Title: Like Lazarus
Summary: If Carson had expected to feel something, it certainly wasn't this.
Characters: Carson & Ronon
Pairing: None
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Sunday, Enemy at the Gate

"This is weird."

Carson simply shook his head and glanced to Ronon over his shoulder. The overcast sky threatened rain and Carson almost welcomed it. The pebbled ash beneath his feet hissed as he walked, the wet red dust catching on the rubber of his soles but he paid it no great mind. He'd debated the sanity of this move and Ronon had threatened him with gross bodily harm for even considering it but Carson simply couldn't let it go.

So here they were, bearing witness to the wettest summer the west of Scotland had had for the last two decades just to ease Carson's curiosity. Despite Ronon's initial hesitations and his frequent grumblings, the gross bodily harm never came and Carson wondered if it wasn't something that Ronon had wanted to do, anyway.

They stopped, Ronon more than a few feet behind, and Carson took a breath. His lungs filled with the damp, mossy air of home and he took a moment before he cast his eyes down.

If Carson had expected to feel something, it certainly wasn't this. Standing in front of his grave, Carson found it strangely cathartic. The well tended greenery surrounding the tall grey structure made him smile slightly, as did the plastic flowers that were stuck in a monument at the bottom. A wind chime tinkled in a nearby tree and Carson felt none of the oppressive air he thought he should. He closed his eyes as he felt Ronon move up beside him, the Satedan taking a breath much like Carson had.

Carson bent his knees, squatting in front of the gravestone and looked over the words written there. Factual. Impersonal. He ran his fingers over the gold painted etchings, feeling the rough stone under his smooth fingertips.

Flightless bird, A beloved son.

His breath caught at that and his eyes slid shut of their own accord as the burning sensation stung the back of his eyes. It was strange because he was pretty sure he was mourning for his mother – with her, for the loss of her son. He could only imagine the pain she had gone through. And for the first time in almost two years, he wondered if not telling her had been the right thing to do. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to drive the ten minute journey to his childhood home and wrap his mother in his arms and tell her it had all been a mistake, that he was alive.

But he wasn't, not really. Not the son she had lost, anyway. Carson had long since come to terms with the fact that he wasn't the same person as the one who his friends had lost years before. As soon as Michael had captured the original Carson, they became two very different entities, despite their shared memories. Even if the other Carson had survived, he knew they wouldn't be the same person – not entirely. Because the real Carson Beckett hadn't been held prisoner by Michael for almost two years. He hadn't been forced to witness the destruction that his clone counterpart had had a hand in starting. He would probably have been working on the cure, while the one who had been created in a test tube was creating the virus.

If either of them deserved to be alive, Carson knew he wasn't it.

But as he sat, hunched over the original Carson's grave, he felt a little part of his slip away. It didn't create a void, exactly – more like a space, more room for him to breathe. Because the ghost of Doctor Carson Beckett had haunted him for too long. His mind had understood that they were two different people and it wasn't until he felt that tiny part of him break away just moments before that he realised that his heart hadn't truly accepted it. That maybe none of them had, each of them expecting him to still be that same Carson that they had lost, years before.

As he stood, brushing his palms off on his jeans, he promised himself he would stop comparing himself to the other Carson, stop analysing every move, stop wondering if this is what the other Carson would do.

Because he wasn't him. He never had been.

"Okay."

Ronon turned to him and Carson looked up, meeting the Satedan's eyes. There was something there – or was it something missing? – that hadn't been before and Carson felt a small tug as he realised they'd both experienced the same thing. He took a breath, steadying himself against the sudden onslaught of pain in his throat, clogging it up. Ronon nodded once and Caron felt his hand on his shoulder, a quick squeeze of support before the Satedan withdrew.

On the walk back to the rented car, the rain fell. In the car, the windows steamed up. Minutes passed.

Another car drew up and Carson watched as the two occupants got out. He closed his eyes and tears leaked out. Ronon started the engine but waited until the two people had wandered up the path they had just walked down before driving off. Carson glanced up the path and saw the couple – an older woman and a younger woman supporting her – stop at the place Carson had been perched.

Ronon didn't say anything but drove past Carson's old house, anyway, and Carson let out a small smile. Carson wanted to go back. Ronon seemed to understood because he felt the car slow as Ronon drew into the curb. The silence was heavy as Carson watched in the wing mirror as the two people returned. Ronon didn't rush him but when Carson turned back to the dashboard, Ronon started the engine and drove on.

He wasn't that woman's son.

There's a shade come over this heart that's coping with laying down to rest
I'm dying to live without you again

It's a strange emotion this but there's still hope

As long as there's a breath...