A Moment
by Dream Painter
A/N: No copyright infringement is intended in the writing and posting of this fic.
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I stand in his quarters, packing his few possessions into crates to return back to Earth. It seems so strange . . . a couple days ago he was alive and well, excited about the prospect of catching a few trout or something, and then suddenly he was gone.
As I straighten from placing some of his books in the crate, my eyes fall on a portrait he'd kept in a frame. Gingerly, I pick it up, my heart growing cold in my chest as the image burns itself into my memory forever. It's us: me and the closest friend I've ever had . . . my best friend—and I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye. Ronon enters the room as I return the frame to the dresser top.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," I return hollowly.
"You okay?" his tone is remarkably soft compared to usual.
"Hmm. Uh . . . not really," I confess, struggling to keep back the tears in my voice. Damn my pride.
"Need some help?" he offers.
"No," I answer, "No, almost done . . . he didn't have a lot of stuff here."
"You sending it all back home to his family?"
"Yeah. Uh, I mean we . . . we will. They don't know yet. We're going to send, uh," I pause for a painful moment as the image of Carson's body flashes through my mind, ". . . the body back to Earth and, um, I'm gonna tell his mother." I meet Ronon's gaze for a moment. "I should have just gone fishing with him."
"Don't," he tells me, his voice quiet, almost raspy.
"No," I insist. "If I'd gone fishing . . . if I'd checked the machine, if I hadn't assigned two junior guys to catalog the lab . . ." I can hear the tremor in my voice as I begin to ramble.
"Rodney," he speaks with a gentleness usually reserved for Teyla or Dr. Weir, "What's done is done."
"I know," I can no longer hold back the tears as they begin to cloud my vision. "And, uh . . . that's why it's killing me." So as to avoid breaking down in front him, I return to packing my friend's belongings. Catching the hint, he goes and I am left alone—alone with my memories and regrets. If only I had let him know how much he was like a brother to me. How much I admired him. How he inspired me and made me realize that there are other important things than myself.
Taking up the picture once more, the one of me and Carson walking side by side on a mission, I sink down onto the bed, staring at it as though such concentration might possibly bring him back. A drop of water spatters against the glass. It takes me a moment to realize that it's a tear, that I'm crying and that my entire countenance, my brave face, has failed. My shoulders begin to shake with my sobs and the rest of my body follows suite. After severals minutes, I manage a deep breath, allowing a moment of silence for that kind and compassionate man, knowing that a thousand years of silence could never do him justice. If I had only told him that he was my friend—words that I'd once thought so trivial, that would've taken but a moment, but were left unsaid . . .
Rising to my feet, I set the portrait aside as I finish packing away his things. From now on, it shall hold the place of honor on my bedside stand.
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In loving memory of Dr. Carson Beckett. The others were the body of Atlantis, but Carson was its soul.
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