Right. So this took a leeeettle longer than I originally thought but yeah, final stages of the thesis writing stage and all that. I finished that today which only means that I'm not entering editting phase and, I didn't even know that was possible, I dread that even more. The current version of the thesis is, as I have recently told someone else, "a mess, wrapped in a clusterfuck, inside a quagmire" and it's gonna be fuuuuuuun rewriting like half of it...

Anyway, this is the last of the glum and somber pieces. It deals with Morsberg being confronted with losing a patient during a surgery he was heading up (the death happens off-screen, this deals with the emotional fallout) so if that isn't your thing, don't read it. Oh, and as always I owe all medically accurate info to the wonderful Keyla! I kinda wish I could have put everything she taught me about routine surgeries going horribly wrong into this, alas, the plot didn't allow it :(

Timeline wise, we're about eight months into the Expedition, maybe a week or so after Before I Sleep and getting closer to the finale. According to my notes, we're four one-shots away from the season finale (the remaining two will take place during The Siege Part I and Part II, the multi-chapter will take place during The Siege Part III). Yay?

(also, trivia of the day: the song for this one-shot is "Born in the Eighties" because I love that song, even though it always makes me cry (I was born in 1982, and that song speaks to me on a spiritual level, I'm not even kidding) and incidentally, Morsberg is born in 1980...)

This Is No Anthem

"This is no anthem 'cause anthems are proud
And pride isn't something

that this is about."

Milow, "Born in the Eighties"

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Verdammte Scheiße nochemal, ich hab's satt, ich steige aus, das war's, ich mach nicht mehr mit, ich…

I need to take a deep breath. Yeah. That'll help. Okay. Taking a deep breath. In, out, in…

Nope, didn't help. Still pissed off as hell. Pissed off enough to ball up my surgical cap and fire it into the next corner, gratuitous furious grunt included. Followed by me giving the wall next to me a good kick, which is then followed by another frustrated shout of pain because I forgot that we're forbidden from wearing combat boots in the OR and I just came out of one.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I keep on swearing while I slide down the wall and come to sit on the ground, breath heaving and pressure building up inside of me that threatens to spill over in the form of either sobs or another round of pointless violence against inanimate objects. I sit here, back against the wall, my legs drawn up, leaning my head back with my eyes closed and still breathing heavily, as if I just came back from a punishing ruck run.

And it all comes down to one thing: this should never have happened.

None of this should have happened. It was just a goddamn routine operation, repairing a broken femur, just three pieces at all, cut open, puzzle together, slap a metal plate on it, good as new. Stuff even residents in ordinary hospitals should be able to do two years into their residency and not just us very few and kinda proud junior surgeons who get uh encouraged by Dr. Beckett to do way more than we would in hospitals back home. No one was supposed to die, and yet Dr. Wendinger kicked the bucket right there on the operation table and there was nothing I could do.

One minute I was preparing to close up with the assistant and the next Wendinger's pulse spikes high enough to hit the roof, our anesthetist goes, "Oh crap," tells us to get the fuck out of the way and starts reanimating Wendinger who flatlines and… then it's over. Just like that. Right out of the fucking blue.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… "Dr. Morsberg, are you alri…"

"Fuck no, does it look like I'm alright?" Ah, shit, and now I snapped at my boss but oh my God did he have to squat down in front of me and address me without any warning at all? Couldn't he just have let me sit here and wallow in my fucking misery? Also, "And it's Stabsarzt, goddammit, how often do I have to say that?"

Beckett, curse his bloody brave Scottish heart, makes a placating gesture with his hands and attempts his usual "let's calm the agitated patient down" number. "Now, there's no reason to be so belligerent and…"

"I just lost a patient during a fucking routine surgery, I have every reason to be as fucking belligerent as I fucking like!" Okay, I really didn't want to be that hostile. Honestly, I didn't. But I am not a patient of Beckett's and if there's one thing I really, really hate it's other doctors practicing their bedside manner on me. 'Sides, I really do have every reason to be pissed the hell off.

Beckett, for his part, gives me a look and it's really, really hard not to snap at him again for the sheer amount of sympathy in it. Not pity, which at least would have given me another good reason at being rightfully "belligerent" but actual, genuine knowing sympathy, from one experienced doctor to a less experienced one. "Just give it time, lad. You'll be alright eventually."

Yeah uh no. Not in the mood for that right. Or ever. "All due respect, sir, but fuck that because you know what? Dr. Wendinger won't."

I kind of wish Beckett would be at least a little more like Sheppard because Sheppard, as laid back as he usually acts, would never have let any of his soldiers get away with the crap I'm currently flinging at Beckett and I realize that I'm practically craving an argument, craving someone fucking yelling back at me and putting me in my place. Maureen, I guess, would know that, too and know what to do about it but she's currently off-world, taking part in the search effort for those ZPMs the alternative Dr. Weir pointed us towards, as is Sheppard, and so I'm stuck here with Dr. Beckett who just gives me another sad look and nods, more to himself than to me, saying, "You're right, he won't. And it looks like you need some time for yourself so I'll leave you to it. I'll be in my office if you need anything."

If I need anything? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Hey, Doc, what the… where are you…

Huh. Guess he really is going to his office. Leaving me here with all that rage and guilt. Just like he said. Well. That. Uh.

Okay, I… I guess I should be getting up, shouldn't I? Get up and… help the rest of my surgery team with cleaning up and do post-op paperwork to admit Wendinger to the morgue and… all that, right? Something like that, yes, I think I should do that.

So, I get up, kind of like in a daze and stumble around a couple steps. I… OR? Work station?

Dr. Beckett's office?

How the hell did I get here?

Oh, wait, no, I remember. I got up and took a couple steps towards a work station and… ended up standing behind Dr. Beckett. I uh. Huh. I think maybe I should sit down again, try to get back some of the mind I apparently just lost out there? Yeah. Sounds like a good idea.

So I sit down on the bed behind me, legs dangling and my elbows braced on my thighs, head in my hands. I'm not entirely sure if I added a groan or not – by now, I have kinda stopped being sure about anything – but when I lift my head, Beckett still sits at his desk, his back to me, alternating between typing away at his laptop and consulting a notepad next to it. As if nothing ever happened. As if Dr. Wendinger never died in that OR.

Immediately, I feel another surge of blinding anger, my blood pressure spiking, adrenaline shooting up, priming me to lash out, even get physically violent but from one moment to the next, it all disappears, leaving me hurt and confused and inexplicably tired and before I know it, I hear myself murmuring wearily, "Dr. Beckett?"

Beckett doesn't turn around. In fact, for a moment, it looks like he hasn't even heard me because he doesn't react at all, just keeps working on whatever he is writing there but then, still without turning around and still typing, he does reply, "What is it, son?"

See, one of the reasons why, even after eight months, no one here even thought about complaining about the crazy ass workload, the shitty hours, all that overtime and people still dying, is that everyone here in the infirmary basically worships the ground Dr. Beckett walks on, and I'm not even ashamed to admit that I am no exception to that. It's not even his insane medical knowledge and skills or his dedication that makes him take on the biggest workload, work the shittiest hours and accumulate the longest overtime. It's that even when you snap at him and he has every right to go over your ass with a wire brush, he never, not even for a moment, forgets to be anything but professional, encouraging and just so goddamn nice.

Admittedly, the Scottish accent doesn't hurt, either.

I take a deep breath, preparing to ask a really stupid question. "Do you think there's anything I could have done, sir? Anything at all?"

There's another beat of silence and then he does turn around, after all. I half expected him to look at least disappointed, if not angry but all I can see is kindness and a hint of sadness, telling me that seeing Dr. Wendinger die on that operating table didn't leave him cold, either. And honestly, not even in the fog of my anger did I ever truly believe anything to the contrary. Beckett takes a resigned breath before telling me, "The fact that you're asking me that means that you already know the answer."

I do. Of course I do. I've been a combat medic for over seven years now, if you take BCT and officer training in account and a doctor for two years, having spent the majority of my service so far patching up people in emergency rooms, ORs and the field, under all kinds of conditions, I know what I'm capable of and where the extent of my skills and modern medicine ends. I even know that sometimes, not even the best doctor and the best technology could have saved the patient because I've assisted in surgeries often enough not to harbor any illusions anymore. But, as I just had to find out, none of that matters when the entire surgery was your show and not someone else's. I shake my head. "'S all so pointless. All that damn technology, and people still keep dying while we're repairing a broken femur."

Beckett just nods, sagely and looks genuinely sad when he says, "We can't save everyone, lad."

The weird thing is: that's something my father could have said, too. Only, if it had been him, it would have had a certain let's say patronizing quality about it. Pontificating, too. Also, kind of annoyed. You know, in a kind of "Oh my God, have you still not realized that? Just how dumb a son did I raise?" way. Because that's my father for you. Have I mentioned that we're not exactly close?

If that had been my father telling me that, I'd have either gone fully ballistic or just simply gotten up, walked out and not have spoken to him for about two weeks. Beckett, though, is neither my father nor did he patronize me or shake his head at me disappointedly. All he did was spell out a universal truth that doctors have failed to learn for as long as the profession exists and that he himself is still struggling with. That's why I owe him a reply. "Doesn't mean I can't still keep trying."

I'm almost prepared for him to write me off as a hopeless case, after all because there was just a bit too much of stubborn insolence in my answer to ignore it but instead of reprimanding me, he… grins. Just a small, barely visible crooked grin. Almost… appreciative? "And you shouldn't." Yep, definitely appreciative, or at least approving. Huh. "But if you don't want to burn out before you're thirty, remember that we aren't gods." Right. Should have seen that one coming. "We're just human, after all."

Uh-huh. Only, there's this tiny little thing that, "Being human sucks."

Beckett gives me a resigned smile. "No one said it doesn't."

Yeah, that's… not really helpful. True but not exactly helpful. "Sir, I… I just keep wondering if anything I did here…"

"Son, you realize that you did make a difference?" Okay. How did he know that that was the problem? How did he manage to verbalize it even before I knew what exactly my problem was and could think it?

And great, now he's got that senior physician look, the one that stares right into your soul and helps them detect lies before you even thought them up. Yes, okay, I'm being a little dramatic here. Also, honest, despite not wanting to be. "Not really, no."

Unfortunately, that doesn't suffice for him. "Come on over," he says, motioning vaguely in the direction of his screen. Huh?

I look at him with my eyes narrowed, with no idea what the hell he's getting at. "Sir?"

"Come on," he says again, adding, "I want to show you something."

And I'm not in the mood for any of that senior doctor teaching their padawan junior doctors a lesson thing. Not. At. All. "Sir, I'm really not…"

Now he rolls his eyes, something he really rarely does. "Just come on, Matthias." And now he used my first name. Totally butchered the pronunciation but I do appreciate the effort. "Don't force me to make it an order, please?" Right. No one can say no to Dr. Carson Beckett when he says please.

I try not to give any outward sign of resignation and hop off the bed to saunter over to where he's sitting at his computer. "Okay, fine. So… what is it you wanted me to see, sir?"

"This," he says and swivels around on his chair to gesture at his screen again.

This time, I'm close enough to see what is actually on there. It's… "The infirmary log?"

Beckett nods. "Aye. Read it."

Seriously? "What, now?"

He nods. "Aye. I'll take care of the post-op cleanup and paperwork, you can take your time." That's… really nice of him because post-op cleanup and paperwork is a bitch, especially when you lose someone right on the operation table during a routine operation.

But here's the thing: I lost Dr. Wendinger on the operating table. My mess, so I should be cleaning it up. Right. Now. "Sir, I really have other…"

"Not right now, you haven't." Really? I'd beg to dif… "Just sit down here, make yourself comfortable and read."

You know, what my father could never have achieved with blunt force, that is blunt words – make me buck up and actually listen – Dr. Beckett apparently manages with friendly, polite tenacity. I can't believe I'm doing it but yes, I'm sitting down in the chair he just vacated and look at his screen with a cursory glance before looking back at him, hoping that it comes out deadpan. "That an order, sir?"

"Do you want it to be?" Not really but… "Right, I thought so." Apparently, I really need to work on my skills as a human enigma because apparently, everyone and their mother can see right through me.

Alright, so I guess I have exhausted all my options and now have to face the inevitable. Rolling my eyes, I turn the chair towards the screen proper, for the first time actually seeing what's on it aside from "infirmary log" and… why is my name highlight… Wait. That's what he'd been doing when I came in here. He'd been using the log's search feature to find… to find what? Entries I'm mentioned in? For what?

I lean forward, eyes narrowed a bit, and randomly pick out one of the search results. It's from three months back and my name is under the tag of assisting surgeons. Beckett was the attending and oh yeah, I remember that. Lieutenant Crown's team had had a nasty run-in with local wildlife and one of them – Dr. Cheng, their zoologist – had ended up on the table with a multi-trauma. We'd had to work simultaneously on several injuries and okay, that's all I remember from it because that surgery had taken hours to finish and I'd been in a kind of tunnel, focusing exclusively on the tasks Beckett gave me so the rest wouldn't distract me. The log entry says that apparently, I managed to repair an artery in Cheng's leg that had ruptured and that ultimately, that was the reason she didn't die. Okay, one of the reasons but apparently, crucial? Huh.

With a click, I return to the list of log entries that Becket pulled up and click on another one, from just last month. One of the rare occasions I'd gotten to go off-world, not for a MEDCAP but an actual SAR mission. It had been messy and bloody and the entry says that the only reason none of the members of the team that had been trapped off-world had died, was that I had been in command of the rescue team, consisting of Chief Petty Officer Christie, a Navy Corpsman, Sergeants Wazowsky and Peterson, both of them Air Force pararescue jumpers, and Maureen and Strickland for additional firepower. Again, I don't remember having made any particular contribution that might have led to single me out like that but if there's one thing that Dr. Beckett doesn't do, despite his affable manner and everything, it's give out praise that is undeserved. I must have done something right, then.

Well, I… wait. Why is my OR team still here? I think I remember telling them to get the hell out of here right before losing it just outside the OR and I honestly thought that all anyone would want to do after a messed up surgery as the one we just had would be walk out of here and never look back on this particular day. Which is why I told them to get the hell out in the first place.

And yet, they're still here. The anesthetist, Dr. Kwon, Jones and Capellito, the two OR nurses, Bailey, my assisting surgeon… all of them still here, sitting just a few beds away from the OR's entrance. They don't seem to be talking or anything, just sitting there and… "If you're thinking "well, I should be over there, saying something" right now, you're at least half right, son. You should be over there but I don't thinking talking is necessary right now." Jesus fucking Christ.

I swear to God, I'm gonna find a bell and I'm gonna fucking tie it to his ankle because honestly, sneaking up on subordinates like that? What is he even thinking? Also, "Sir, I don't think…"

"That's fine, it's not required, either." What? "Go ahead, like I said, I'll take care of post-op."

I don't even… go ahead what? Walk over there, give them some kind of pep talk, tell them they did everything right, it was me, not them? What did he mean by "talking isn't necessary right now"? Throwing them another looks makes pretty clear that none of them is particularly happy, more like… lost maybe? I'd, well, I'd understand that because that's basically how I still feel, despite Beckett's attempts at encouragement and they do look a little like I feel.

And for some really weird reason, that's when I have some kind of epiphany. Maybe… maybe this is what Sheppard meant when he told me that yes, my successful one-time command of that rescue team a month ago finally put me on the list of prospective permanent off-world going personnel, if we ever managed to acquire more surgeons so Beckett didn't have any more leverage to keep me in the infirmary permanently but that he didn't think I was ready for a permanent spot on any team. He said… he said I needed to learn how to "play nice with others" and I remember how thoroughly pissed I was at that. I have been working in teams for all my professional life, right since the first day of BCT and the one thing I always got high marks on had been my ability to function as part of a team.

Only… I don't think Sheppard meant the whole "functioning as a part of a team" thing. I'm starting to think that he meant that part off the battlefield, that part when, after all the adrenaline is gone and you find yourself crashing with withdrawal and you realize what a shitty, shitty day it's been. I don't even know how he did that but somehow, Sheppard must have found out that when that happens, I usually go and find myself a cave to lick my wounds in or, in this city, a balcony. He must have realized that when things go to shit, I have exactly one go to person and aside from her, completely avoid letting anyone see me completely lose it. Letting anyone in.

I look at my OR team again. And then swallow and look back at Dr. Beckett. "Yes, sir."

He nods back at me and thankfully keeps whatever he's thinking right now to himself while I get up and walk over to my OR team. I still have no idea what to say to them but when I see them look up and realize that it's me, I realize that maybe Dr. Beckett was right. Maybe talking isn't required, right now. I know that I'll still wait with letting myself completely fall apart until Maureen is back from her mission because there's no way in hell anyone else is ever gonna see me like that but yeah, this – walking over, sitting with them, quietly sharing this loss and this grief and this anger, because we don't need to talk about it, because we've been there – is a first. And everyone's gotta start somewhere, right?