Anamorphosis

Disclaimer: This is a fan production. I have no association with any of the folks or companies involved in producing 'Stargate: Atlantis' and I am making no profit off this bit of scribbling. I do, however, admire their work.

Author's note: Thank you Sagey, VoicesInTheWind, Stormwolf, and June. This really isn't the kind of thing I ever thought I'd try to write, and every word of encouragement is a helping hand – I appreciate your patience!

Anamorphosis

Part ten

He didn't go back to his room. The place had started to take on a subtle, sour smell and he hadn't quite figured out what to do about it yet. He needed to wash his sheets, and do a load of laundry, and leave to door open for a while until the room aired out. But if he left the door open, everyone who walked by would be able to see inside. They'd look, too. They wouldn't be able to help it, because humans were rubber-necking vultures by nature.

He'd have looked, if it hadn't been him.

Lorne needed to prioritize. He hadn't seemed to be able to manage that lately. He was...he was angry. It was hard to recognize, because it wasn't a sharp, biting anger. It was a dull, enduring thing that wore away at all his edges and left him feeling exhausted and resentful. He felt a little like a sullen teenager for the first time in his life– trying to contain all that bitter animosity and trying to sound grown up and utterly failing. It put him on edge. All he wanted to do was get away before he said or did something stupid.

Don`t talk to me like that. I`m not a child. I`m not an idiot, or an after school special, or even a real victim because I don`t fucking remember anything! It doesn`t count if you don`t remember anything.

Yeah. That would be a stupid thing to say.

"Major?"

Kate Heightmeyer hesitated. She had obviously not been expecting to see Lorne when the transporter door slid open and the indecision on her pretty face was plain.

She must have read something on Lorne's face because her mouthed firmed into a determined line and she stepped away from the transporter, right into Lorne's space. Something a little like lightning shot through Lorne's nerves when she clasped a guiding hand around his elbow.

"Major, I was just going to find a quiet place to take my lunch." She was holding a small bag in her free hand. "It's such a lovely day out. I thought a spot in the sunshine would be nice. Would you join me?"

Her voice was even and smooth. There was no question in her tone.

"Don't I need to make an appointment?" Lorne joked weakly, remembering their last encounter. "I'd hate for this to become a thing." Had Becket called her after all? Had the doctor told her Lorne was just leaving his office? Had they planned this?

Heightmeyer smiled. "This is Atlantis, Major."

She started drifting down the hall, but didn't let go of Lorne's arm. For a second, he imagined jerking forcibly away from her touch. But he couldn't bring himself to do it and he ended up following helplessly along.

"It's not the most conventional place to ply my trade," Heightmeyer continued. "And certainly the people here are not the most conventional people. I have found it rather a benefit to resort to unconventional methods, upon occasion."

Lorne was being paranoid. Even if Becket had called Heightmeyer, she wouldn't have had enough time to pack a lunch, or get to that particular transporter. He was letting suspicion eat his brain.

"Otherwise, I fear I would spend a great deal of time alone in my office, wondering if I had forgotten to put on my deodorant."

Lorne laughed, and Heightmeyer flashed him a pleased smile.

"I have found," She continued after a moment. "That office hours and appointments only work if people are willing to attend them."

There was no reproach in her voice, but it cut anyway.

"I was planning on coming in." Lorne said defensively.

"Oh, good." Heightmeyer smiled serenely up at him, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "Then it's a good thing we ran into each other – you won't have to go to the trouble. How fortunate."

Damn. Damn. Damn. She was smooth.

"Uh, actually, now's not such a great time. I was just on my way to…" Lorne patted at the air to his left like an illustrative idiot and gawped for an excuse. Hightmeyer's expression never changed, her wide eyes broadcasting patient understanding. Lorne sighed. "Make up an excuse about collecting my laundry and possibly spend the rest of the day hiding in my room. Like a snotty teenager."

"I won't stop you. But I usually find that an excessive amount of time alone with dark thoughts is rarely conductive to healing."

Lorne snorted, casting his eyes at the ceiling in disgust. "Healing."

"Yes. That thing you do, when there's nothing else left to do."

"I can't even…" Lorne struggled, a terrible pressure stealing his words and stifling his ability cut through all the…the bullshit.

Heightmeyer sighed. "I have a cupcake. I'm willing to split it in half, if you come sit on the pier with me for an hour. We don't have to talk."

"You're trying to buy me with half a cupcake."

"Is it working?"

Lorne laughed, and scrubbed a hand across his face. "You've spent too much time with McKay."

Heightmeyer nodded solemnly. "Classic Stockholm syndrome." She renewed tugging Lorne gently down the corridor. "But I also have something very similar to a peanut butter sandwich, if that's more your style."

Lorne shook his head and let her lead him out to edge of the pier, where they sat on the edge and dangled their legs over the water. He turned down the sandwich, but did accept half the cupcake. It had icing on the top – a curious green shade that didn't look quite right. It tasted like cinnamon.

Heightmeyer was true to her word, turning her face up toward the sun and slowly working through her sandwich like every bite was a thought to contemplate. She ate without talking. It was Lorne who broke first.

"I went to see Beckett this morning."

Heightmeyer blinked at him, pleasant and noncommittal, like he commenting on the weather. "I'm sure he was pleased to see you."

"He suggested I speak to you."

"Really? Did he say why?"

Lorne stared at her in disbelief. "Gee," He said sarcastically and even as he said it, he didn't like himself. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

Heightmeyer arched an eyebrow.

Lorne looked away. "I'm sorry. I haven't been myself lately."

"I think I know the feeling. It's not easy, not being yourself."

"I…" The sun was glaring into his eyes and Lorne had to squint against it. He could feel moisture forming in his tear ducts in defense. "I am so angry. I wake up at night grinding my teeth, and then I lay awake, thinking. I am angry at Beckett. I hate the way he talks to me. I hate his tone. I hate how gentle he is with me, like I'm something fragile. I'm not."

Lorne scrubbed at his eyes. "I'm angry with Sheppard. That day – " Lorne wasn't making any sense, he knew. Heightmeyer wouldn't have a clue what day he was talking about. But Lorne was starting to work up a full head of steam and he found he couldn't stop himself. "That day outside my quarters – he talked to me. He looked – he saw! – and he didn't say anything, didn't warn me. I hate that he saw.

"And I'm angry with my team. They're falling apart, they're crashing and burning, and it's my fault.

"And I'm mad at everyone else because they all know and they all wear this expression on their faces and some of them walk around me like I have a personal space of ten feet and some of them stare and some of them pretend I don't even exist! People I've spoken to every single day since I first got here! And I know it doesn't make any sense, and I'm being illogical and contrary and stupid…" Lorne choked, the words stuffing up his throat and strangling him. He turned his back on Heightmeyer and bit his knuckle.

"What about the people who did this to you?"

Lorne stiffened. He didn't turn around. "Wha-what?"

"The people who hurt you? Aren't you angry with them?"

Lorne stared at the sea in confusion, his heart pounding. "I don't…I hadn't…"

Heightmeyer didn't say anything else. She waited for Lorne to gather himself.

"They're dead." Lorne finally said. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"It's much easier to be angry with people who are here." Heightmeyer agreed. "Especially when they change the way they react to you based on something over which you have no control."

All the nervous, furious energy drained out of Lorne like a plug had been pulled, and he slumped forward. "I don't have any control." He admitted. "I don't even remember it. All I know is what other people saw, and what other people told me, and what other people think. It's a…damn monster, like one of those hydras – a new head every time I turn around and everybody else knows more than I do. I don't have a chance of putting this thing down."

Heightmeyer was silent for a long time. "Do you know how Hercules defeated the Hydra? Every time he cut off a head, he cauterized the wound so it wouldn't grow back." She chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I suppose I am carrying this metaphor too far. But I mean to say, it's going to be a battle, and even closing the wounds is going to hurt, and there will probably be days when you feel like you've lost something, like something's been amputated…and eventually, there'll come a day when you win. I promise you this, Evan."

Lorne sat with his back to Heightmeyer and struggled to hear her, to not simply let the dark, furious helplessness in him wash her words away. He breathed carefully through his nose, hands gripping his knees.

The sea tossed and spiked up white caps, and the sky overhead was a perfect blue. He closed his eyes, and tried very hard to believe.