This may be a little angsty...but seeing what that universe did to our Cam made me feel really weird. It hit me harder than I would have thought. One trait that we can always rely on Cam having is his will to never give up. And to see a Cam that has given up on everything...it just brought out emotions that inspired this.
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A Time for Atonement
The dull light from the sun woke him up. He groaned as he opened his eyes. He just stared at the pale yellow ceiling for a few moments. God, he hated that color. But of course, there was nothing he could do about it. It was something else that he would have to live with. Or allow himself to live with.
A few years ago, he would have never settled for this. He wouldn't have settled for this apartment, these clothes, this color of paint. Cameron snorted. He wouldn't have settled for this chair. He stared it beside his bed in disgust. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and backed up against the headboard.
He took out a cigarette, holding it between his lips, searching for the lighter in the mess of blankets and sheets. He really needed to quit. He was up to a pack a day. He chuckled bitterly. Maybe smoking two at once would kill him faster.
Finally finding the lighter, he took a long drag, releasing smoke into the air. Cameron's mind reverted back recent events. Major Carter. Which he still thought was particularly strange. The news said she died a few weeks ago in an energy overload. He briefly wondered if it was true. There was no way to be sure, not with Landry as President.
Cameron pulled out the drawer on his nightstand, reached in and picked up an old framed picture. Since Carter's visit, it'd been on his mind constantly. Couldn't help himself. For the last few years he had gotten too used to locking the feeling away that he had not thought about it for some time.
The glass was still cracked. Once, it was the lone picture on a coffee table placed between a couch and sitting chair in the living room of the home he once owned. Those were days that he bared a flag on his shoulder and silver wings over his heart. The days that he was a pilot. And the days he had feeling in both legs.
It was the first day he was brought home in this chair, the day that he was told he would never walk again, that the glass was cracked. A 302 fleet mate had driven him from the hospital. He couldn't even remember who it was now. They didn't speak one word in the duration of the journey. He wasn't sure if he even said thank you. Probably not.
He had pulled himself onto the couch and saw the picture in the corner of his eye. He wouldn't dare look at it. So instead, he reached over and pushed it off the table. He heard the glass crack as it landed on the floor. And that was where it stayed until he moved here. Then, it was put in that drawer and rarely ever opened.
He felt ashamed without even looking at it. Just knowing it was sitting there, remembering the day it was taken, caused a surge of inner hatred. Cameron stared at it now, allowing the conversation with his dad to wash over him.
"Well, I'm just being realistic. What else are you gonna do? Become an airline pilot? Fly the New York-D.C. Shuttle five times a day, and mow the lawn on Sundays?"
"That doesn't sound too bad."
"Yeah. For someone else maybe, but not for you." He shakes his head. "It'd have been easier if you'd grown up to be more like your mother." He pauses for a short moment. "But you're just like me. Always lookin' to the horizon, always lookin' for something more."
"I'm not like you, Dad. I'm not that strong."
"Ah, that's where you're wrong, kid. You just don't know it yet."
How much he wished his dad had been right. That's why he couldn't stand looking at the picture. He had proved him wrong. He had let his dad down. Cameron had accomplished the one thing in life that he never wanted to do. He wasn't as strong.
For some time after being put in this chair, he would try and convince himself that it was different. That his dad was never in the same situation. Never had to play poster boy and be used as a pawn to give the government what they wanted. But it didn't matter. He was challenged by losing the use of his legs. He was given the chance to see if his dad was right. And he had failed.
And every time he even thought of this picture, he was reminded of that. It became one of his locked away thoughts. One of many. It was kept in a safe place within his damaged soul. A place no one could see. Except him. After all, his dad was not the only one he let down. He had let down his friends, his fleet. The rest of his family. Every man that was ever in his command. Every comrade he knew that sacrificed his life for the greater good. To insure freedom.
He had been given the same opportunity. He could have fought. The doctors said there would be a slim chance that he could be on his feet again. But it would take plenty of hard work and determination. But he never cared. Not after seeing the chair for the first time. He locked out everything and everyone.
Anger came first. The glass on the picture was not the only broken item in the following weeks. There were plenty of fist imprints left decorating the walls for the next owner of the house. Then there was grief. He wasn't one that felt ashamed of crying. As a soldier, it was an emotion you had to expect. But he had never remembered crying that much. And never over himself.
Cameron wasn't positive when it happened, but sometime after grief, came acceptance. Knowing that he would never be on his feet again. Never fly again. Never fight. The man he used to be before the chair, would have never accepted defeat. Never allowed himself to lose hope. But somehow, it happened. And he let it.
The reflection of his face was distorted from the cracks. He snorted again. Kinda appropriate, he thought. He went to take another drag, but the filter was burning. He flicked it into the ash tray, and grabbed the pack sitting on the nightstand. He groaned. "Figures." He threw the empty box across the room, attempting to make it into the trashcan. It bounced off the edge. He shook his head. Can't even make a basket. And people say it's the little things that keep you going...
Cameron glanced down at the picture in his lap. He let out a long breath. "I miss ya, Dad." He closed the picture back into the drawer.
It was almost noon. He never wanted to get out of bed. Every morning, he thought about never moving again. Just curling up and dying right there. At least he wouldn't be in the chair. But there was always something there that made him get up, no matter how much he didn't want to. Pushing himself off the headboard, he scooted into the chair beside the bed.
"Welcome to a brand new day," he grumbled.
His thumb was busy clicking the channel button on the remote control when someone knocked on his front door. He groaned. Maybe they would leave if he didn't answer. Cameron looked back at the screen when there was a second knock.
He ignored it again.
And again.
"Persistent son of a…" he mumbled. He closed his eyes and dropped the controller. It thumped on the ground. "Alright! I'm coming!" He pushed himself up to a sitting position and pulled the wheelchair next to him. Lifting himself into the seat, his biceps flexed powerfully. That may be the only good thing of all this. His arms were more in shape than ever. There's nothing on TV anyway, he thought bitterly while rolling across the living room.
The open door greeted him with yet another famous face he couldn't fail to recognize. He sighed. All of a sudden he was Mr. Popular again. Wonder if it's radiation?
"Rodney McKay," Cameron breathed before the man could speak. "What in the name of the Ori are you doing here?" The Canadian opened his mouth, then closed it again. Cameron raised his eyebrows expectantly...waiting.
"Sam sent me," the physicist blurted out.
"Major Carter? Last I checked, she was dead." He shrugged. "Of course it wouldn't be the first time the government lied about something. But by all means, make a believer out of me."
Rodney shuffled his feet. "She said you would help."
"And what is it exactly that I'm meant to help with?" Cameron drawled.
Rodney wiggled his shoulder and head back and forth, trying to find a simple way to explain. "Peace."
Cameron took a long breath in and rubbed a hand over his face, then rolled himself back into the living room. Rodney didn't move. He shook his head in irritation. "You coming in, or you would you rather talk from there?"
"Oh," Rodney stepped in and closed the door. "Right. Can I?" Cameron motioned to the cushioned chair lazily and the other man sat in haste, crinkling an old piece of paper in his hands. "So...how you doing?"
"What exactly is it you want?" Cameron said bluntly.
"I need your help."
"You already said that."
"You and I both know that this has got to stop. Things have got to change," Rodney ventured bravely. "And I can't do that alone. People know your face, your name. You were a symbol of hope. That can be a great advantage."
Cameron blinked. "How many times did you practice that?"
Rodney opened and closed his mouth once. "A couple," he admitted quietly. "But it's true. Maybe we can-"
"Look," Cameron interrupted bitterly. "There is no 'we', no 'us', no 'team'. I'm not much for being a player anymore. And in case you haven't realized that, you might want to take a long look around," his hands indicated their surroundings. "And unless you want to end up like me, I suggest you stop now." Rodney looked at him wide eyed and stunned. He tried to open his mouth and speak, but Cameron interrupted once again. "Please, leave."
When the scientist didn't move, Cameron raised his brow. Rodney finally stood as the ex-pilot turned his back and headed for the kitchen. "She was so sure you would help."
"She was wrong," Cameron mumbled.
"She said Cameron Mitchell was a fighter. Even when people thought for sure he'd be dead. That you'd never give up. That you wouldn't accept defeat." Each word pierced Cameron to the core. "I guess she was wrong about that too." He didn't turn around or flinch. If the statement had worked, the reaction was hidden. Rodney set a perfectly folded piece of yellow paper on the coffee table. "Here's my number in case you change your mind," and he left Cameron alone to his thoughts.
The picture was in his lap again. Nothing had ever made him take it out of its hiding place twice in such a short amount of time in between. The paper with Rodney's number was in his hand. It had been two days since the scientist had visited and asked for his help of all people. Cameron was sure there was someone else better for the job. Someone more...suitable. So sure he had spent that last two days trying to convince himself of that very thing. But nothing was working.
That nagging feeling was back. That one that made him get out of bed every morning. The one that made him keep living, even if it wasn't bearable. He tried to push it down with all his might. Push the soldier back into the deep cavity he had buried it in. Each time he slept, he dreamt of that day in the park. It was a ghost he couldn't get rid of, no matter how much he tried. I'll never be out of this chair, Cameron tried to remind himself. But the ghost answered.
"Ah, that's where you're wrong kid. You just don't know it yet."
Cameron closed his eyes and a single tear escaped. He wiped it quickly. This was a chance. One not even the old Cameron could deny.
He allowed an old satisfaction seep into every vein. Course through every limb. He rolled into the bathroom and reached into a drawer pulling out a pair of scissors and electric hair clippers. He turned to face the mirror hanging on the door, staring intently at his appearance. An emotion in his eyes he had not seen for a very long time. Something he almost forgot.
Cameron took a chunk of hair in his hands and cut through it roughly, then dropped it to the floor. He did it again. And again. And again. With each cut his appearance changed. Changed back to the soldier he used to be. The proud soldier. The survivor. He switched to the clippers, and a delightful buzz mowed down the hair he allowed to grow for too long. He rubbed a hand through the new hair cut, shaking out loose pieces. He brushed off his lap and gave a genuine smirk into the mirror.
He steered the chair back into the bedroom and to the nightstand. He put the picture carefully on top and touched the glass gently. "This is for you, Dad." He picked up the phone and dialed the written number. "McKay...yeah, listen...I'll do it," and he hung up. Cameron wheeled closer up to the window, looking down to alley below, then rose his head over the buildings ahead, and into the dusty red horizon. He snorted...but with a smile.
Sam had been right after all. He wouldn't accept defeat...not this time.
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