Everett saw the fear in Eli's eyes as he turned away. He ignored the hole Eli's gaze cut through him. He knew he could count on the boy. He had counted on the kid to watch Rush and report his idiosyncrasies to him. Eli had done that job admirably. If Eli hadn't brought forth what he'd discovered about the gun being planted in his quarters, Wray would still be in command. Everett owed Eli for that. He was a good kid, a brilliant kid. He would do whatever Everett ordered him to do. After all, what choice did he have? What choice did any of them have?
Everett had given Rush a choice. He had ensured that they didn't show the second part of the footage to Wray in an effort to give Rush that choice, to make it possible for Rush to come back to a ship where people still respected him (albeit, they didn't show it openly). Showing the footage would only have damaged Rush's ability to command the scientists. If Rush was to do his job, he needed what little respect they still afforded him. But it was up to Rush to help perpetrate the lie that everything was fine. It was Rush's choice. Are we done? Everett had asked him. The sound of Rush's snarling voice haunted him still. We'll never be done! Rush had made his choice there and then. They were the last words of a dying man.
No, he hadn't killed Rush. He had told Eli the truth. But he may as well have shot him. Leaving Rush on a desert planet with only the water in his canteen was a death sentence enough.
But what kind of sentence had he inflicted upon his crew now that Rush was no longer aboard? Would the scientists band together in Rush's absence to continue the work they'd been doing before Rush had practically ordered them to activate the chair? Perhaps that all depended on Dr. Franklin's recovery – if he recovered.
Rush had been partially right. You resigned your position as SG leader because you didn't want to make the hard decisions. The life or death decisions. That was when it had occurred to him. Leave him behind. Prove him wrong. He didn't feel good about it, but it had to be done for the benefit of the crew. The end justifies the means.
Or did it? Did that make him as bad as Rush?
Rush had been the single best person for the job at hand, probably the only one aboard who was meant to be here at all. All that knowledge was gone forever and thanks to Rush's choice, they would have to make do without.
It was Rush's choice. He had to believe that, had to hold onto that. Everett had given Rush the opportunity to turn everything around, to accept his command and his authority and come back to Destiny. Are we done? The words echoed again. Instead, Rush had chosen to be a thorn in Everett's side for the last time. We'll never be done! Rush had said. Well, Everett thought, we are now.
Everett arrived in TJ's makeshift infirmary to check on how Dr. Franklin was doing. He realized as he walked in that the answer he would get from her would be no different from before. Franklin hadn't moved or been moved since he had first been brought in.
TJ moved about the room, straightening and organizing medical supplies. She looked up as he walked in, but her hands remained busy. He knew this frame of mind. She was trying to stay busy, trying not to focus on the fact that, in all likelihood, she would lose her patient. She would fight tooth and nail to save someone if she could. When she couldn't, she felt the loss as deeply as her patient's family. The trait made her an excellent doctor. He hated that she had resigned her position over his stupidity.
He realized he was staring at her and pulled his eyes away toward the motionless Franklin. "How is he?" he asked.
She shook her head. Wisps of blond hair that had fallen from her hair clips hovered about her face like milkweed seeds in a gentle wind. "The same," she answered.
Everett nodded.
"I sent you off to rest," she chided him softly.
"Couldn't sleep," he answered, trying to appear nonchalant. He'd had to get the kino footage from Eli, but TJ didn't need to know that.
A less than comfortable pause passed between them as they stared at Franklin's motionless body rather than at each other. Suddenly TJ turned to look at him. Words tumbled out of her perfect mouth as if she couldn't contain them any longer. "Was there any way -?"
He cut her off, knowing exactly where she was going. "I couldn't save him, TJ," he said, firmly, but softly. "There was no time."
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. Fine wrinkles appeared on her chin as she bit her bottom lip.
Later, he would say he tried to stop himself, told himself it was a bad idea, or a myriad of other excuses. Everett closed the distance between them and gathered TJ into his arms.
She didn't cry. She didn't pull away. She leaned her head onto his shoulder and for just a moment he reveled in the feel of her, the way he used to, the way he never should have.
He looked down at her. She looked up at him. Her eyes were saucers that glistened in Destiny's inset ceiling lamps. There were no tears. No, of course not. She was stronger than that. It was why he lo---
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind him got his attention. He pulled away, turning toward the door. Camile Wray stood in the doorway looking very much the way he remembered his seventh grade teacher looking when she caught her students making out in the hallways.
"Miss Wray," he greeted her formally – far more formally than necessary. "What can I do for you?"
"It's about morale. I have concerns."
He smirked, trying to turn it into a congenial smile and only partially succeeded. "Of course," he said. Of course, you have concerns, he thought. When don't you? He turned to TJ, "Let me know the moment there's any change."
"Yes, sir," she responded stiffly. Far too stiffly.
Everett gestured toward the hallway and fell into step beside Wray as she began to speak.