Word Count: 514
Rating: PG.
Category: Angst.
Story Status: Complete.
Summary: Set after season 3's 'Vengeance', Rodney is missing Carson.

Beta: Thank you to Jayne Perry for the beta-reading.



Not Carson

By Leesa Perrie

McKay Photo

He wasn’t looking forward to this.  

So far he’d only had a couple of mission check-ups, and they had been hard enough to handle.  Hard, but necessary if he wanted to stay on the team, and he did want to stay on the team, very much so.

But this time, he’d been hurt; a nasty cut on his face, which was painful and needed attention.  Which meant that he couldn’t get this post-mission check-up over and done with quickly and escape this place, these people.  No, he would have to wait for his cut to be cleaned and bandaged, though hopefully not stitched.  

He sighed.  He had to let one of these…not-Carsons, and that’s how he thought of them, as not-Carsons.  He’d have to let one of them treat him.  And that sucked.  Big time.

The whole mission had been…difficult.  He snorted at that.  The running from scary monsters bit was more than just difficult, more like absolutely terrifying.  But even without all of that…the death of the Taranians weighed heavily on him.  Norina…so  hot, and reasonably smart too, when you considered her lack of training and her background.  It disturbed him more than he thought to think that she and her people were gone now.  To be saved from one death just to endure another.

And Michael; that brought back memories of Carson he’d rather not think about.  In a way he was glad Carson wasn’t here to see what had become of Michael, to see what Michael had done; twisting what he had learned and creating…true monsters.

He knew Carson would blame himself for this, for the deaths of all those people, not just on that planet either according to what Michael had said.  But Carson was not to blame for Michael’s actions, though Rodney knew the physician wouldn’t have believed that.  Too ready to take the guilt for things beyond his control.

Like himself, Rodney reluctantly admitted, thinking of the aborted fishing trip, wishing things had gone differently.  

And wishing that one of the not-Carsons would hurry up and see to his cut, so he could get out of here, and all the reminders he didn’t need.  This place seemed so very wrong now, without his friend.  If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the Scottish brogue chastising him, teasing him or even just telling him to stop his jawing.  A sad smile graced his face, but was gone as quickly as it came.

A not-Carson came over then, bustling about, and he moaned about being made to wait, about the treatment he was receiving, and ranted at them for being useless, incompetent… for not being Carson, though he didn’t say that out loud, even though he suspected they knew it.  Or that at least that some of them did.   The ones who had been here longest, like Biro.

And then he was free to leave, no stitches thankfully, and there, waiting for him, was his team; their own memories still fresh and raw.  

He’d known they would be waiting for him.  Sticking close.  

They knew him so well.

The End


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