Title: Remorse, A "Letters from Pegasus" what-if story.

Author: Whytewytch

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis

Characters/Pairings: Evan Lorne, OFC

Word count: 1,132

Rating: PG

Spoilers/Warnings: S1, Ep 17: Letters from Pegasus

Summary: What would Lorne have "written" home had he been in the Pegasus Galaxy at the time of the Wraith invasion?

A/N: Prompted by the rewatch on the Team Flyboy thread on Gateworld. Un-betaed.

Evan Lorne stared at the camera, and at the eager young lieutenant operating it. It was a shame that they would very likely not survive the upcoming encounter with the Wraith. The kid was going places, with his quick mind, his attention to detail and his weapons expertise. If they made it out of this alive, the kid would very likely get a promotion; at least, if Sheppard had any say in it.

"Ford, I think I'd like to do this alone, if you don't mind." Evan smiled grimly to himself as the kid nodded and left without a word, tossing him a remote control. Even in the face of death, he couldn't let go and share his intimate thoughts and feelings. It was why Rebecca had left him. If you can't share your emotions, it means you don't trust me, she'd said. Maybe she'd been right. He sighed and glanced back at the camera, toggling the record button on the remote.

"Mom, Dad, if you're getting this…" He swallowed and bit his lip, knowing how much this was going to hurt them. Hating that this was how it had to be. "If you're getting this, then I died in the service of my country, and of our world. I am so sorry. Sorry that you'll have those men come to the door again, Dad. Please don't let it kill your soul."

He'd fought with his parents about joining the Air Force. His mom had wanted him to pursue his art career, and his dad didn't want him anywhere near planes. Evan's grandfather had been a fighter pilot during the Korean War. His F-80 "Shooting Star" had been shot down over Seoul; there hadn't been enough pieces left to put in a casket. Evan's dad had been a teen at the time.

You don't know what it's like, son, to open the door and see those officers standing there, holding that little slip of paper, and saying those words that forever change your life—"I'm sorry". My mother died that day, too. They handed her the telegram. Her hands shook as she opened it. Her face—I'll never forget her face—so full of fear and then falling into desolation and then just…nothing. She just…ceased. Her body carried on, but I never heard her laugh again and her smile never reached her eyes again. I can't handle losing you, son. I can't handle living with a dead soul.

Evan's eyes began to water as he remembered the way his own father's eyes had teared up when he'd told that story, trying to convince his only son to do something safer with his life. His father was a good man, a strong man—he never begged, not for anything, but he'd begged that day, and Evan had brushed his worries aside and plunged forward, a typical reckless young man. He took a deep breath to steady himself and continued.

"I died in a faraway place, but it's a place of beauty as well as danger. Maybe someday, the government will allow you to see the paintings and the sketches I made of this place—of these places that I've been to—and then you can see for yourself how incredibly lucky I've been. And I'm sorry I won't make it back for Christmas like we planned, but know that if it's possible, I'll be there in spirit."

Images of the previous Christmas danced through his head—his parents laughing and smiling, Susan and her husband kissing under the mistletoe, Henry opening everyone's presents in his excitement.

"Susan. Your little brother's doing something that you can be proud of, and I'm happy to die for it if I must. If I die so that you and David and your kids will be safe, then I'll be content. Kiss little Henry for me and tell him that Unka Ev loves him this much and more." He stretched his arms out as far as he could on both sides, then brought them in to rest his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry I won't see the new baby, Suze."

Evan glanced down at his fingers, remembering how his sister's first baby, Henry, had grabbed so tight to his pointer finger when he was only hours old. He saw Susan holding Henry, the love on her face a light that could warm the world if it was ever released. David kissing his wife's head as he stroked his son's downy hair, his face also glowing with love and pride. Henry was a toddler now and loved his "Unka Ev" with all his heart. The joy in his eyes when Evan would come to visit made him feel like a king. The thought of never seeing his nephew again made Evan realize what his dad had meant by being "soul dead"; there was an empty place inside of him, a void that could only be filled with his family's presence.

She could have given him that family of his own, if he'd only let her. Rebecca. He pictured her the way he'd first met her—a Midwestern girl standing on the docks of San Francisco, staring out at the sea lions who sunned themselves on Pier 39, the wind whipping her long brown hair around as she kept pushing it back behind her ears. The bluest eyes he'd ever seen when he'd made some stupid comment about the sea lions and she'd turned to look at him. A smile so big that it drew him in and made him want to be a part of her world. But only part way; he'd never really let himself go with her and never let her totally into his soul, either.

"Rebecca. You were right. I was a fool not to let you in, not to trust you. Got burned too many times, I guess. You should know that I came closer to trusting you than I did to anyone else outside of my family. Maybe we could've worked it out, but you're better off with someone who won't cause you so much grief. I hope you have a happy life, and I hope that my death buys you a longer life. You know my parents always loved you, so if you need anything, you go to them—they'll help if they can."

He sighed once again, feeling more drained then if he'd just been on patrol for three days straight. This emotional stuff was exhausting. That's why you put all that crap in your paintings, Ev. He reached forward and turned off the camera, then grabbed his paints and a fresh canvas. There was time for one last painting before he had to head to the armory and prepare for a war that they stood very little chance of winning.