Hello, everyone out there in the Pegasus Galaxy. You know how much I love to visit you. So, I've been having a pretty good Sunday (church, ya know), and the just-released results from the fifth segment of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
stargate_las and my fourth entry show that I won! I'm moving on to the next segment, so happy yay. [And most gratifying to my mostly-blind self, considering that I proofread out loud until I'm hoarse!] I'd definitely like to thank the voting members of the Academy (lol) as well as the man himself, Dr. Carson Beckett. Actually, I like the fact that I'm forcing myself to write about characters or situations I've never considered before. And it's not as if it were any particular hardship; I just have to focus on other people and/or relationships (instead of mooning over McShep or even McDex).
Name:
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helenkacanShow/Movie: Stargate Atlantis (SGA)
Story Title: One of a Kind
Character/Relationships: Carson Beckett, mention of canon characters / Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Timeline: Post S5 EaTG, after Atlantis has rightfully returned to Pegasus!
Night. On yet another world.
Most normal people would have been fast asleep, but Carson Beckett was no normal man.
He stood, his back cracking, and stumbled to the tent entrance. He scrubbed at his bleary eyes, desperate to magically erase the weariness from working too many hours. A reassuring glance outside was all the respite he permitted himself before returning to his field table and Ancient microscope.
He picked up another marked vial and uncorked it, before pushing a slide with a drop of blood under the lens. He was driven to do this, to atone for the monstrous things Michael had forced him into. His only mission for the remainder of his life would be – as it had always been – to help people.
He never had enough time for sleep, nor did he wish it. Moving from one world to the next, trying to treat not only the victims of the Hoffan Plague, but all manner of other life-threatening illnesses, filled the daylight hours. When it grew dark, he retreated to his only abode, a tent, as he could no longer endure the claustrophobia of feeling trapped by solid walls and ceilings.
Imprisonment – first under Michael and then in that not-dead but not-alive twilight of the stasis chamber – meant he chose to sleep in a tent for shelter, beneath the sky and stars, no matter how inclement the weather.
Still, working was more palatable than trying to outrun the nightmares of Michael's infernal charnal house. He hadn't had a single uninterrupted night's sleep since his capture. But working to near exhaustion might guarantee him a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Carson couldn't turn anyone away. As soon as word spread that the "Healer" had arrived through the Gate, crowds would gather and surge forward – yet halt at a respectful, even fearful, distance. There were no screams, no accusations or tears, merely a gently rustling murmur of hopeful voices. Yet it was that quiet patience that nearly broke him. They expected him to produce a miracle. If not there, then soon. He always did as much as he could before moving on.
Always moving on. Never pausing long enough to rest. As far as he was concerned, rest was for the dead. Well, he'd been dead and yet here he was again. He couldn't tolerate being stuck in one place for more than a few days.
Yes, he missed Atlantis dearly and the inspiration of her singular beauty. He missed his friends, Rodney most of all. The man's generosity toward him after his rescue had been a balm to his soul. Rodney could have treated him as an impostor, but hadn't. Had not once uttered "Vampire" or "Dolly the sheep" to his knowledge.
Carson remembered viewing the Gateroom footage of the honour guard, led by Rodney and the Colonel, escorting his – his original –
remains back to Earth. From the look of abject misery etched into Rodney's face, Carson could imagine how Rodney had blamed himself for not having taken that fateful Sunday off to spend it fishing with his friend. Not that it would have changed much. Carson would have been recalled and the outcome most likely the same.
Though he missed Atlantis, he did not miss the Infirmary. It wasn't his by rights, even if he could have withstood the claustrophobia of the OR. A surgeon with incipient tremors, no matter how gifted, was a liability.
He tried his best not to think of his unique nature or the isolation he was imposing on his life. He knew he wasn't the only clone in the universe, not even the only human clone. He'd read the file on O'Neill the younger. That was one lucky lad to be able to carve out his own destiny and to have many productive years ahead of him.
But Carson couldn't adopt a new identity. He could only be his mother's son whom she believed, in her grieving prayers, to be singing with the Angels, no doubt in the proper Scottish part of Heaven, complete with bagpipes, never harps.
There was no way he could exist outside of the SGC except in the Pegasus Galaxy. And, even in Pegasus, he'd had to rid himself of that all-too-common human wish for love. He tutted to himself as he thought back to his daft behaviour with Dr. Alison Porter. How could he expect someone so young – so alive – to respond to his foolish advances?
He'd come to deny himself companionship, even of a professional nature. Approached by doctors on each world who offered to travel and work with him, he let them down with kindness, maintaining that they were already desperately needed where they were. The first time he'd been asked had led to a particularly nasty nightmare later that night when he'd woken up gasping, "Perna" on his lips. Thankfully, there had been no witness, nor would there ever be after that painful experience.
Only when Carson wasn't treating the ill or working late into the night did he allow himself one small distraction. He wondered what kinds of simulations Rodney might have installed into the virtual reality of his stasis chamber, even though Carson had declined originally. In one, he could imagine how embarrassed yet proud Rodney would have been, programming the Nobel ceremony where both of them received their rightful honours, side by side. Well, there would be no such honour for himself, but at least he could hope for it on his friend's behalf.
He knew there would come the day when he could no longer rise, no longer work. He could only pray that, on the day he drew his final breath, he had done enough to absolve himself of guilt and was worthy of redemption.
Because, on that day, he intended to meet not only his Maker, but also Carson the First.
And, finally, on that day, Carson would never feel alone again.
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