Hope Reborn
Written by Ann Rivers
I wish I could take credit for creating these wonderful characters. But, since I didn't,
I can't take any payment for them either. So instead I'm just borrowing them for a bit of unpaid escapism.
Summary: Set after the team return from Hoffa, and 'victory' for a certain doctor is taking its toll…
Spoilers: Poisoning The Well, reference also made to Rising and Hide And Seek
Rated as T for some typically Beckett-ish language… :o)
Writer's note: I've given our favourite CMO a bit of a backstory here, just possible reasons for Carson's loathing to sit in a certain Chair during the pilot, and the chaos he caused when he did.
I've given him a middle name too – one hopefully appropriate !
And for those not familiar with it, Irn-Bru is fondly seen as Scotland's other national drink.
Ah, happy childhood memories of driving back from Scotland with crates of the stuff, before it became available down in England !
Anyway, I hope you enjoy – please let me know if you do, I'm told it's excellent therapy… :o)
They were safe. Home. An achievement which Elizabeth Weir always met with grateful relief.
A moment when she'd allow herself a leader's proud, satisfied smile for another successful mission.
Except there were no smiles this time. No cause for celebration. Only guilt-stricken concern.
They'd gone to Hoffa with such optimism, such hope, for sharing their defence against the Wraith.
But then, as so often the case, this too good to be true discovery had proven to be just that –
and an already borderline ethical decision had backfired in truly disastrous fashion.
However unwittingly, they'd just condemned thousands of innocent Hoffans to a senseless death –
a fate engineered by a council of faceless bureaucrats who, no doubt, would make sure they survived.
As one who hated bureaucracy at the best of times, John Sheppard's face radiated his fury –
promising dire consequences for any reckless idiot who felt like pushing his luck.
Elizabeth could only hope Kavanagh would do the right thing, for once, and keep his mouth shut.
Consciously or otherwise, Rodney McKay seemed to be following the same wise course of action.
Yet this complaint-free, whinge-free silence only served to unsettle Elizabeth further.
She'd never seen the brash, self absorbed scientist so thoroughly demoralised.
Things had to be bad if Rodney wasn't fretting over something or other, and as for Carson…
Oh, dear God… Carson…
Standing slightly apart from the others, he'd turned to stare behind him through the still open Gate –
as if sheer willpower alone could somehow turn back time and erase the last thirty six hours.
Reality refused to release him, though. Brutal truth refused to grant peace to his conscience.
When he turned back again, a face that was already much too pale had lost even more colour.
And even with the distance between them, Elizabeth could see its stricken expression –
the complete and utter despair of what his medical brilliance had unwittingly helped to inflict.
Mass murder. Genocide. A 'victory' that went against everything Carson Beckett believed in.
Elizabeth could only hazard a guess at what her CMO would be feeling right now.
How he'd cope, in the days and weeks to come, with the lifelong legacy of what he'd done.
He'd need to talk it all through, of course, before his shattered heart could start to heal.
And with the same heavy burden to bear, Elizabeth would be the first in line to listen, but…
well, there lay another problem which, if truth be told, still privately troubled her.
She'd never doubted his skills as a doctor. Carson's professional abilities had never been in question.
In his own environment, saving lives and treating the injured, he was truly the best in his field.
Outside it, though, having to work with truly alien technology… well, that was another matter entirely.
It hadn't helped that he'd almost blown John Sheppard out of the sky before they'd even met –
hardly the best way for an already jittery, homesick doctor to make friends.
John had forgiven him – eventually. With the same sardonic humour, so had Jack O'Neill.
Beyond the good natured teasing, though, the whole experience had left her CMO deeply shaken.
Even now, he'd vehemently resist every one of McKay's demands to sit in 'that bloody death trap'.
The only reason he'd finally cave in to those demands was to stop the scientist's relentless whining –
their vastly differing natures and personalities presenting Elizabeth with yet another dilemma.
What Rodney McKay had in terms of brash arrogance, Carson Beckett surpassed in nervous timidity.
Coaxing him to speak up against so many other stronger opinions could sometimes be a real struggle.
God only knew how she'd persuade him to talk through the tragedy he'd just experienced.
A tactfully discreet glance from John Sheppard suggested he'd already tried. Several times over.
A grim faced shake of his head warned her it was still too soon for her to do the same.
Nodding her agreement, Elizabeth then turned her attention back to the rest of her flagship team –
noting, in mounting concern, that at the moment Carson didn't seem to be feeling much of anything.
Even in a GateRoom full of people bustling around him, he looked so lost, so vulnerable.
Teyla's consoling words, her gentle squeeze on his arm, had been wasted on deaf ears and blind eyes.
Tears must have been in those eyes, since Carson now scrubbed a weary hand across them –
blinking dazedly for a moment before, with startling abruptness, he strode quickly away.
Still unused to the quirks of human nature, Teyla started instinctively to hurry after him –
turning in surprise at the gentle tug on her arm, and John Sheppard's equally gentle order.
"Let him go, Teyla, he… well, he needs to be alone for a while…"
There was still much about her new allies that Teyla Emmagen had yet to learn.
She knew about trust, though. And she'd trusted John Sheppard from the moment they'd met.
So while she didn't understand his reasoning, Teyla still found herself nodding agreement to it.
Even so, she couldn't help but glance worriedly after Carson's rapidly retreating form.
She'd felt every moment of his pain. Every part of the senseless tragedy he'd been forced to face.
She'd seen what that tragedy had cost him. The toll it had taken on his gentle, trusting heart.
Her own was still urging her to follow him, to try and offer him further comfort, but…
well, those who knew him better than she did had already warned her against it.
All she could do was place her faith, and a friend's peace of mind, in the hands of another –
and make a silent promise, both to herself and Carson Beckett that, if needed, she would be there.
John Sheppard had made the same promise – and was already making the first move to keep it.
Watching him stride up the steps to her office, Elizabeth reached instinctively for the coffee pot.
She'd seen that expression enough times to recognise the need for extra-strength caffeine.
The first mugful was met with a smile that was tellingly tight. Understandably strained.
It took another, and several minutes of deep breathing, for him to calm down enough to start talking.
"Those poor bastards never stood a chance, Elizabeth…" he said at last, his voice still ominously quiet
The same anger glittered in his eyes as John, never one to sit still for long, rose from his seat –
pacing around Elizabeth's office with all the restless menace of a caged, wounded animal.
Watching him, in silent sympathy, Elizabeth could feel her earlier concern start to re-surface.
John Sheppard was angry, and he was hurt. Cooping him up in here was, she decided, not a good idea.
"Let's walk and talk, John… get some air…" she said at last, taking care to keep her voice level –
breathing a silent sigh of relief as the dangerous glitter in his eyes began to subside.
Ever the diplomat, Elizabeth made sure they took the less public route out of her office –
taking him, as quickly as she could, to the reviving freedom of an open, breeze-filled balcony.
It was good to see the fresh air have the desired effect in clearing the anger from John's eyes.
Unfortunately the sight on another balcony below them wasn't nearly so encouraging.
Hunched against the railing, head buried on his arms, Carson Beckett was shaking with grief.
Even with the distance between them, they could still hear its depth. Feel its intensity.
He wasn't just mourning the loss of one special life, he was mourning the loss of thousands.
And under the weight of that load on his conscience, their CMO was falling completely apart.
Watching him, Elizabeth could her own eyes sting with tears of anxious, guilt-struck sympathy.
Her only comfort was the solid warmth of John's arm as it slipped gently around her shoulders.
Another consolation, so oddly perverse, was that he'd broken down so soon after his return.
At least with the release of that potentially crippling grief, they could start to pick up the pieces.
John Sheppard would be right there alongside her, for which Elizabeth was truly grateful.
She just hoped it would be enough. Enough to reach, and heal, the broken soul below them.
Because the alternative if they couldn't reach him… well, that really didn't bear thinking about.
It was strange, Elizabeth sadly reflected, how much you missed things when they weren't there.
Things she'd come to take for granted. The simple, everyday pleasure of a friend's familiar smile.
That's what she was missing most of all. His warm smile, the devilish humour that often went with it.
She'd barely seen either since he'd returned from Hoffa, so utterly broken, five days earlier.
In fact it was getting to the stage where she wondered if Carson Beckett would ever smile again.
The lethargy that had plagued him since that disastrous mission showed no sign of easing.
If anything, it now threatened to turn into something far more worrying. Much more serious.
By his pale and haggard face alone, Elizabeth could tell he'd not slept much, if at all, since his return.
John Sheppard's increasingly worried reports confirmed her fears that he wasn't eating properly either.
It didn't take medical knowledge, only simple compassion, to realise Carson Beckett was in trouble –
fighting and, more worryingly, losing a battle that only one person on her staff was trained to handle.
Placing her troubled CMO in the hands of Dr Kate Heitemeyer… well, it was an option.
But Elizabeth wasn't prepared to take that option. She wasn't ready to make that decision. Yet.
Instead she'd try again, herself, to succeed where she, and the rest of her team, had so far failed.
The signs as she entered the Infirmary were sadly familiar. And far from encouraging.
He'd looked lousy yesterday. Now, after yet another sleepless night, he looked downright awful.
Hardly in the best frame of mind to handle the innocent curiosity of a nine year old boy.
"Dr Beckett…? What does this do…?"
Just a few days ago, Carson Beckett would have revelled in the chance to answer Jinto's question.
If there was one thing he loved more than his work, it was the chance to share its many wonders.
Now, though, the calling in which he'd always taken such pride had made a worrying about turn.
Far from feeling proud of his precious, often lifesaving gift, he now seemed revulsed by it.
He'd bandaged Jinto's wrist with none of the friendly warmth that was so much a part of him.
Now he watched the boy's fascinated study of his microscope in the same sad, unsmiling silence.
Taking that silence as one of impatient disapproval, it was left to John Sheppard to hastily intervene.
"It's a microscope, Jinto…" he said at last, gently prising the instrument from the boy's hands –
forestalling the inevitable disappointment that followed with an equally gentle, reassuring grin.
"Dr Beckett uses it to… uh… well, find out what's wrong with people and make them well again…"
"He does…?" Jinto stared at him, clearly impressed, before turning excitedly to his new hero.
"So you are like the Ancestors my father has told me about…? A healer with magical powers…?"
The stricken look that answered him, lost on a child's innocence, wasn't lost on an anxious friend.
"Yeah, kinda like that, so… uh… that keeps Dr Beckett here pretty busy…" John explained softly –
giving his young admirer an equally gentle pat on the back, gesturing that it was time to go.
It took another, and wry promises of more stories from Elm Street, for Jinto to take the hint.
And while she'd just seen a welcome trace of it, Elizabeth still couldn't enjoy her CMO's smile.
It was still so strained, she worriedly noted. And so sad. So crushingly, heartbreakingly, sad.
Damn it, she silently railed, Carson Beckett didn't deserve this. More to the point, he didn't want it.
She could see it in his eyes now. A real and growing fear that he just couldn't shake this lethargy off.
There was no time to reassure him, though. No time to offer the encouragement he so clearly needed.
Because the life of Dr Carson Andrew Beckett was about to go through another fateful twist.
Moments after Jinto had left, the Infirmary door slid open again, to admit a strangely agitated Teyla.
"Dr Beckett… hurry…" she panted, nodding somewhat needlessly to her heavily pregnant companion.
"Mir… her baby, it… it is coming…"
For the two non-medically trained people in the room, this news was cause for cautious celebration.
But for an already exhausted, thoroughly demoralised doctor, it was a wholly different story.
Staring at her in total shock, Carson's already pale, haggard face now turned as white as his labcoat –
the gentle bedside manner that was so much a part of him replaced by a soft, equally familiar curse.
"Oh, crap…"
At any other time, Elizabeth might have smiled at this familiar, typically human vent of emotion.
Maybe it was that soft Scottish brogue, but few people could curse so charmingly as Carson Beckett.
Something about this time, though, the look of near panic in his eyes, now set alarm bells ringing.
Before she could question its cause, a gasping cry of pain grew steadily louder around them –
prompting more curseful mutters as Carson moved instinctively, if shakily, towards its source.
"Too soon, too bloody soon… not turned yet… position's all bloody wrong…"
Hardly the most coherent explanation she'd ever heard – but Elizabeth had still caught its drift.
Chills of selfish fear ran through her as she followed him, an equally worried John Sheppard in tow.
She'd lost her joyously awaited niece to the many dangerous complications of a breech birth delivery.
If Carson were to suffer the same tragedy now, on top of everything else he'd just been through.
Everything he was still going through.
To her relief, her CMO was showing a welcome determination that he wasn't going to let that happen.
Despite the crisis of conscience that still haunted him, a simple fact had still found its way past it.
He was a doctor. A frightened young woman needed his help. Suddenly that was all that mattered.
His face was still pale, and the hands that gently eased Mir onto a nearby bunk were shaking slightly.
But the quiet voice was calm now, holding a gentle authority that soothed and settled the entire room.
"Easy now, lass… it's alright… aye, it's hurting real badly, I know… but dinnae you worry, lass…
you're safe here, and you and your wee bairn are going to be just fine… alright…?"
If truth be told, the young Athosian in front of him had understood little, if anything, of what he'd said.
Even Elizabeth had found it hard to follow the accent that tiredness had broadened still further.
But the warmth of a kind smile, however weary, could make itself understood in any language.
In spite of her apprehension and pain, Mir still managed a nervous, shyly grateful smile in return.
And Elizabeth doubted whether she'd be more proud of her CMO as she was right now.
He still needed help, though, all the support he could get – if only to keep him on his feet.
"Carson…? What can we do to help…?"
Her CMO wasn't the only one stunned by her offer. It had been a bombshell to John Sheppard too.
But with his own conscience-driven reasons to play his part, he was already nodding his agreement –
prompting a smile of pure gratitude as Carson slipped his gloves onto thankfully steadier hands.
"Well, if you and Teyla can take care of Mir while I take care of things this end…" he said at last –
noting, in wry amusement, how quickly John nodded and made for the non-messy end of the bunk.
The lad could tackle a Wraith attack without batting an eyelid, but the merest hint of ickiness, and…
That smile faltered, though, and just through tiredness, as Carson carefully checked the baby's position
Damn it, still two tiny ankles where the head should be, and contractions coming fast. Very fast.
Not wanting that anxiety to affect his already frightened patient, he dragged the smile back again –
making sure he kept it in place this time, soothingly encouraging her through yet another contraction.
"Yes, I know, lass, this wasn't supposed to be happening yet. It's caught me out too, I must admit.
But you've Teyla here, and Dr Weir and Major Sheppard too, so you've nothing to be scared about.
Just concentrate on your breathing, lass, just like you've been practising with me and Teyla…
that's it… aye, you're doing fine, my brave lassie… that's it, Mir, just keep breathing through it…"
If he'd not been so thoroughly focussed, he might have noticed someone else 'breathing through it'.
Apart from Mir's grip on his hand, only one thing was keeping John Sheppard from hitting the floor –
and that was the surefire knowledge that, if he did, a certain scientist would never let him live it down.
Gradually, though, the queasiness gave way to something else. Something he couldn't quite explain.
Elizabeth had felt it too. An inexplicable, irresistible feeling that now also drew her from Mir's side.
And, beyond his surprise at suddenly finding two new midwives at his shoulder, so had Carson.
Each of them had played a part in it. Each shared the burden of Hoffa's tragic, senseless loss.
Now they all had to be here, together, to share in another fateful moment of healing.
The grapevine on Atlantis could easily challenge, and most likely beat, that of any secret service.
News of its latest, imminent arrival had already spread, with mounting excitement, through the base.
Except for the ever present security teams, even the GateRoom regulars had come to a standstill –
McKay and Ford among them, both hanging on John Sheppard's every quietly excited word.
If Carson Beckett had sensed any part of that excitement, then he wasn't letting it show.
All of his attention, every ounce of conscious awareness, was now focussed on the task before him.
So far, the delivery had progressed with none of the complications he'd privately dreaded, but…
well, he'd been a doctor for too long, seen too many needless tragedies, for him to relax just yet.
Thanks to Mir's astonishing tolerance for pain, he'd managed to turn the baby onto its front.
That, at least, would reduce the risk of it choking while the head made its final, critical transit.
He couldn't guarantee against it still happening, of course, but… well, he'd done all he could.
As another contraction painfully crushed his trapped fingers, Carson just hoped it had been enough.
"Alright, Mir, you're doing just fine… both of you, you're doing just fine…" he said at last –
breaking that precious concentration just enough to offer his young patient an equally weary smile.
"Now I need you to bear down for me, slow and steady… that's it… that's it, lass, keep it going…
keep it going, lass, nice and steady… that's it, lass, now just relax for a second… just settle…
that's it, you're almost there… almost there, Mir, now bear down again… steady, lass… steady…"
He'd asked her to trust him – not only with her life, but also that of her precious, firstborn child.
Now that trust was repaid in the sweetest sound that Carson Beckett had heard in a very long time.
He'd delivered babies before, of course, both as a nervous intern and equally awe-struck resident.
And nothing would ever beat the thrill of bringing his own precious god-son into the world, but...
well, that night stuck in his cousin's car in the midst of a Highland blizzard seemed worlds away now.
Literally.
In another world, another galaxy, another tiny new life lay wriggling and kicking in his arms.
With that wonderful sound still ringing in his ears, Carson now blinked dazedly down at its source –
emotion shaking through the announcement that he, and all Atlantis, had waited for so long to hear.
"It's – It's a girl…! A beautiful, bonny, bloody noisy wee girl…!"
That 'bloody noisy wee girl' suddenly had some stiff competition as the whole city seemed to erupt.
Not that John Sheppard minded the chorus of cheers that now deafened him through his headset.
After being part of such a special event, seeing pure joy transform the face of a grief-stricken friend…
no, as he started organising the immediate practicalities, John Sheppard wasn't complaining at all.
"Ford, start finding volunteers for diaper detail…" he said at last, still happily caught in the moment –
sight of lingering ickiness, with much more ickiness to come, prompting a quietly wry afterthought. "Oh, and Ford…?"
"Sir…?"
"Make sure Rodney's name goes closer to the top of that list than mine. Okay…?"
"Yes, sir…!"
Breaking the connection, John then met Elizabeth's incredulous look with a typically rakish shrug.
"Aw, come on, Elizabeth...! Just think how we can use it as blackmail material…" he grinned,
deflecting the expected reprimand with practised ease as he nodded to the other side of Mir's bed.
"Besides, I don't think we need to worry about Uncle Rodney getting to babysit any time soon.
For one thing, he'll probably faint just from seeing a diaper, let alone agree to changing one.
And, more to the point, he's gonna have to get past Uncle Carson first…"
"True…" she conceded dryly, unable to resist correcting him over one increasingly likely prospect.
"But you're wrong about one thing, John. We're all going to have to get past Uncle Carson first…"
Watching her CMO happily fussing over his latest charge, she then felt her thoughts proudly wander.
Some day, Carson Beckett, you'll make some lucky child a truly wonderful father…
That day, rather like Mir's baby, seemed fated to arrive much earlier than anyone expected.
Like many others among her people, Mir had come to Atlantis as a frightened, traumatised orphan.
The prospect of raising a child alone on this world full of strangers had only terrified her more.
But then she'd found her father's wisdom re-born in the gentle smile of one of these strangers.
Everything about him, from his quiet calmness to his peculiar accent, had set him apart from the others
For reasons she couldn't fully understand, Mir knew he'd been chosen – just as her father had been.
Honoured and chosen by her sacred Ancestors to be special. Very special.
And she'd known, just from his smile, that she could trust him with her people's highest accolade.
Too physically drained to instil that honour herself, she now whispered it shyly to her leader instead –
prompting an eerie sense of déjà vu as, smiling her agreement, Teyla gently squeezed Carson's arm.
"Dr Beckett…? Carson…?"
When she'd last spoken these words, their consequences had shattered his world. Broken his heart.
Maybe that was why it took another, slightly stronger tug on his sleeve to break through their legacy.
"Carson…? There is something that Mir wishes to ask of you, concerning the baby and its future…"
As she'd hoped, the slightest concern over one of his patients gained instant, if rather tired, attention.
"She does…?" Carson frowned, clearly confused, before offering Mir a wearily reassuring smile.
"Oh, Mir, you've nothing to worry about. I mean, I know she's a wee bit early, but she's just fine.
Aye, she's a bonny wee lassie, just like her mother, and... oh… aye… yes… um… sorry…"
Belatedly realising he'd held onto that patient a tad longer than professionally necessary,
Carson then blinked in surprise as Teyla, rather than Mir, took the baby from him.
Being coaxed to sit, with the same gentleness, on the edge of Mir's bed only puzzled him further –
prompting a nervous defensiveness that was as much a part of him as the gene that always triggered it.
"What – What did I do…? Did – Did I do something wrong…?"
"Oh no, Carson. No, you have done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact…" Teyla assured him –
relieved to see curiosity replace the unease in his eyes as Mia gently took his hands into hers.
"No, it is alright. Mir simply wishes to express her thanks for all the kindness you have shown her…"
If he'd not been so tired, the penny that had dropped everywhere else might have dropped for him too.
Instead Carson simply nodded, smiling back at her with understanding he didn't honestly feel –
too bone-crushingly tired to notice that both John and Elizabeth had already guessed what was coming
An honour that would mean the world to their CMO. Just the boost to his morale that he needed.
Elizabeth just hoped that honour would be revealed soon, otherwise he'd be asleep before he heard it.
With the needs of another exhausted friend to also consider, Teyla had clearly thought the same thing.
Her next words, while gentle, were markedly quicker as she placed a calming hand on Mir's shoulder.
"As you know, Mir lost all of her family to cullings by the Wraith, just before you arrived on Atlantis.
With all that has happened since then, there has not been time for her to appoint a primary Elder.
Someone of wisdom and kindness, who will advise and guide her in the raising of her child…"
"You mean like a godfather…?" John chipped in, unable to keep his anticipation in check any longer –
Teyla's quizzical frown prompting him to sheepishly continue his guide to all things Earth.
"We… um… kinda have the same tradition back home, Teyla, when… well, when a new baby's born.
The parents choose a relative, or even a special close friend, to become a surrogate mother or father…
someone to take their place if… well, in case anything happens that would leave the baby…"
"Without one, or both, of its parents…?" Teyla finished for him, smiling again as she glanced at Mir –
trading with her another glance of approving agreement, before placing her hand on Carson's shoulder
Once sure of his albeit still puzzled attention, Teyla then smiled as she added, gently and very proudly,
"I cannot think of a more appropriate way to unite our worlds, and share our most sacred traditions.
Or a more worthy recipient of such a precious and special honour…"
Until now, Carson's exhausted mind had been struggling to follow the various exchanges around him.
As realisation finally dawned, his eyes widened – first to saucer-size, then on to dinner plates.
"You – You mean me…?" he ventured at last, clearly struggling to find the right words to say next –
relief joining a host of other emotions on his face as Mir shyly, and tentatively, saved him the trouble.
"My father is lost to me, Dr Beckett. I know that I will never see him, or any of my family, alive again.
But in your kindness and gentleness, my father still lives. Thanks to you, his loss is now easier to bear.
And I cannot think of anyone more worthy, more suited, to help me raise my child than you…"
Brave and poignant words, spoken from the heart. Words that left Carson Beckett completely floored.
He'd woken in despair that morning, shaking and sobbing from Perna's relentlessly haunting image.
In the handful of hours since then, already frayed emotions had gone through one hell of a ride –
from shock, disbelief and pure panic to these relief-fuelled, dizzying heights of indescribable joy.
So it was hardly surprising that he was now struggling to cope with its latest, astonishing twist.
He'd heard everything Mir had said. Fully understood the truly incredible honour she'd granted him.
And a wounded heart that needed so much to heal was practically screaming at him to accept it.
Try as he might, though, his voice just couldn't climb past the lump in his throat.
"Oh, Mir… lass, I – I don't know what to say..." he whispered at last, dazedly shaking his head –
aware, through an echoing fog, of a familiar voice giving him a gentle nudge in the right direction.
"At a pinch, doc, I'd guess saying 'yes' would be a pretty good start…"
He'd been about to say so for himself, of course. John Sheppard had just got there slightly quicker.
In the end, though, it didn't really matter who'd said it first. The end result was still the same.
And what a welcome sight that result was as, albeit sheepishly, Carson Beckett started to smile again.
"Yes, thank you, Major… yes, I was just… um… just getting around to that…" he retorted dryly,
trying to look exasperated with the 'butter-wouldn't-melt' faced pilot – and failing dismally.
Realising that, all joking aside, he still had to accept Mir's offer, he then turned to face her –
pausing to gather his thoughts and compose himself before making her a soft, heartfelt promise.
"I'm incredibly honoured by this, Mir, and… and I'll always do all I can to keep you both safe…"
"I know you will, Dr Beckett. I know you will…" Mir replied, smiling just as gently back at him –
waiting for her leader's proud nod of approval before shyly placing her hands on Carson's shoulders.
He'd seen this gesture countless times before, always silently envying those graced by its privilege.
Little wonder, then, that a delighted smile grew across Carson's face as their foreheads came together.
Following her lead, to give this special moment the reverence it deserved, he then closed his eyes –
noting, somewhere in the depths of a suddenly fog-filled mind, how very soothing Teyla's voice was.
He couldn't understand much of what she was saying, though, but… oh yes, it was very soothing.
Just like his mother's voice, in fact. The tone she'd used to comfort him when his father had died.
Now, as then, listening to that soft, hypnotically soothing voice could quite easily send him to…
"Carson…? Carson, are you alright…?"
Coming to with a start, Carson then blinked, dazedly wondering why Elizabeth sounded so concerned.
Why was she asking him if he was alright…? Why was John Sheppard frowning at him like that…?
And why was he sitting here, on a patient's bed, when that patient still clearly needed his attention…?
Shaking his head to clear it was a big mistake. It only made the dull ache inside it several times worse.
Four quizzically concerned faces swam in front of him, drifting ominously in and out of focus.
The adrenalin that had kept him on his feet for the past three hours now drained out of his system –
allowing the exhaustion it had lifted from him to come crashing back down, with brutal force.
So for him to stand up, so irrationally quickly, to tend to his patient…? Another definite no-no.
Not that Carson Beckett had much chance to recognise that mistake, let alone try and avoid its result.
His vision was already dimming, anxious voices also fading away as his legs buckled beneath him.
His last conscious awareness was the tinny crash of a trolley. Three anxious voices, rising in alarm.
Then everything in Carson Beckett's world fell rapidly away from him, into a deep, very dark void.
He woke slowly, to a quiet summary of terms that an inexplicably foggy mind felt it should recognise.
"… adrenalin crash… blood sugar levels… floorboards… forty eight hours… complete bedrest…"
A flurry of relieved murmurs followed, before that voice returned to ruthlessly invade his aching head.
"Carson…? Come on, open your eyes for me… no, stop fighting me, Carson, just open your eyes…"
The murmuring voices came next, the first two in typical seriousness – the third rather less so.
"Dr Beckett…?"
"Carson…? Carson, can you hear me…?"
"Hey, doc… you in there…?"
The first voice again, bearing the familiar burr of his homeland, just pipped him to a peeved reply –
causing him to dazedly wonder, as he struggled to obey its orders, if he'd somehow changed gender.
"Yes, he's in there, Major. He's lying right there, in front of you, so yes… of course he's in there…"
Uh-oh.
He'd placed that first voice now. Dr Kate Buchanan, his newly appointed second-in-command.
Five foot ten inches of no-nonsense, straight talking Highlander – with the build and attitude to match.
No wonder the usually so quick with a quip John Sheppard had fallen so rapidly, and wisely, silent.
And with Kate in this mood…? Well, Carson felt sorely tempted to do the same and stay safely asleep.
Two consecutive thoughts made him abandon that idea as he finally managed to unglue his eyelids.
The first was the simple, unavoidable fact that she'd keep nagging him until he did as he was told.
The second was the hell she'd give him if, God forbid, she ever found out he'd tried to deceive her.
Compared to those two prospects, being half blinded by a penlight didn't seem quite so bad.
What if he groaned a bit…? Proved to her that he was awake…? Still in the land of the living…?
Yes, she'd approve of that.
Groaning once more, with very little effort, Carson blinked a few times before squinting to his left –
straight up into a glowering, arms-crossed stance of tight-lipped, narrow eyed disapproval.
Then again, maybe she wouldn't.
Time for Plan B… he rapidly decided, before she strangles me with her stethoscope…
His face a study of plaintive contrition, Carson then mustered up an equally heart-melting smile.
"K – Kate…? Is – Is tha' you…?"
While maybe not fully melted, her eyes betrayed a definite thaw as Kate pocketed her flashlight.
"I was the last time I looked…" she retorted dryly, still all brisk business as she checked his pulse.
Its rhythm clearly met with her approval, since she smiled slightly, her next words noticeably warmer.
"Good to have you back with us, Carson… you gave us quite a turn… how are you feeling…?"
He'd often asked this question himself, of course – often rolling his eyes at less than polite responses.
Now he was on its receiving end while the pounding ache in his head built up to a dizzying crescendo.
Little wonder, then, that the famous, good natured Beckett charm now went on temporary walkabout.
"Wha' kind o' stupid bloody question is tha'…?"
"The kind you two ask me all the time…" John Sheppard chipped in with a helpful, beaming smile –
one that suddenly faded as two pairs of dour Scottish eyes swivelled pointedly in his direction.
Carson Beckett wasn't smiling much either, as he rubbed fitfully at the grandmother of hangovers.
The surreal sight that consequently swam through his vision really didn't help him feel any better.
"Och, Nessie… get oot ma bloody head…!" he moaned, following this up with an equally plaintive,
"Dr Weir…? M – Major…? Wha's so bloody funny…?"
Gratefully leaving John Sheppard to bring Teyla up to speed, Kate turned back to her patient –
still having real trouble in keeping her face straight as that patient squinted balefully up at her.
"Sorry, Carson, but no… you cannae blame Nessie for this…" she said at last, checking his IV –
her next words considerably more serious as she recalled how urgently those meds had been needed.
The sight of her boss lying sprawled on a hospital bunk was not one she wanted to see again in a hurry
"You suffered a hypoglycaemic collapse, Carson… a bad one… but you're going to be just fine…"
She could tell from his eyes that his mind was starting to clear. Lucid memory starting to return.
So her hands were already there on his shoulders, gently restraining his panicked attempts to sit up.
"It's alright, Carson, take it easy… it's alright, Mir's fine… they're both fine…" she assured him,
pushing a nearby screen aside so he could see two snugly blanketed figures in the neighbouring bed
As she'd hoped, the sight of his patient safely and soundly asleep calmed him instantly down again.
And while the smile that followed remained faint, Elizabeth Weir still welcomed its re-appearance.
No one appreciated more than she did just how much those two precious lives meant to her CMO.
One of those lives was still only a few hours old, but in that time she'd made one hell of a mark –
none more so than on the heart of a confused and angry, grief stricken doctor.
Not that he was out of the woods just yet. Certainly not where Kate Buchanan was concerned.
She'd been superb in dealing with Carson's collapse, of course, as well as taking care of Mir, but…
well, all gratitude to her aside, Elizabeth didn't envy the riot act that Carson Beckett still had to face.
It was going to take all of that legendary Scottish charm to save him from one hell of a lecture.
Elizabeth had assumed that he'd be allowed to rest first, to at least regain some of his strength.
But then again, as she was constantly discovering, Dr Carson Beckett was just full of surprises.
"I – I sh'd h've call'd you…" he murmured, meeting Kate's eyes with sleepy contrition in his own.
"S – St'pid of me, Kate, 'm… 'm s'rry…"
Kate's response, Elizabeth had to admit, wasn't quite the display of temper that she'd expected –
her smile in stark contrast to the furious curses that had rocked the Infirmary less than an hour earlier.
'Damn it, Carson, why the hell didn't you call me…? Of all the stupid, stubborn, bloody minded…'
"I know, Carson… and it's okay, you did a great job…" she assured him, squeezing his shoulder –
making sure the message in her next, gently chiding words was seen, felt… and fully understood.
"But we'll take it from here, Carson… you get some rest… get yourself back on your feet… okay…?"
They'd only been the subtlest of stresses on single words, but he'd still caught their meaning –
whatever he was trying to say in response following him instead into depths of instant, healing sleep.
Not that he'd had much choice in the matter, Elizabeth noted, studying Kate's quietly satisfied smile.
Quite how that sedative had made it into Carson's IV… well, that was for Kate Buchanan to know.
And Carson Beckett to never find out.
John Sheppard had seen it too. And there and then, he'd silently made himself a fervent promise.
Wherever possible, he would never, ever, let that woman anywhere near him with a syringe.
For now, though, he had some serious conspiring of his own to sort out – and sort out quickly.
"Oh, great…" he groaned, prompted by four urgent whispers to explain himself rather more quietly.
"McKay's due in tomorrow afternoon for his boosters. If he sees the doc laid out like this…"
To his relief, Elizabeth was already nodding, her eyes drifting back to the sleeping figure beside them.
The immediate crisis was over, for which she was truly grateful. And she knew he'd be alright, but…
well, the last thing her CMO needed was to have a certain scientist constantly disrupting his recovery.
So beyond his awareness, over coffee at his bedside, another four way conspiracy began to take shape.
Tomorrow morning, with Kate's blessing, they'd move him to the sanctuary of his quarters –
the victim, rather conveniently, of an especially unpleasant, highly contagious stomach bug.
That, at least, would guarantee him wide-berthed safety from Atlantis' resident hypochondriac.
Before then, though…? Just in case McKay had yet another of his death's door emergencies…?
Well, thanks to some very careful re-arrangement of furniture, that wouldn't be much of a problem.
A couple of bedside screens would protect the Infirmary's latest patient from unwanted, prying eyes.
Instead, the first sight those eyes would fall on would be the formidable form of Dr Kate Buchanan.
And after the scientist's last, far from pleasant experience at those brusque and business like hands…
well, bets could be safely taken he'd leave the Infirmary several times quicker than he'd entered it.
Oh yes, John Sheppard reflected, now happily studying the fruits of silent, conspirational labours.
For the next twelve hours, the Infirmary would become a strictly McKay-free zone.
Until a few moments ago, Elizabeth Weir had regarded the situation before her as a charming myth.
Watching Kate tackle the real thing, however, she was becoming sorely tempted to change her mind.
Medical doctors, especially chronically bored medical doctors, really did make lousy patients.
After just two days in bed, her recuperating CMO was turning into the lousiest patient of all time.
"Och, really, Kate…! I – I feel fine now…!" he now doggedly insisted, for the third time that day –
his voice warningly rising another octave as Kate Buchanan remained just as stubbornly unconvinced.
"I – I mean, I'm a doctor, for God's sake…! I should know if I'm bloody alright or not…!"
Suddenly remembering who he was yelling, and now swearing at, Carson fell awkwardly silent –
picking at the hem of his blanket while mumbling out a contrite, still clearly frustrated apology.
"I'm – I'm sorry, Kate… you too, Dr Weir… it's just that… well, I'm – I'm just so bloody bored…!"
Faced with such a plaintive, heart-melting appeal, Kate had a real struggle to hold firm against it.
Admittedly, his colour was much better, the blue eyes clearer than they'd been that morning, but…
well, just twenty four hours ago he'd been laid out in the Infirmary, completely out for the count.
And for all his protests, he wasn't nearly fit enough yet to handle the demands of a ten hour shift.
He'd not even made it through last night's check up without falling asleep halfway through it.
Those eyes, though, the puppy dog appeal within them… now, where had she seen that look before…?
Reflecting that a certain Major had a lot to answer for, she then glanced across at Elizabeth –
guessing from her sympathetic expression that she'd been thinking the same thing.
Elizabeth was still grinning as, prompted by Kate's go-ahead nod, she moved smoothly to the door.
"So you feel up to some company for a while…? Just a few visitors…?" she asked innocently –
having to quickly smother her laughter at the haphazard, scrambling speed of her CMO's response.
If there was a record around for hair, clothes and blankets to be re-arranged into some form of order –
well, Carson Beckett had just set a warp-speed target that would never be broken.
The sight of John Sheppard leaning casually in his doorway was met with a genuinely happy smile.
It was the little procession that followed, however, which took that smile right up into Carson's eyes.
"Teyla…! Mir…!"
Realising his first visitor hadn't enjoyed the same enthusiasm, he then added a sheepish afterthought.
"Sorry, Major, it's… um… good to see you too…"
"Glad to hear it, doc… especially since I'm the one who brought the food…" John retorted dryly –
noting, in wry amusement, that his host's concerns had already moved predictably elsewhere.
Not that he really minded. For one thing, it meant enjoying his share of some truly addictive cookies.
And the pleasure he now saw on Carson Beckett's face was worth a whole Commissary of food.
"Have you chosen a name yet, Mir…?" he asked at last, gently fussing over the tiny bundle in his lap –
frowning slightly as this simple question prompted another exchange of smiling, anticipatory glances.
As before, it heralded a wonderful surprise. One that, as before, left Carson Beckett lost for words
"In truth, Dr Beckett, that is why I wished to see you…" Mir said at last, smiling shyly back at him –
encouraged by Teyla's prompting nod to continue more confidently as she stroked her baby's cheek
"She is so special, Dr Beckett… as you are, too, and… and so I would like you to choose her name…"
For thirty clear seconds, Carson could only stare back at her in stunned, visibly moved delight.
Even when he finally nodded, in even happier acceptance, he still wasn't any closer to a reply.
The last thing he'd chosen a name for had been the puppy he'd had for his tenth birthday, and…
well, no wee child in this galaxy, or any other, deserved to go through life with a name like Haggis.
Seeking help from Atlantis' self-appointed name giver, it seemed, wasn't going to get him very far –
not at the rate, and speed, with which John Sheppard was wolfing down those cookies.
Then again, he wryly reflected, perhaps it was just as well to leave their chief pilot out of this.
Diaper Dumper didn't exactly have the right ring to it either.
Grabbing a double chocolate chip, while he still had the chance, Carson settled back to his task –
allowing the timeless pleasure of sugar and melting chocolate to bring him literal food for thought.
They were good cookies too, he reflected fondly. Almost as good as the ones his mother used to make.
The ones she'd made for him many years ago, on that cold and wet, so very painful morning.
He'd been too young, of course, to understand the tears he'd seen in his mother's eyes that day.
The concept of death, the reasons why his father suddenly wasn't there to play with him any more –
well, it had been way beyond the understanding of an innocent, and hungry, six year old boy.
So instead he'd feasted on his mother's cookies while bemusedly watching the sadness around him.
He'd accepted all the cuddly toys and gentle ruffles of his hair with unquestioning puzzlement –
enjoying the attention too much to understand their pitying whispers of 'Poor wee Carson…'
Confusion had plagued him that night too, and so many afterwards, as he'd cried himself to sleep.
Surrounded by toys he didn't want any more, he'd cried and screamed for the only thing he did want.
He hadn't known what cancer was, or why his mother had cried so much as she'd tried to explain it.
But the insatiable curiosity of a confused and angry little boy had become determined to find out.
Books about doctors and medicine had replaced all those unwanted toys as his constant companions –
alienating him still further from classmates who'd already cruelly dubbed him 'the freak of Fry Street'.
So little 'Cry Baby Beckett' was going to be a doctor…? A real doctor…? Oh yes, of course he was.
Watched, in silent curiosity by those around him, a reflective smile now gave way to quiet laughter.
Oh, if those sneering school-kids could see him now. See how those freakish powers had developed.
No, they wouldn't be laughing at him, or daring to bully him now. Instead they'd be diving for cover.
Carson Beckett didn't have a spiteful bone in his body, but if he'd known, then, about those drones…
well, he'd have given those mindless bullies something to really worry about.
He'd not been lying, or exaggerating, when he'd yelped out that futile, panic-stricken protest.
"You don't understand…! I – I break things like this…!"
He had, many times, and always in spectacular fashion, during those highly eventful, first-school years
TV sets died a snow-storming death at his touch. Light bulbs exploded with unnatural regularity.
He'd once, at painful cost, stranded the school bully for several hours in a mysteriously yo-yoing lift.
And the Beckett house alone had kept Glasgow's electricians busier than the rest of the city combined.
His father, in soothing the tears that had inevitably followed, had said it was because he was 'special'.
In time, he'd discover the grown up toys which the 'magic powers' inside him could make work.
He'd learn why he had them. How precious and vital they were. How to use, master and control them.
Just as he'd learn that, sometimes, those magical powers made others like them so 'poorly sick'.
It had taken Carson Beckett almost thirty years to find out and understand what his father had meant.
He could still remember that sunny April morning as clearly, as freshly, as if it happened yesterday.
Still see the shocked disbelief on Alex Beattie's face as he'd told him, very gently, to sit down.
Hear the tense concern in their old family doctor's voice as he'd dropped that unthinkable bombshell –
one that had turned the happy, normal, settled life of Carson Beckett completely on its head.
'I've got your results back, Carson, for – for that job in America you've applied for, and – and…
well, there's no easy way to tell you this, lad, but… your bloodwork, we found something… odd…'
Unseen by tear-filled eyes, four friends who now shared that life traded concerned, puzzled glances.
Completely lost now in thoughts and memories, Carson Beckett was light years away from them.
No-one expressed that concern aloud, though. No-one disturbed this deep, introspective silence.
Because wherever those memories had taken him, he needed to stay there, just a little longer.
Perna's ghost, it seemed, wasn't the only one that Carson Beckett needed to lay to rest…
Genetic mutation. A term of abnormality that would alarm anyone, let alone a medical doctor.
Words that had privately haunted and terrified Dr Carson Beckett for the last three years.
He'd started that day facing nothing worse than the results of a simple, routine blood test –
and ended it, shocked and shaken, facing the same horrific death that had claimed his father.
The most cruelly ironic 'gift' in cosmic history had triggered that unnaturally rapid cancer.
Now that same mutant gene, having lain dormant inside him for so many years, had re-activated.
And if his father had been right, if this 'gift' really had passed through countless generations, then…
well, even with its rarity, thousands of others now unknowingly shared this terrifying secret.
He'd needed answers. A way to safeguard not just his future, but that of a whole generation.
So when he'd been offered that top level research post in America, he'd accepted without hesitation –
guided by something more than just memories of an old label he'd once seen on his father's luggage.
He'd simply known those answers, the key to his own survival, lay somewhere in Denver.
Resources beyond his dreams, technology beyond his belief, had finally brought him those answers –
along with a discovery that, even now, overwhelmed him with its fearsome significance.
Just like his father, and countless forefathers before that, Carson Beckett had been 'chosen'.
For him, saving the planet had suddenly gone way beyond recycling old papers and cans of Irn-Bru.
Medical brilliance, driven on by silent terror, had ensured the rest of the 'chosen ones' would survive.
Exhausting months of tests and research had saved thousands. Millions more had depended on it.
In the giddy relief of continued survival, he'd quietly gloried in this most precious of victories –
one that only he, the SGC, and the rest of Earth's secret protectors, could ever appreciate.
Then he'd been assigned to Antarctica, to continue researching the Ancients' incredible legacy.
Willingly volunteered, despite its many uncertainties, for this unmissable trip of a lifetime.
Been unwillingly volunteered for another mission where, yet again, his entire world had fallen apart.
'Perna… I'm so sorry… I – I wish I'd had no part in this…'
Subconsciously bidden or otherwise, John Sheppard's hand now settled on Carson's shoulder –
its contact coaxing him, with gentle care, away from the ghost that continued to haunt him.
Startled blue eyes met equally stricken green, in a silent exchange only they could understand.
In its many forms, both of them knew the tragic horrors of senseless, unnecessary death.
They'd both seen enough of it, in one way or another, to haunt them through several lifetimes.
So had Elizabeth. Kate. Teyla.
And, perhaps most poignantly of all, so had the young woman who now sat so quietly between them.
They'd all lost so much, Carson reflected, glancing in turn around four puzzled, quizzical faces.
Seen so much death. Experienced all the devastating, soul-destroying grief that came with it.
Now, more than ever, they all needed to regain something taken with every life they'd seen lost.
A symbol to bring that vital reason for living back to them. Something to give all of them…
"Dock what…?"
A familiar voice startled him, reminding him that, yet again, he'd drifted back into his memories.
Still, at least John Sheppard had the grace to look guilty, even concerned, that he'd done so.
In fact, Carson now sheepishly realised, the other faces around him all looked concerned.
Lowering his head to ostensibly watch the baby seemed a good idea – if only to hide his blushes.
Just a few seconds later, though, a broad and genuine smile grew across tellingly warm cheeks.
Even from beyond the grave, it seemed, his father was still there to offer him gentle guidance.
"Dochas…" he whispered, softly echoing the voice that had just ghosted its way through his mind.
He'd understood its meaning, its uniqueness. Its so very special, inspiring significance.
Now all he had to do was pass that inspiration on, to those who needed its comfort as much as he did.
"My father died too, Mir, when… well, when I was very young…" he said at last, taking her hand –
making a point of maintaining that contact, to comfort both of them, as he went on to explain.
"Where I come from, there's an old and lovely language, called Gaelic, that he used to speak, and…"
"And this is the beautiful language that you speak too, Dr Beckett…?" Mir broke in softly –
shy awkwardness at the shaking of his head tempered, as always, by the warmth of his smile.
"No, lass, the language I speak is called Scottish…" Carson chuckled, slipping his arm around her –
drawing her into a gently reassuring hug while sharing with her a playful, proud afterthought.
"But you're right, lass. Not that I'm biased or anything, but I think it's the loveliest in the world…"
"I think it is too, Dr Beckett…" Mir agreed softly, enjoying this contact too much to argue further.
Reminded, yet again, of her father's protective strength, she then met his eyes again and smiled.
"And the name you have chosen, it – it is from this Gaelic…? The language of your ancestors…?"
"Aye, lass, it is…" Carson replied just as softly, his eyes resting once more on its tiny recipient.
Remembering the woeful abuse of that language, he then glared good naturedly up at the culprit.
"And it's yoke-haas, Major… harse, as in…"
"Yeah, thanks, doc… I get it…" John cut in quickly, moving with wise speed onto safer ground.
"Sounds pretty, whatever it means…"
As he'd hoped, and quietly planned for, Carson was already nodding in proud, wistful agreement.
"Aye, Major, it is…" he said at last, pausing for a moment, before smiling hopefully across at Mir.
"And I hope you think it's suitable for her, lass, because… well, I think it's suitable for all of us…"
Hugging her once more, he then looked round in turn to four equally expectant, curious faces.
"Dochas…" he explained softly, hoping for the same approval he already saw on one of them.
"You – You pronounce it as yoke-hearse… it – it means hope…"
He'd seen the same smile on Elizabeth's face, his own silently thankful for her discretion.
Now, to his relief, those who didn't share her love of languages were smiling back at him too.
"Nice choice, doc…" John Sheppard said at last, granting Carson a rare honour of his own –
words of quiet admiration, spoken with none of his usual, irreverent flippancy.
"I agree, Major Sheppard…" Teyla replied softly, adding her own vote of heartfelt approval.
"It is a beautiful name, Carson. And, as you say, it is truly suitable… for all of us…"
Their opinions mattered, of course, and Carson was genuinely, and visibly, grateful for them.
In truth, though, there was only one response, yet to come, that really mattered.
That response, when it finally came, was all he'd hoped for as Mir nodded, her eyes shining –
a hug around his waist, just as gently returned, strengthening an already special bond between them.
Even the newly named bundle between them joined in with a happily gurgling squeal of approval.
It was the most charming, and encouraging, sight that Elizabeth Weir had seen for several days.
She knew the nightmare of Hoffa would still haunt Carson Beckett for a long time yet.
But he'd taken the first vital step in coming to terms with the part he'd played within it –
the familiar, settled calmness in his eyes telling her all she needed, and wanted, to know.
'I'm sorry for the worry I've caused you, lass, but it's alright… I'll be fine now…"
He would be too, Elizabeth thought proudly, happier than ever before to return her CMO's smile.
His adoptive family, helped along by good old fashioned Scottish stubbornness, would see to that.
And being a surrogate father, both to Mir and his new god-daughter, would come so naturally to him –
healing and filling a gap in his life that, until a few moments ago, he'd not even realised was there.
Oh yes, she reflected in quiet satisfaction, Carson Beckett would love every second of fatherhood.
Placed so happily in his mother-henning element, he'd revel in its many joys, and challenges, and…
"Eeeewwww…!"
"Och, come on, Major, it's not that bad…! And it's not like she's old enough yet to… agh…!"
Already laughing at this priceless exchange, Elizabeth found herself facing a challenge of her own –
to keep her face straight while that of Carson Beckett turned to her in somewhat watery eyed appeal.
"Um, Dr Weir…?" he ventured at last, still studying a tellingly, and thoroughly, ickified hand.
"I – I don't suppose anyone thought to pack some nappies…?"
Even at the crack of another glorious morning, Elizabeth knew where she'd find him.
Dawn or dusk, day or night, there was only one place that Dr Carson Beckett truly belonged.
Sure enough, there he was beside Dochas' cot, keeping a watchful guard over his latest charge.
Just as she'd left him the night before. And, she dryly noted, where she'd left him the night before that.
In the euphoria of her arrival, they'd forgotten how unexpected, how premature, that arrival had been.
What she may have lacked in birth-weight, though, had been more than made up for in lungpower.
So while Mir had now returned to her quarters, dryly advised to 'enjoy the quiet, lass, while you can...'
Dochas had remained behind, as a precaution which had been met with very little argument.
As she entered the Infirmary, Elizabeth felt her smile widen at another welcome sign of normality.
He still looked tired, a little pale – lingering reminders of his own, thankfully brief need for its care.
And no amount of gel was going to control the mop of hair that now seemed to have a life of its own.
But the blue eyes that now met and held hers were calm and clear again, bright with new purpose –
all thanks to the tiny new life who already had her godfather wrapped effortlessly around her fingers.
"How's our latest arrival…?" she asked at last – loving the way her CMO's eyes lit up in response.
"She's doing just fine…" Carson grinned, still trying, with little success, to free his captive hand.
Conceding defeat with, to Elizabeth's amusement, very little resistance, he then chuckled softly.
"Aye, she was still a wee bit colicky this morning, but… well, Rodney soon cured that…"
Thanks to John Sheppard, she'd already heard the story. Several gleefully detailed times over.
After the traumatic week they'd just shared, though, Elizabeth figured another re-telling wouldn't hurt.
Even if it meant taking advantage of his tiredness, his guileless nature, it would surely be worth it.
"He did…?" she asked at last, her voice innocent – the playful gleam in her eyes anything but.
Carson nodded, still too distracted by his latest patient to notice how subtly he was being exploited.
Eventually, though, a mischievous smile of his own gave way to another chuckle of laughter.
"He came in earlier this morning, wanting me to treat a wee overdose of the power bars, and…
well, with the competition my wee lassie gave him, he soon wished he hadn't…"
He'd been enjoying the moment too much to realise the significance of what he'd just said.
Elizabeth had recognised it, though. A simple event had confirmed the turning of a vital corner.
She could see it, too, in the confident gentleness with which he now lifted Dochas from her cot –
soothing her fretful wriggles with the same familiar, gratefully welcomed ease.
The blessing of a new life, a new focus for his own, had touched and healed a shattered heart.
It was the moment she'd privately prayed for. A moment that didn't deserve any form of intrusion.
A fact sadly lost on the figure who now hobbled, in typically melodramatic fashion, towards them.
"Carson…? Carson…? Oh, there you are… thank God… it's broken, I – I know it's broken…"
As usual, Rodney McKay was looking for sympathy. As usual, he found only sarcasm instead –
most of it from the makeshift crutch who now deposited him, non too gently, on a nearby bunk.
"Aw, come on, McKay…! If you'd broken it, you wouldn't be walking on it…!"
"Oh, thank you, Doctor Sheppard…!" McKay snapped back, rising, as always, to that irresistible bait.
"And with your superior, highly advanced medical knowledge, you'd know…?"
"I know you need to get some weight off…" John muttered, making a show of flexing his shoulders –
pausing for effect, choosing his moment, before delivering the inevitable, wickedly smug punchline.
"Besides, helping to bring this little sweetie into the world… well, that's kinda like being a doctor…"
"Yeah, the kind who'd grab some poor defenceless chicken by its legs and…"
It took something rather drastic, something very special, to silence a ranting, raving Rodney McKay.
A politely raised eyebrow, the threat it silently conveyed, succeeded with consummate ease.
Trading glances with Elizabeth, in sufferance only she could understand, Carson then sighed –
leaving her to chuckle quietly alone while he turned to face his latest patient.
"What's broken, Rodney…?" he asked at last, with an air of exasperation only that patient could cause.
A patient who, it was now wryly noted, had fallen suddenly, unnaturally, and very uneasily silent.
He'd often wondered how to keep Atlantis' resident hypochondriac out of his Infirmary.
Now, seeing him react to the snug bundle in his arms, Carson felt a slow smile spread across his face.
He knew he'd found the perfect deterrent. Revenge for all he'd ever suffered at the scientist's hands.
Payback for all those times he'd been ordered, cajoled and downright bullied to sit in that damn chair.
Elizabeth had seen that reaction too. So had John Sheppard, who was now almost bouncing with glee.
She could chastise him, of course. She could call a halt to the mischief she knew was coming, but...
well, who was she to deny her long suffering CMO his moment of glory…?
It was too late to do anything anyway, since that CMO was already advancing on his hapless victim.
So with that in mind, Elizabeth Weir did the only thing any self respecting leader could do.
Sitting beside the overgrown child that was John Sheppard, she settled back for one hell of a show.
Faced with his tiniest, messiest nemesis, the reluctant star of that show now looked very, very nervous.
"Huh…? What…? Oh… um… no…ah… actually I – I think it's just twisted…" McKay stammered,
eyeing the snugly blanketed bundle in Carson's arms with deep rooted, open disgust.
"Oh, so now we're the medical expert…?" John chipped in, clearly enjoying the entertainment –
enjoying it a tiny bit less as the only true medical expert in the room glanced pointedly across at him.
With order more or less restored, Carson moved on towards Rodney, still cradling his precious cargo –
rolling his eyes as the scientist backed himself pathetically against the pillows behind him.
"Och, for God's sake, Rodney…! She's just a wee baby, not a bloody bomb…!"
"Wee being the operative word… right, McKay…?" John smirked, with just way too much relish.
Not that there was much danger of Elizabeth chastising him. She was laughing too much to even try.
Rodney McKay wasn't laughing, though. Not after that morning's thoroughly revolting encounter.
Liberally doused, from both equally disgusting ends, he was in no mood for a repeat performance.
Unfortunately for him, a certain long suffering doctor wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily.
All those snipes over dubious medical schools and voodoo science were about to backfire. Big time.
And all that doctor needed to reduce Rodney McKay to a gibbering wreck was a harmless wee baby.
No wonder he had such a wicked grin on his face as this sublimely sweet revenge continued.
For every step he took towards Rodney, so the scientist backed even more into the pillows behind him.
If he doesn't stop backing off soon, Carson gleefully noted, he'll end up taking a swim outside –
which, the more he thought about it…
Some serious authority, the stern intervention of a natural leader, was becoming rapidly called for.
Elizabeth just hoped she could her face straight long enough to make herself believably heard.
"Here, Carson, I'll look after Dochas for you while you… um… take care of Rodney…" she offered –
loving the restored twinkle in his eye as, somewhat regretfully, he settled Dochas into her arms.
His secret weapon may have been relinquished, but the fun wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.
Recovering now from his crisis of conscience, Carson Beckett was in one hell of a mischievous mood.
On the downside, though, he still McKay to deal with, and that wasn't fun. That wasn't fun at all.
It was taking all his skill and finely honed doggedness to examine his constantly fidgeting patient.
Luckily he still had an equally honed sense of humour to go with it.
"Have you been throwing my patients over balconies again, Major…?" he asked at last –
the tone in his voice as Rodney continued to squirm betraying a real temptation to do the same.
Never one to miss the chance for some mischief, especially at a certain person's expense,
John Sheppard just shrugged while playfully dangling his dog tags against Dochas' fingers.
"Well, gee, doc, it was just so much fun the last time…" he drawled, a study of deadpan innocence.
As always, the bait was irresistibly laid. As always, the bait was irresistibly taken.
"Oh, sure… mock me… guy still suffering here…" came the inevitable, sulkily muttered response –
one that paled in comparison to another as Dochas made her opinion of him all too vocally clear.
And suddenly Rodney McKay had to face something far worse than a painfully throbbing ankle.
Hell might hath no fury than a woman scorned, but a fiercely protective godfather ran a close second.
"Upset my wee lassie, Rodney, and you'll find out what suffering really is…" Carson warned –
trading another quick grin with Elizabeth as this constant bane to his patience fell contritely silent.
Dochas, though, with the show-stealing power unique to babies, wasn't about to be silenced so easily.
In spite of Elizabeth's best efforts to settle her, those tiny lungs were producing one hell of a racket.
And while he'd usually complain, at voluble length, at his doctor abandoning him in mid-treatment...
well, for once, McKay was prepared to make a grudging exception as he took that task over.
"Why must something so small and so allegedly cute make such a fuss of everything…?" he muttered,
quickly pulling his sock back into place before anyone could snark over the tangled mess beneath.
He needn't have worried, of course. To his visible disgust, no one was paying him a blind bit of notice.
With their CMO most distracted of all, it was left to John Sheppard to finally reply on his behalf –
pretty much scuppering Rodney McKay's hopes of finding a sympathetic, sensible answer.
"Because she's a baby, Rodney. It's what babies do…" he pointed out with exaggerated patience –
waiting just long enough for McKay to think he'd escaped before gleefully denying him the pleasure.
"And so your excuse would be…?"
By the mental tally of their long suffering referee, that took the score up to Sheppard 3 – McKay 1.
But as Elizabeth knew, only too well, this scoreline of snarking never stayed idle for long.
Even when, as now, Rodney McKay was lost for a reply, you could bet that silence wouldn't last –
just as you could bet he'd break that silence by saying something incredibly, mind-blowingly dumb.
So when that moment finally came, she couldn't decide whether to keep laughing or start running.
Dragging Scotland's most patriotic football fan into a sports debate was, she knew, never a good idea.
And insulting his beloved team ranked right up there with voodoo science in the stupidity stakes.
A telltale lift of an eyebrow promised that, come his next physical, McKay would sorely regret it.
There was only one course of action that Elizabeth Weir could sensibly take to keep the peace –
especially since World War Three looked set to erupt around a newly settled, blissfully silent baby.
"Come on, sweetie, let's get out of here before things get too bloody and violent…" she chuckled,
detecting pure devilment in her CMO's smile as she gently took Dochas back from him.
Yet even when she was safely outside, Elizabeth couldn't resist tracking back to the doorway –
if only to find out who was winning… who was still conscious… and who was still standing.
It was an amusing relief to still hear McKay's voice in this ongoing, tri-national battle of pride.
Given the verbal mauling he was taking instead, though, from one seriously miffed Scottish doctor –
well, anything, even being zapped by a Wraith stunner, would have been a preferable option.
And just in case a certain Major thought he'd escaped that doctor's fiercely patriotic streak…
"I'll have you know, son, that where I come from, we have real men playing real football…
not have a bunch of jessies running round with half a bloody scrapyard strapped to their backs...!"
"Hey, we need that scrapyard, as you so charmingly put it, for justified protection…" John retorted –
forced, by realisation of a woefully inadequate argument, to fall back on an equally shaky follow-up.
"And what have I told you about insulting us with all this weird and wacky language of yours…?
You know we don't understand it…!"
The gloriously smug response, understandable in any language, was not meant for impressionable ears
Still laughing as she moved away, Elizabeth then glanced down to check on those ears' tiny owner –
relieved and astonished that, although awake again, Dochas was still contentedly, and silently, settled.
In fact she was even smiling now, as if in approving agreement, to Elizabeth's softly heartfelt promise.
"You know, Dochas…? I know you've been born into a crazy and frightening, very dangerous world.
But all the time your Uncle Carson's around, he'll protect you… he'll always keep you safe…"
It was probably just a trick of the light, coupled with simple tiredness, which then caused her to frown.
But something about the wisdom in that smile, so ahead of its time, conveyed an equally proud reply.
I know he will, Dr Weir… he will keep all of us safe…
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