Yay! I got… one… review! Thanks Thedummie2, it's good to know you can imagine Zelenka thinking it – I was a little unsure about that. As for Ronan, well, mostly these are random ideas that catch my fancy when I'm in a philosophical mood, so we'll see if I think of anything for him, huh?
He trailed.
He didn't know exactly what it was he was following; all he knew was that he followed something. Did it matter, really? Wherever he went, whatever he followed, he always got there too late.
He heard footsteps coming down the corridor, unwelcome, unwanted, and ducked without thinking through the nearest door. It was a moment before he realized where he was, but by then the footfalls had approached and he could do nothing but remain.
So instead he sank onto the bed, stretching his legs across its width to hang down the side, back against the wall. There was no harm in staying for a while. It was quiet, and it was private, and that's what he wanted.
Because he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear Caldwell's recriminations. He didn't want to hear Rodney's sarcastic, self-centred remarks, or Elizabeth's reassurances, or see Beckett's guilt or Teyla's frustration. He just didn't. He didn't need it. He knew he'd missed his chance.
Ford had been right there. They'd all been on the same planet, in the same region, in the same damned forest, and once again he'd been too slow. Once again, he'd been far, far behind, while Rodney had been ahead, facing Ford's unstable sanity alone.
Hadn't been the same on Earth, too? In Afghanistan? And then again, in the Wraith hiveship; trailing behind in his newly named puddlejumper, too late to give Colonel Sumner anything except a quicker end. And then on Atlantis itself, once, twice, three times… too late to stop McKay from walking into electrifying darkness, too late to get to the control room to provide defence against the invading Genii, too late to save the scientists under his care while they were terrorised by nanites… too late, too far behind, with no hope of catching up.
And still, he knew he wouldn't stop. He could keep going, keep slogging on way too far in the rear, arriving up only in time to see the aftermath, or he could just give up and reject witnessing the outcome as all those people had deserved. Someone had to be there to pick up the remains; someone had to be there to remember. So he'd keep going on.
Maybe he'd catch up later.
