All Unwritten
By Dragon's Daughter 1980
Disclaimer: I'm just in the sandbox. I don't actually own it. I have nothing to do with Stargate: Atlantis.
Author's Note: Hi again...I'm seriously beginning to think that my romance/Sparky muse will not leave me alone. This drabble was written up before the airing of 'Kindred.'
Prompt: … and it was enough to make him cry
When he realized she was never coming back to him, he shut himself away in her quarters and slowly began to pack her belongings. Carter was wise enough, kind enough not to comment; she may have even understood.
He methodically went through her clothes, folding them neatly into cardboard boxes that he sealed for shipment. He didn't linger over the red silk blouse she had worn that first night or the pearl dress shirt that paired with the gray business skirt that had floored him (metaphorically) and the IOA (more literally), for different reasons. A smile didn't even touch his lips at the memory of her calm counterattack on the IOA panel that seemed determined to question every decision she had ever made. She had won that round, hands down, leaving her interrogators in a slight state shock at her formidable will.
Handling each object with the same care he had always seen her display when she moved them, he went through her belongings. There were the few small mementos she had brought from Earth, trinkets from her career with the United Nations that she couldn't leave behind. He knew the stories behind most, but not all, of them. A part of him, one that was firmly walled off from his present reality, wished they had more time to share the stories of their lives before Atlantis. He wished he could hear her voice one more time, wistfully recalling tales from her brilliant career. He wished he could see the distant expression again in her green eyes as she spoke of faraway locales she had seen and diplomatic high jinks she had experienced. He wished… he wished for a lot of things, and the majority of them didn't happen.
Most of the items in her room were furnishings traded from the Athosians or gifts that she had received from their allies in Pegasus. They ranged from the practical (a squat clay vase that held pencils, a warm throw knit in the brilliant colors of the rainbow) to the merely decorative (a statue of a local fertility goddess, a wall hanging that looked like a dreamcatcher, except with shimmering, rare shells dangling from the frame). He sorted the objects into two piles of what could and couldn't be returned to her mother, accompanied by the carefully-worded condolence letter that said nothing about her brilliant daughter's accomplishments under the constant threat of death. He had attempted to write a letter that conveyed the expedition's gratefulness for her leadership, but he knew that the final call of what would be said and read would be made by the SGC as well as the IOA, and that made it unlikely that her mother would ever know the full extent of her accomplishments. The nature of 'need-to-know' meant that Mrs. Weir would never hear a word of praise about her daughter's work in building solid alliances out of mistrust and suspicion, in leading this expedition with a fair hand, sharp mind and a kind heart, in managing to persuade civilian and military personnel to work together seamlessly (mostly), in making this far-flung and dangerous outpost feel like a home. A few would ever know about her accomplishments, and he doubted that more than a handful would ever know about the strong woman she was. He was one of the lucky ones.
He put aside her laptop to look at later, knowing that the hard drive would have to be purged of top-level, classified information before it was even released to Caldwell's custody. As cordial the relations were now between the two men, there were some things that he didn't want to test Caldwell's loyalty to the city (to her) on. Plus, he knew that there were documents and pictures on her computer that she would want destroyed, or at least removed, before anyone—especially the IOA—got their hands on it. A part of him suspected that the laptop might meet with a fatal 'accident' on its way to the SGC, possibly courtesy of a certain full-bird Colonel, but he didn't want to gamble on that possibility. She wouldn't have wanted him to. This was too important, too private for him to entrust to anyone else, not even their friend and resident genius, to accomplish. Rodney would understand why he had to be the one to do it, had to be the one who went through all of her files and erased what didn't need to go back to the SGC, what didn't need to be known by everyone and their mothers, what didn't need to be seen by anybody who didn't already know. The Canadian genius might be an idiot when it came to some social matters, but not this one. If anything, the man had been the first to figure it out and shut up about it within the span of five minutes.
He put away the pieces that made up her life with precise motions that spoke of repetition, of having gone through this process before too many times for other fallen soldiers, of moving without thinking because the very action of thought would bring down all the cold walls he had erected to wall his emotions in.
In the top drawer of her desk, under a leather-bound journal that listed painfully familiar names in a somberly diligent manner, he found the thick packet that was her last will and testament, naming him the executor of her estate in Pegasus. He carefully read her wishes in silence, the graceful loops and elegant curves of her words tracing neat lines across the white paper. She was nothing but thorough in her planning, compassionate in her thoughts, and ever the leader in her actions, even in death. In the packet, there were letters, addressed to various members of the expedition. He half-heartedly went through them, noting the people he needed to deliver her last words of gratitude, encouragement and comfort to. He knew that that was what those letters contained, because she had loved Atlantis fiercely, and its people even more dearly; this city had become her home as it had his, these people had become her family as they had his. She knew how much she owed them, and he knew how she felt she had never expressed her appreciation enough. She had needed this final chance to say goodbye and thank you to her people, and she had known they would need it too.
When he found the photographs of the two of them, the ones that had been pressed into their hands without a word and secretive smiles from various members of the city, he had placed the entire album in an empty box. Even when he found the silver ring wrapped in a silk scarf, Ancient script lovingly etched into the metal, he just simply put it aside in a box that contained all evidence of their lives together, as friends, as companions, as leaders, as more. He would face those memories later.
He was fine, numb in that heavy state of denial before heartbroken grief, until he opened a small carved wooden box, hidden away in her personal desk. Nestled inside was a letter, addressed to him in her beautiful handwriting. In the event of my death, it said, and it was enough to make him cry.
He had failed her.
She was gone.
He paced up and down the corridor outside of the infirmary. Other than departing for needed tasks and a side trip to his room, he had spent the majority of the day here, issuing orders over the radio or conversing with Lorne about semi-urgent matters before returning to his informal vigil. Residents of the city, civilian and military alike, wandered past him at regular intervals, their body language broadcasting their need for news as if they had all been hollering for it aloud. He wished he could tell them something, anything concrete, but he had no news or words to reassure her restless people. He had none for himself. Joining him in his silent vigil was his team who sat on the hard chairs in the designated waiting area, minus Rodney, who was inside with Carson, Jennifer, Radek, half of the science division, nearly the entire medical staff, and… and her.
Pegasus had stolen so much from all of them, but it had gifted them a handful of miracles in the years they had spent living under these foreign stars. Would this be one more? Would this miracle, like Carson's, be without suspicion and deceit? One return from the dead was nowhere close to making up for all the pain, suffering and loss this expedition had endured, but he had learned not to ask for anything from the Ancients or any other 'higher' power. Most of the time, his pleas went ignored. One friend had to be enough; he knew she… she would have been happy it was Carson who returned, and not her. She would have said that he was more important than she was, because she was an administrator, not a doctor, and would have refused to back down from that reasoning. That was the way she was, so brilliant when it came to seeing others' importance to the whole, so blind when it came to her own worth. Was. Or was it is?
Which brought him to the crux of the entire situation: was it her lying on the gurney in there? Was it really her who stepped cautiously out from behind the half-crumbled walls of a long-culled civilization, clearly injured and exhausted? Was it really her who collapsed into his startled arms without warning, his hands automatically releasing his weapon to cradle her fragile body close to his?
He let out a slow sigh, releasing his impatience and anxiety. Teyla gave him a supportive smile as she shifted her son's weight on her lap. The baby babbled cheerfully as he sat in his mother's protective embrace, happily unaware of the tension that had descended on his home several hours ago with the arrival of a stranger he had never met, a woman who had disappeared and was mourned as dead before he was even born.
"She'll be okay," drawled Ronon, not moving from his position against the wall. "McKay's a genius, after all."
Teyla looked heavenward, perhaps thanking her ancestors that the chief scientist of the city was not present to hear the compliment. It would have caused the man in question to preen unrelentingly. She was a patient woman (with her teammates and friends, she had to be), but even she preferred to avoid trying situations when possible.
"It's true," Ronon pointed out, "and he isn't here." The doors on the other side of the hall opened with a soft swish of air. People began streaming out of the infirmary, passing with respectful nods and greetings to the anxiously waiting flagship team of the expedition. He relaxed a little, noticing the general air of relieved joy among the exiting group. If previous experience with the speed of the Lantean grapevine held true (and it would), the happy news would be all over the city within the hour. Now the details of that happy news…that was still unknown.
"Who isn't here?" asked Rodney, stepping through the doorway, looking around at his team, still holding a data pad in his hand. Ronon shrugged casually, "Nothing." The scientist frowned, knowing that he was being lied to, but before he could pester the Satedan warrior for a real answer, something on his data pad caught Rodney's eye.
"How is she?" He hid his surprise at hearing Carter's voice from behind him. He knew that over a decade of experience on SG-1 had taught the second expedition leader of Atlantis a wide range of skills, including the Special Ops ability to sneak up on anyone she wanted. She didn't use that talent as often as she used to these days, but sometimes she did it unconsciously. He gave her a courteous nod of acknowledgement as she came to stand by his side; she nodded back in greeting.
Rodney shrugged and jabbed his stylus over his shoulder at the closed infirmary doors, "Ask the voodoo master."
"McKay…" she repeated, as if he was especially slow. The Canadian sighed in exasperation, "Do you think I'd be standing here if she was a threat to the city? No, of course not. As far as I'm concerned, she's the only Asuran left in this galaxy, and plus she's only half which makes things both so much easier and insanely harder, but I've made sure that even if she isn't the only one left, no one can tamper with her base code except me and Radek and maybe Jennie."
Carter's expression was carefully blank after the irritated response, but he could see that she was holding back a sigh. All of them knew that she hadn't been asking about the technical details, but rather, with the genuine concern of her predecessor's wellbeing. They all knew that Rodney had never quite accepted Carter as expedition leader to some extent — the man respected her scientific knowledge, her military expertise and her leadership abilities, but he always felt that her Air Force training skewed the balance of power between civilian and military in the city. He was never blatantly disrespectful — not any more so than he was with everyone else — but there was also a wary edge to his attitude toward her; Rodney trusted her to make sound technical decisions, but not entirely to make good ethical ones.
"Do you know if we can see her?" asked Teyla, shifting in her seat. He moved over to her side and glanced at her with a silent offer in his eyes. She inclined her head slightly in permission and he picked up her son, holding onto the child firmly as the boy squirmed a little in his grasp, waving his rattle in the air. Free of her son's weight, Teyla stood up and stretched her legs.
"As soon as Carson's finished with his—" began Rodney, only to be interrupted by a Scottish brogue, "You can see her now."
"Carson, how is she?" asked Carter again. The CMO waved all of them into the infirmary, taking Teyla's son into his arms, before he responded to the question. The baby began to tug happily at the lapels of the doctor's white lab coat, cooing to himself. With one hand, Carson made sure to keep the boy's rattle away from his face.
"She's been through the wringer, but she's going to be fine. We've got her on some supportive equipment, just to ease the strain on her systems. We're still waiting on her bloodwork to make sure that there aren't any nasty surprises waiting for us, and she might have a wee spot of surgery in her future. It's a bit of a waiting game at the moment though. She's stable, and that's really all that matters for now."
Carson led them toward the back of the infirmary, toward the private rooms. "We gave her a bit of something to keep her calm during the exam and tests. She should be sleeping now." While he was speaking to group as a whole, in particular, the doctor gave Rodney a stern look, "So no loud noises. She needs her rest."
The scientist looked mildly offended, but didn't protest. Loudly anyway. Rodney stayed behind with Carson, their verbal battle carried out in pitched whispers, while the rest of the group walked into her room. The nurse gave them a smile as she finished her tasks and left the area to give them privacy. He hung back a little, letting Teyla, Ronon and Carter move past him.
She was sleeping peacefully, machinery monitoring her steady heartbeat and slow respirations. An IV line snaked down into her arm, the saline preventing her from becoming dehydrated and helping to rebalance her electrolytes. Covering half of her face, a non-rebreather mask supplied extra oxygen to her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered slightly and she mumbled indistinct words under her breath as she slept. Freshly bathed and dressed in a hospital gown, she looked completely different from the dirt-streaked woman in bloodstained clothes that had been carried off of a Puddlejumper hours before. Instead of looking deathly-injured, she just looked frail, but cared for.
He knew that it would be different when she woke up — questions that had to be asked, fears that had to be dealt with, issues that needed to be cleared up — but that was tomorrow. Coming slowly to her bedside, he covered one of her warm hands with his as he sat down on a hard plastic chair. He reached into his pocket with his other hand and removed the item he had taken off of his bedside table a few hours before. Without a word, he slipped the small box under their joined hands. He knew that she would see it when she woke up, and she would know that he would be with her on every step of her journey. It would be a long, uphill battle to keep her safe and here in the city, but he knew it was a battle that they would eventually win, no matter how long or how exhausting it would be. Still, it was a battle for tomorrow. The opening volleys had not begun yet, and there was peace on the horizon, however brief.
Right now, at this moment, he simply stared at her, drinking the sight of her into his mind and heart, repeating over and over to himself that this — her hand under his, her angelic expression as she slept, her unruly curls spread out on the pillow — all of this was real, and it was enough to make him cry.
She was alive. She was safe.
She was home.