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
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.
