didn't know what to make of it. And he didn't get much of a chance to try, as Rob Harper chose that moment to arrive and roughly ordered everyone out. That included Elizabeth and the precious cup of ice chips, unfortunately, though Julie came to his rescue with another cup.
He started to nod off near the end of Harper's report. Harper had performed a craniotomy that evacuated the clot at the edge of frontal lobe that thankfully, hadn't required much shaving of his hair. The injured blood vessel had been ligated and he was awake and aware of time and place. Harper expected a full recovery in a few weeks.
All things considered, it could have been much worse. He could have been dead.
Or still in Michael's clutches.
Michael. As the anesthesia finally cleared, he found himself finally able to actually *think* about what might have happened. Before the blinding pain had stopped him short, the puzzle pieces jumbled. Now, with the pain at bay, he wondered if he could finally fit the pieces together.
/"If your memory's coming back, you should remember what happened the last time you tried to rejoin the Wraith." He didn't brother struggling. He knew he was trapped.
Michael was angry. "It will be enough to escape this rock!"
"So what do you need me for? I mean, there must be a reason you're keeping me alive." Again, he was bold with his words. Michael would certainly kill him, whether he cooperated or not.
"I need to know what security measures Colonel Sheppard put in place before he left."
Okay, that. He didn't know the exact details, but he knew it was a bomb. And that was probably what Michael wanted to know. He wouldn't let him. "What're you talking about?" he asked, trying his very best to pretend he hadn't even heard of such a thing.
"The more my memory returns, the more I begin to doubt that he would have left us here without setting up some kind of failsafe." Michael met his gaze and it took all his willpower to not turn away.
"There's no way off this planet!" he insisted, pitching his voice a bit to sound convincing. "That *was* the failsafe!"/
Failsafe. Colonel Sheppard had set one up, and he had been aware it existed, though most of the details were unknown. He ignored the pang of guilt at sharing even the little bit of information he had known with Michael, and instead thought about the idea of a failsafe.
Michael could have done the same thing.
Had Michael ensured that even if Carson were rescued, something would stop him from trying to remember the probe? Perhaps that something included a bleeding blood vessel and resulting clot?
He'd tried harder to remember what exactly Michael had discovered towards the end of the Daedalus' return to Atlantis. The CT scan there hadn't seen any active bleeding. Just more of a concussion effect, though he knew that bleeding was a complication that could manifest itself hours later and couldn't be activated by one's thoughts.
He also knew that on Earth, bugs didn't suck the very life out of humans, either.
He needed to see his scans. Compare them to Colonel Sheppard's from last year, as he was the only person that had any experience with a Wraith mind probe. However, he doubted he'd be able to really do so any time soon as it would require him to get out of bed. That was something his staff wouldn't be letting him do a for a couple of days, he feared. And while his headache had been decreased full the level it had been before surgery, he would admit he felt rather poor, like he hadn't slept in days and his body ached slightly all over. His hands shook when he tried to feed himself some ice chips earlier, his throat was still sore, and his stomach revolted at the idea of eating any time soon.
Still, he was here. He was alive. He'd been wrong. Michael hadn't broken him yet.
He knew the information he needed was his head, lurking. There had to be something he could from this bed. After all, he felt like he was close, but he wanted to speed up the process. He'd revealed too much, gave into the probe and somehow, he had to try and fix it. Not just for his sanity, but for everyone else's safety.
He pushed the call button, summoning a nurse. Julie appeared at his bedside.
"I want to see Dr. Heightmeyer," he told her. "And Colonel Sheppard."
Part 7