Chapter Nineteen: Prodigal Son

Carson Beckett had fallen and fallen again. He had left one place for another so many times, he could not recall which one had come first, or whether the place he lay now was fantasy, reality or some purgatory in between.

Through all of this, he had felt the bonds that tied his life loosening. He had come full circle, seeing and letting go, feeling terror melt into an almost willful courage. In the end, he seemed to have been forgiven, absolved of the greater sins for the time being. Perhaps one day he would come to forgive himself so that he could go on from there.

Someone spoke to him. Biro, sounding tired. He realized he must have come home somehow. For a second, he felt the dizzying motion of being lifted. Then there was a blanket's warmth and gloved hands caressing him, assessing him. He hoped he was going to be fine.

…..

The first thing Beckett heard upon coming out of his sleep was the sound of Ronon Dex throwing up.

"So much for ice chips." This was one of the day nurses speaking, a hint of frustration and a large helping of exhaustion coloring her diction.

Beckett blinked several times, moving the sludge of sleep to the corners of his eyes. He was accustomed to dozing in the infirmary, although not usually in an area where actual patient care was occurring. Believing that he'd slept through shift change, he was shocked to discover an IV line in the back of his hand and EEG leads stuck to his head.

Ronon lay on his side in the next bed over, gasping in pain and nausea. A nurse attempted to assist him, to little avail.

"How is he, Mary?"

The woman looked up, surprised.

"You back with us, Doctor?"

He nodded solemnly.

"I need to call for Dr. Biro," she responded, and left.

Watching Ronon's heaving back, Beckett felt a wave of sympathy pains for his friend and once again experienced the grief at having lost someone who felt like family to him. After removing the leads and careful of the IV taped to his hand, the doctor pushed himself up from his bed, swung his legs over the side and stood, shuffling across the seemingly endless chasm that separated them. Reaching Ronon's bed, he half-sat and half-stood on the edge of it. Ronon paid him no mind, wrapped deeply in the distraction of his agony.

"Lad, I'll make certain that you get something for the pain."

Hearing the Scot's voice, the Satedan stilled a little bit in his agitation.

"I died, Doc—" he said, asking, telling.

Tears welled in Beckett's eyes again as he remembered losing him. Beckett meant to say more just then, but Dr. Biro stepped up with staff in tow. She had a tech usher her colleague to his bed and finally, finally administered a useful amount of morphine to Ronon. She and Beckett looked at each other.

"We have a lot to talk about," she said at last, approaching Beckett with her usual directness.

"Aye, we do.'

Beginning her reassessment, the pathologist eyed Beckett curiously. "What do you remember?"

"Everything."

"Start at the beginning and tell me…"

"He gets morphine when he needs it. Do you understand?"

She came up short at Beckett's words. He noticed this and didn't care.

"A dying man deserves to not have to suffer."

"He's not dying, thanks to you. Are you confused?" Penlight in his eyes, stethoscope on his back. Inhale, exhale. "Squeeze my hands…follow my finger." Biro was thorough, she noticed most everything. Carson closed his eyes, tuning out all but the hands on his skin and the sound of Ronon's even breathing. There was no smell of rot here.

"Carson?" Heightmeyer, looking more overwhelmed than exhausted, called him to wake again. He opened his eyes to her. "I've seen that look at lot lately," she said, wearily.

Not knowing what to make of that, he tried to stay awake and did for a time. Heightmeyer pulled up a chair. She told him the story of the device.

He did not tell her his story.

"You're getting all of this, right?" the psychologist asked him.

"Yes, dear, I am," he sighed. "I'm feeling fine, now. A wee bit tired is all."

"Would you like to tell me what you remember? So far everyone has had an astonishing story to tell. They all end with an extremely intense experience of…one sort or another. Wish fulfillment, perhaps."

"God, I hope not," he said. "Not for me an' Ronon."

"You were together?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry to quash your theory but it didn't fulfill any of my wishes, let me tell you."

"What were you doing?"

"Dying. We were both dying. An' Ronon worse than me."

Morphine or not, Ronon was listening. Carson looked to see the large figure lying perfectly still, shrouded beneath a white blanket. The big man was turned away from him but that was okay. He knew Ronon remembered and he knew that Ronon remembered in the same way as he did. They had been together in this after all.

Taking in the infirmary, allowing his eyes to settle on each patient one at a time, Carson felt once again the weight of his responsibility, pressing on him like atmospheres upon atmospheres of water. He slept again. It was not refreshing, almost boring. He arose and, fending off assistance, used the lav and asked Biro to release him. He needed to be on the other side of the bed, to get back to his life, since it had been given back to him.

Many days passed before Heightmeyer really got him. She confided that some of those affected by the device had had erotic experiences and Carson felt pretty jealous of them, not that he admitted to it. Heightmeyer got him to talk about Ronon's death, about his own. That was all. It was early days, yet. He still caught himself becoming awash with sorrow at Ronon's passing, coming up out of it bit by bit as the layers healed.

After many days of careful tending, Ronon was released from the infirmary. Carson himself assisted his patient, a man who usually strong enough to pick him up and throw him into next week, to his room, got him situated. It was sad to watch Ronon Dex, of all people, walking so slowly, still healing, still weak.

"I'll send someone 'round every eight hours to bring you your meds. You'll let them know if you need help, if you need anything at all, won't you lad?"

Ronon sat down heavily upon his bed. He did not acknowledge the question, but merely sat with his head hanging, his flopping dreads making him look almost clinically morose. Carson rarely knew what to say to this person. Even in their horrid journey, they had spoken very little. He decided that he was tired of trying to figure him out, of having to mollify him.

He crouched down so his patient could see him from under the hair framing his face.

"Ronon," he said, "I'm so sorry for what happened to ye. I'm ashamed to say that I did nothin' to prevent the battle in which you were injured. You have every reason to blame me. Don't have any reason to believe me, but know that you will heal. God as my witness, I will never allow somethin' like this to happen again."

The room was quiet and close. No one had been in there for a long time. The bed had a musty smell. Someone should have been sent in to tidy before now, but, like a lot of things, the idea got swept away by more important stuff. Or perhaps it hadn't occurred to anyone in the first place.

Carson rose to leave. Ronon clutched his wrist and pulled him back. "You saved my life, Doc. More than once. Do you think that I forget that?"

"Nay, I don't."

"I will always remember. No matter what happens. And I have seen who you are and never thought to blame you for anything."

He released Carson's wrist. The skin there was mottled red, for he had been holding on quite tightly, expressing himself that way as much as or more than his words could.

The window shades were opened halfway, allowing in slants of golden afternoon sunlight. Pure ocean air began working its way into the room, as Atlantis sensed someone in there, now, and let the area breathe again. Carson didn't have to speak with the city to know that she was responding to happenings in this tiny part of it.

He left Ronon and headed back to the infirmary, with its weight of water and his waiting patients. Someday he might end up tending the ill and the worried in a small town somewhere in the northlands of Scotland. Someday he might not have to think about intentional gunshot wounds, trade them in for a bit of buckshot in someone's flank during hunting season. It happened. People made mistakes. They carried them like pounds around their waists, like bits of shrapnel under their skin, like notebooks under their arms.

"Carson." Elizabeth in his headset. She didn't have to ask the question.

"He's doing well," the doctor replied. "Just got him settled in his quarters."

She paused. "Thank you." Not the perfunctory sign-off that he was expecting. It was the rarer thing, the one that said he had pulled someone's ass out of the fire again. Then he remembered who had pulled the trigger. Then he remembered how she must be feeling and he worried for her for a moment and never thought to blame her.

That was who he was.