STARGATE ATLANTIS, 1/?
In Our Own Way
Steven Caldwell + Carson Beckett, 6628 words
(A tag to S2’s “The Long Goodbye”)


Part 1

Twelve Years Past…

“Did good, doctor.”

It was after 3am; he’d heard some nurses passing by, mentioning the time. Carson was sitting outside of the infirmary, his ears still popping from gunfire. His body ached from the adrenaline rush, his hands and fingers experiencing a different kind of tension. One that, he was discovering, came with holding his instruments carefully, precisely, when trying to forget the noise around him and focus on the one thing he could call on, his medical training and intuition overriding basic senses.

It was after 3am, and Carson was on his fourth cup of coffee in an hour. Still his thirst hadn’t subsided, and the taste of gunpowder tickled in the back of his throat.

It was after 3am, and Carson was sitting on the cold, hard floor in an obscure corridor of the medical wing. He’d showered – had to, at the insistence of several nurses that recognized the beginning signs of numbness after battle, but couldn’t seem to find his way back to the barracks.

“Carson. You did good today, Carson.”

Hearing his given name, one that he hadn’t heard since starting basic training eight weeks ago, caused the young doctor to lift his head and meet warm brown eyes.

“Aye. Well.” He answered informatively. “We all did well t’day.”

Major Caldwell cocked his head appraisingly. After a consideration he backed against the opposite wall and slid down, matching the doctor’s position. Lights blinked as power was called up, redirected and stored and whatever else was done after the surgeries ended, the patients patched up for the nurses or dispatched out in bags, and the surgeons redirected to the corridor floors with their superior officers.

Silence stretched between them, awkward and pressing, but Carson couldn’t find the energy to call on words to fill the void.

Caldwell cleared his throat roughly. “Three of my men should have died out there. The doctors,” his chin jutted to the closed bay doors, “they tell me your quick thinking was the only reason they held up till we were back on base. They’re going to be okay.”

Carson didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t remember what he’d done on the field, not really. Except that he was operating alone, with crude alcohol and basic instruments to patch up internal injuries enough to get several nearly conscious soldiers back to base. He remembered arriving after an hour’s jog through the forests, stopping several times to redo whatever had come undone, and catching sight of himself totally covered in other peoples’ blood just before being told he’d have no time for rest, he’d have to do the surgeries, as there were only two other surgeons on base, both with lesser qualifications than he.

He’d have to review the case files to find out the soldiers’ injuries, surgeries, names. It all seemed like another lifetime ago, a life that didn’t belong to him. He didn’t want to be here anymore, didn’t want to be depended on for so much when the going got rough. He didn’t want to take anyone’s orders, he didn’t want to hold a gun and be brave. He didn’t want to be the only thing standing between soldiers and death.

He was going home.

“When was the last time you’ve eaten? Bet ya there’s a stale ham sandwich in the mess with your name on it.” As difficult as he sat, Caldwell rose slowly, using the wall for support. He wore fresh clothing and smelt strongly of soap, and a blue cloth around his shoulder acted as a sling.

Carson stared at the injury, recalling the vague image of the major injured and, without question, setting his dislocated shoulder in a hastily made splint.

The major gestured for the doctor to stand with him.

Trying to ignore the dizziness and nausea that came out of nowhere, Carson steadied himself on his feet. A heavy hand was placed on his shoulder, holding him strongly. Steadily. Steering him away from the medical wing.

Hot air brushed against his ear. “Say it with me now. Stale sandwich. Yum!” the major muttered, squeezing his shoulder.

Carson couldn’t help it. Hysteria filled his senses, and a gurgled chuckle escaped his lips.

“Hang on, doctor. Hang tight.”

--

Present Day…

McKay’s fists were clenched white, forcibly pressing down on the corner of Carson’s desk. Probably unaware the desk was wobbling, Carson guessed, taking in his dishevelled appearance. Spiked hair in chunks, determined eyes that bugged out almost comically and the deep-set scowl that was as much a daily appearance in the infirmary as Rodney himself.

It was all Carson could do to keep eye contact and not give way to the indulging grin that bubbled inside. Over a year working in Atlantis, and every day served as reminder that Rodney’s impulsive tendencies were to be taken in perspective (or, as Colonel Sheppard so often threatened to define parameters within, the McKay Scale of Annoyance).

That didn’t matter today, Carson still riding a professional high that made finishing the paperwork in his Inbox seem inviting. Living a galaxy away almost manageable, and seeing Rodney McKay once a day in his office nearly pleasant. Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard were cleared to go back to duty, the city suffered little damage and, of primary importance to Carson, there had been no casualties. Those were his priorities, everything else mere detail.

But it was very early morning, and he had yet to check on Ronan and several marines from the Daedalus he’d kept in for observation, and then the duty schedule--

Not before a cup of coffee, he interrupted his train of thought.

“He’ll be just fine, Rodney,” Carson interrupted Rodney’s tirade with some reassuring nods, recognizing the fear and questions beneath the temper. Considering Rodney’s memories with Cadman, still fresh in his ever active mind, he couldn’t outright dismiss his friend’s worries altogether.

“What if there’s some residual--”

“There’s not.”

“Why would you even say that? You can’t know that. No one knows what those” he gestured manically at his head “things might have done. We’re taking their word, that the effects were temporary and that Elizabeth and Sheppard were—are--” Lack of sleep appeared to catch up to Rodney at once, leaving him looking suddenly lost, defeated and deflated. “Maybe we should--”

“No!” Carson stood up tall and straight in Rodney’s hovering shadow, stating firmly but gently, “They’ll be fine, Rodney. Happy endings n’ all that. Now go and get yourself a cup o something hot or better yet, when was th’ last time you slept? Hm?”

Blue eyes sparkled a little, assessing the idea, and Carson again called on his poker face. Never underestimate McKay’s invested energy in himself, he’d quickly learned upon arriving in the Antarctica workstation. Not a fair assessment, considering that he’d soon learnt the extent of the man’s bravery and sacrifice for his colleagues and friends in Atlantis, but still a trait Carson wasn’t above exploiting. Especially when Rodney stood between him and the coffee pot.

“That’s right, now,” he cooed, taking the firm elbow in his grasp and patting comfortingly. “Get something t’ eat, get some rest, and then you can check up on Colonel Sheppard yourself, huh?”

Shooting a pained look, Rodney backed away, muttering something that Carson could only partially identify as “…doing your job.”

The door closed, and Carson finally smiled. Rodney was a true friend, he really was, and in that spirit Carson loved him fully, endearing faults and all.

Wandering from his office to the lab, Carson paused at the coffee maker and, after some thought, grabbed a bran muffin, moist and sticky from being frozen and thawed from months before. He didn’t mind.

Life was good. Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard were alive and well, and there would be no death certificates to make out that morning. No reports to file that would lead to eventual (inevitable) inquiries back on Earth. Best of all, no funerals to attend and no friends to grieve before their time. Yes, life was good. Tasteless, dry muffin and all.

Several of the general practitioners and nurses were gathered in the small makeshift commissary (closet) created for medical personnel during busy times, the commissary too far to justify a quick bite during breaks. All met his eyes with either small smiles or nods. All friendly, all distant.

Life was good.

--

Steven Caldwell rubbed sweaty palms over tired eyes, and let himself fall backwards and sloppily onto his cot. He felt cold metal graze the top of his head where the ceiling sloped.

His body was too tired and mind too active to find any sort of comfort on the lumpy mattress, and belatedly he realized he still wore his uniform and boots. He turned his head into his pillow, still smelling the sweet Atlantis sea air that hung onto him like a woman’s perfume. He would have to shower soon, if only to rid himself of the brief memories of the hunt and chase the day before, and the earlier ones still, that came to haunt him unexpectedly at night.

It had to be after 0700 hours already, he deduced. The hum of the Daedalus engines had kicked in with a heavy, noticeable drum, a telltale sign that the first day shift had already begun. The military for ya, he thought cynically. No matter what happened the day before, the night before, the month before… Things still went on, life still happened.

At least Steven could afford to rest now. The shift would be someone else’s to command, he’d seen to hours before, after word that Dr. Weir and Major… Colonel Sheppard were recovering in Atlantis’ infirmary.

Elizabeth Weir and Colonel Sheppard.

A skeleton crew with marines from the Daedalus were patrolling the city, helping the Atlantis team to rebuild some of the damaged areas. McKay was supposed to be supervising the overall repairs, and several of Sheppard’s men had taken over security precautions, procedures that Sheppard had put into place in case of his and Weir’s vacancy. Caldwell almost hated to admit that the younger man had thought of just about everything.

Weir and Sheppard.

With the exception of twenty-odd hours on full alert and – yeah, he could admit, the fact he’d only just regained his command after the humiliating turn with the Goa’uld, Steven was doing just fine. All his men had survived the latest crisis, Atlantis and her people were getting back to work, and he had finished all his paperwork waiting for word about Weir and Sheppard. He shouldn’t want things any other way.

Except Steven Caldwell wanted it all. He wanted metals and stars, a command to envy, buddies to kick back with a beer or two, and someone to go home to at night. Before the Goa’uld, before… Before he saw the kiss between Elizabeth and John, one that seemed to make everything shift together in his mind like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the secret revealed, he’d thought Elizabeth might be his salvation.

The Daedalus was his to command and he did so with brimming pride, and he felt for her like a commander should – like a lover he’d fight for, above everything and anyone else. But on the Daedalus – on Earth and Atlantis, and within all means, structures and institutions in which he’d ever commanded his self, Steven had always been strictly military. He didn’t know any other way of life, and took comfort in the chain of command, in that security. But after twenty-odd years of dedicated service, he wanted something, or someone, to fill the void that military discipline had inflicted on his life.

Elizabeth immediately struck him as difficult. A woman with a personality too big to survive within military confines, without the military mindset. But she was strong-willed and believed in her convictions, and she wouldn’t allow him to get away with the cold harshness he seemed to impose on all the others that had been in his life. He had been instantly attracted to her, if only for that. He craved what he felt would have been easy, a relationship that might have worked if only based on her stubbornness and will.

A fool, he thought himself now. He wanted human contact on an equal basis, not just in rank but in intelligence and spirit, and still someone to smooth out his rough edges.

Things weren’t getting any easier with age. He was too difficult and old-fashioned, and he knew it. These days, asking for more than ‘casual’ in a relationship seemed too high a cost anyone wanted to pay.

Steven rolled over the bed until he was settled comfortably on his back, one arm throw high on the pillow. He had a small window – a luxury on Daedalus, one that today (thankfully) was turned towards the stars and not Atlantis, a view in which he could stare himself to a peaceful sleep. And after ten minutes, his head still thrummed and his belly ached a little (as it often did with stress now, ever since the Goa’uld was removed), but he’d stopped reflecting on all that he didn’t have.

He’d always loved to fly, ever since he was a little boy in the backwoods of Texas, staring at the clouds and stars overhead, listening to his parents tell stories of his father’s heroism in the skies just before he was born. In flight he’d found the confidence he lacked on land, especially when he was alone in the air, alone at the controls. With the confidence of adulthood, he hadn’t needed to be in flight to feel that way for some time, and sometimes forgot the simple peace that came with flying. And still, he was a different man on land. More tense, less himself. Even this day – this stressful morning, night, month that he couldn’t shake off, he felt some peace staring at the stars, knowing he was where he truly belonged.

--

After a brief nap, a quick meal and thorough check-in with Atlantis (not surprised to learn that Weir and Sheppard were both back to work), Steven headed down to the Daedalus infirmary. His headache had grown much worse, and his abdomen numb.

Steven would have preferred a military inquiry into anything than a trip to the Daedalus infirmary, especially when the purpose for the visit was for personal reasons. Like many in his position, he had a dislike of scientist, doctors, and civilians in general. They had a place within the military, but he had a problem adjusting to ‘their’ command, especially if it was per doctor’s orders. Everyone had his or her place, he constantly reminded his disciplined thinking.

He tapped on the Dr. Bourgeois’ office door, grateful to see light shining out from underneath. He had a good, long established working relationship with Bourgeois, whom he’d always described as discretion itself. He was one of those rare military doctors that let a senior officer fight through the pain if willing, and whose favourite prescription to those in the higher ranks consisted of a strong gin and tonic before a prescribed twelve-hour rest period.

“Carl, a moment?” he asked, letting the door drift open.

Only a man clad in a white coat occupied the office, sitting straight up in the visitor’s chair, jotting notes on a laptop pad. He turned, instantly his face relaxed, and he stood up gesturing for a half-hug.

Steven stared.

“Old friend,” Carson said happily, talking into Steven’s shoulder. “Was hoping you’d be going off duty before I finished up here.”

“Carson,” Steven found his voice, patting his back. He leaned back, took a good look at this old friend and grinned. “What brings you to Daedalus?”

“Just seein to your marines. Some will be stayin in overnight, but that’s nae matter worth your concern.” Carson smiled warmly, and Steven found himself wondering if Carson could ever be accused of smiling any other way.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it,” Steven stuffed his hands in his pockets, his aches suddenly forgotten. It didn’t matter that they had worked side-by-side the past twenty-odd hours. There had always been that between them, the respected distance and reverence even, when it came to their professional roles.

And then he remembered the reason for the ache in his stomach, and wondered if he would have really spent the past month or so without a word to Carson. He suddenly needed to know, but Carson was watching him carefully, as though reading his thoughts, and quickly said, “Aye, I don’t think we’ve seen each other since a year ago this May.” He sat back down in the visitor’s chair, and gestured to Bourgeois’s office chair for Steven. “Thought you looked a tad familiar t’ me.”

“Funny,” Steven made a face, covering his relief.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you, how are things?” Carson’s blue eyes concentrated on Steven’s, and he knew it would be pointless to lie to a man who, at one time, he considered his best friend.

“A little tired after the incident yesterday. Nothing a little sleep and good meal won’t fix.”

“You know what I meant.”

Damn. Yeah, Carson wouldn’t beat around the bush, not when it was just the two of them alone. Perched on the corner of Bourgeois’ chair, Steven couldn’t stop looking at the other man. It had to be twelve years past since they’d met at a training base, Beckett a reluctant, difficult student to grasp the concepts of basic training. But one that, in Steven’s view, surpassed all those in his unit with class and respectability.

Since their first time in battle, Steven would have done his best to keep Beckett assigned close by. But the doctor had taken basic training only for the purpose of furthering his research, leaving very few opportunities of chance meetings under casual circumstances. Carson shared his workaholic habits, and it'd been awhile since they were together, alone, and not held apart by professional etiquette.

“What about you? How have you been? Enjoying Atlantis?” Even avoiding the doctor’s question, he was unable to stop smiling at the sight before him. With lines around his mouth and a splattering of grey in his charcoal hair, blue eyes still sparkled just the way Steven remembered.

Carson, however, wasn’t returning the expression. “Steven,” he warned in his Scottish drawl, so quietly and forcefully that the colonel felt his ears grow warm in shame.

“Sore. I’m a little sore,” he admitted testily.

With the admission, the sudden weight of everything within Steven’s life and missing from his life seemed to crash around his words. And the small gift of an old friend who cared enough, and was brave enough, to delve deeper than general conversation and platitudes, was almost too much to bear.

He poised an elbow on the desk, hiding his face in his hand.

“It’s been hell,” he confessed finally, wincing at the raw emotion that made his voice nearly unrecognizable.

“I’ll bet it has been,” Carson encouraged lowly, sympathetically. The office door clicked quietly shut, a lock sliding into place.

After a pause, Steven felt a chilly hand pry his away from his face. It held on tight, squeezing, and Steven had no choice but to open his eyes. Carson had pulled his own chair right up next to his, his critical and still welcoming stare set in place.

“It’s taken me some time to adjust,” he tried to reason, hoarsely.

Carson still didn’t let go of his hand, but he smiled a little and tilted his head. “It’s just you and me here. We’re a long ways away from any military hospital, so I dinnae want t’ hear whatever you had t’ tell those doctors t’ get your command back here. Go on, now. Off th’ record.” Squeeze. “Between friends.”

Friends.

“I am dealing,” he started, looking at the patterns of wood on the desk. “But getting back into things… I don’t know if it’s what happened or if it’s my age, but,” he rubbed his face with his free hand. “I’m not coming back from this like I would anything else. I can’t just” he shook with some frustration “shake this off and put things behind me. I’ve been in near-death situations before. I’ve had what people would call life-altering experiences before. But this feels like…” he let go of Carson’s hand, gesturing to the air, not knowing how to finish.

“That’s understandable. You’ve got t’ think about things like this, Steven.” Steven couldn’t help but smile at the twist Carson put on his name. “I’m sure you’ve had t’ do things that you might nae otherwise for your job. But, and think about things this way, Steven. You’ve never been used like that before. T’ be helpless against yourself, t’ see those you’ve sworn t’ protect suffer at your hands, well. That’s a whole nother matter altogether, isn’t it?”

Like Carson had struck him across the face, the colonel slid back in his chair and stared back at him.

Carson grabbed at his hands, both of them, and held on tightly. “But it’s nae your fault. Even if something awful did occur, it would nae have been your fault. And still,” he continued conversationally, as if talking to himself, “I can see that no matter how much I might say that – how much everyone might say that, you’re nae going t’ believe it. You need time, Steven.”

“I appreciate--”

“Look, you’re angry with me,” Carson continued, looking both amused and annoyed. “When is the Daedalus scheduled t’ go back t’ Earth?”

“A few days. If we’re not called back sooner,” Steven bit out, still feeling the hot spike of rage at the doctor’s harsh words.

True words.

“A few days, huh? What a coincidence.” Carson dropped his hands and started jotting on his laptop pad with such speed that Steven doubted anything would be legible. “You’re on leave, Colonel, for one week or until such time th’ Daedalus is called back t’ Earth.”

Disappointment flooded the colonel’s senses, and he gripped onto the edge of the desk to keep from lashing out physically. The one person he had felt he could confide in…

He stood. “Now see here, doctor. You can’t--”

“Of course I can,” Carson conversed easily, his attention primarily on his writing. “Okay, fine. Partial duty, but that’s all you’re getting from me.”

“Carson!” he barked.

The doctor didn’t even jump, but a twitch of the lips gave him away. He enjoyed his job too much, the colonel thought to himself, feeling anger melt as quickly as it came.

“Stay on Atlantis for th’ week. Tour th’ city. Do a little writing. Catch up on your correspondence. Join me for your meals.” He looked up from his writing, stopping altogether, and smiled sincerely. “It would do me some good, too. It would be nice, having an old friend around.”

A light retort about the word ‘old’ was on his tongue but Steven held back, heartened and warmed by the doctor’s concern.

“Yeah,” he said finally, feeling the tension leave his body. Though his abdomen still ached, his headache had since subsided. He hadn’t realized just had bad he felt until Carson’s ‘prescription.’

Carson must have thought he was still going to debate his decision, when he added, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer me t’ send my psychological report of this examination t’ th’ SGC.”

Instead of reminding his smug friend about the ‘off the record’ remark, Steven let go of his reservations and with defeat, flopped back into his chair in a manner he would consider, in anyone else, most definitely un- military.

For a brief second, with his unexpected flop, Carson looked flabbergasted. Steven chuckled at the dopey drop of his head and had the notion that this was perhaps the first time he’d ever looked forward to having some leave.

--

“The power you have.”

Carson turned his head slightly upon hearing Elizabeth enter the lab, and smiled at the grin in her words. He’d be smiling anyway, no matter the circumstances, he knew. As the day progressed, it was getting harder to keep his emotions at bay.

“I take it you’ve received my orders.” He turned his attention back to his latest experiment – one that he’d just ruined by accidentally adjusting the atmospheric conditions in his control group. Not that he’d minded, seeing as his oversight meant he was free to take off a few days himself. “Colonel Caldwell should be beaming t’ the surface shortly.”

Only fifteen minutes had passed since he’d seen Steven in the Daedalus, finished his official business with Dr. Bourgeois, and sent his report to Elizabeth, having already done the latter during his conversation with Steven. It had been too tempting to resist, to have several days of time spent in the company of a man he’d once – and still, called friend. And he’d been pleased to see that, with some coaxing, his friend was just as eager to spend some time with him.

“How did you manage that?”

“Some persistence.” He added simply, keeping an eye on his failing experiment, “He needs some time t’ heal.”

“Still. Colonel Caldwell isn’t the most… cooperative man in any galaxy,” she joked a little, and without turning, Carson knew she had crossed her arms casually. “I’m just a little surprised I didn’t receive a request from him, finding some way out of this leave. As I understand things, he was eager to get back to duty after...”

“Aye,” Carson finally looked at her sideways, feeling some of the sudden fatigue over the past ordeal. By contrast, Elizabeth looked refreshed and alert, ready for the next crisis.

It wasn’t a dig at her when he added, “And perhaps he would use his duty, like so many others, t’ move on and distance himself from what happened. But maybe, with a few days on Atlantis, that will give him some time t’ rest and rejuvenate, and enjoy a few days with an old friend. Besides that,” he chuckled at little, at his own expense, “I wouldn’t mind th’ company myself for a few days.”

She jostled her shoulder against his, and he smiled at the friendly gesture, taking pleasure in the whiff of the musky perfume she always wore. From the moment he first saw Elizabeth, he thought her the prettiest woman he’d ever laid eyes upon. If he weren’t under her command – and gay, he’d have already joined the preverbal line-up at her office door.

A line-up that, sadly enough, seemed to include Steven.

“I wasn’t aware you and Colonel Caldwell had known each other before this assignment.”

“We met, oh, a lifetime ago. He was teaching basic training t’ medical students. I had just finished my residency in surgery,” he leaned against the countertop and grinned at the memory, “but I didn’t have any military training myself. There were only few of us in th’ class that were already established doctors. We were attacked one day, a lot of people hurt badly, Elizabeth, and we worked together, Steven and I, t’ get ‘em back on their feet.”

“Battlefield ties, huh?” She teased gently, rubbing against his shoulder again in her friendly sort of way. He knew she caught onto his use of Caldwell’s first name.

“Why don’t you take a few days off yourself, doctor? I’m sure there are areas of Atlantis you haven’t explored yet. If there’s an emergency, we’ll know where to find you.”

Damn, but that Elizabeth was perceptive.

“Alright. You’ve talked me into it.” Like agreeing was some kind of hardship. He felt his ears start to redden, and turned his attention back to the now failed experiment.

Belatedly he added with a smile, “Whatever will Rodney do?” and felt gratified at her muffled chuckle and small touch as a reprimand at his elbow.

--

“Colonel.”

Carson stood on the stairs, taking in the sight of John Sheppard noticing Colonel Caldwell back on base. Despite his easy nod and casual words, his pallor had paled.

Steven noticed, and gestured to the small duffle swung over his shoulder. “Not to worry, Colonel. I’m only here on a brief leave, until the Daedalus is ready to head back to Earth in a few days.” He caught Carson’s gaze, and Carson didn’t miss the flicker of mischief as he added with some forced bitterness, “Doctors orders. Here to escort me to my room, doctor?”

And Carson – off-duty and near giddy with the possibility of a few days of companionship, couldn’t resist smirking in response, catching Sheppard’s confusion as he turned around, Colonel Caldwell on his heels. Surely, over the course of several days, and in such a small place as Atlantis, everyone would be aware of their past ties. Gossip was a craving never fully satisfied in the city.

“Any problems, and you know where to find me,” the colonel barked from behind Carson, the doctor realizing that Sheppard must be still standing in place, still surprised. “Anything with the Daedalus, I want to know immediately.”

After a moment, Sheppard yelled awkwardly, “Er. Yeah. Yes, sir.”

“Ever the terror, eh Steven?” Carson talked lowly as they walked together, glancing over his shoulder.

“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten,” he bristled.

They passed the commissary, and Carson stumbled over his step.

“Keep up, doctor.” Steven didn’t even look back as he passed by.

Carson ducked his head and quickened his step to catch up, knowing that Steven’s tease (for Carson knew he had been tripped) had already fuelled gossip. Not that he’d minded.

To show just how much he didn’t mind, he thumped Steven while going down the stairs, earning himself a nasty look. Four levels down, with only a few scattered teams of guards patrolling the area, he quickened his step, walking in front of Steven. Soon, they were in a shoulder-to-shoulder jog that turned into a run not unlike two soldiers on the trail of the enemy, or with the enemy on their heels.

“Keepin up, old man,” Carson teased, chancing a glance beside him. He was answered with a scowl. He thought the colonel was about to bring up the fact that it was Carson who was panting loudly and visibly sweating already (and about to cough up a lung, he admitted silently) when Steven slowed, looking beyond the doctor’s side with consternation.

Carson followed his gaze, and gaped at the five armed guards running at his side in formation, weapons at the ready.

“We’re with you, Colonel. We have more men stationed about three hundred feet from here. Is it the Wraith, sir?”

Steven stopped running altogether, his jaw clenched tightly, and Carson knew he was trying not to laugh. “No, not at all, major. The good doctor here has challenged me to a race, and I saw fit to meet that challenge.”

The major and his men immediately stopped running. The major’s eyebrows lifted, clearly surprised and embarrassed, and his men stared dumbfounded at the panting doctor. “Er. I’m…”

The colonel – decked in jeans and a brown leather coat Carson knew to be at least twelve years old, smiled genially. It was a rare sight to see in any man at his station, and Carson could tell it threw the guards off balance even more. “Your response time is impressive, major. But I think I can handle the good doctor on my own.”

The men chuckled, the adrenaline rush morphing with the colonel’s good humour, easing their guard.

“All things considered, it’s probably a good thing you showed up.” Steven looked upon Carson with pity, even as he himself stood there straight and calm.

As well he should pity me, thought the doctor, hunched over at the waist and glaring up at him. Sweat dripped off his forehead, and his breath sounded like a severe asthmatic attack. He was a doctor, not a colonel. A colonel fifteen years older than he was. Carrying a duffle. Not one bead of sweat on his forehead.

To his added humiliation, he felt the pat of several hands on his back. “Good effort, doctor,” the men humoured him between chuckles, nodding their leave to the colonel.

When they were out of earshot, Steven leaned over to speak directly in his ear, “I suppose I can forget about keeping a low profile.”

“Who cares?” Carson jested over-dramatically, allowing himself to be pulled straight up. “I’ll be in th’ infirmary for days. You’re on your own. Bourgeois can have you. Good-bye.”

He started to depart in the opposite direction but Steven yanked him back and, with a telling grin, started to sprint away.

“Cruel,” Carson muttered, starting in after him.

--

“Far enough from the command center, doctor?”

There was no response.

Steven had wandered over to the full balcony in the small suite, opening the glass doors to let in the cool Atlantis breeze. Specks of dampness washed over his face and for the first time in a long time, he felt at home. Even moreso than that morning, staring at the stars.

At that thought, he looked at his watch at the time, hoping that sundown would be soon.

“Beautiful. You really live near this section?” It had been a general question and one that Carson might not have heard from indoors, but his instinct told him to turn around.

Carson had stumbled onto the couch upon arrival, looking as if he were about to pass out, and hadn’t moved since.

Reluctantly, Steven hurried back inside, sliding the doors shut. It was a quiet, nearly unoccupied section, he’d soon determined, without the hum of Atlantis’ computers that seemed ever present in quarters nearer to the gate. He didn’t wonder why Carson might have chosen this spot for his home away from home, except he was a doctor and doctors, he’d found, usually preferred to be closer to the action.

He sat on the corner of the couch and rubbed the back of Carson’s neck, a little relieved at the steadying pulse he found there. His skin was cool with sweat, and he hoped his warm fingers might ease any soreness. “Kinda far from the infirmary, isn’t it?” he tried a third time.

“Aye,” came the muffled response from the cushions. With a sigh, the doctor raised his head and opened one eye in acknowledgement. “But I usually sleep in my office if I need t’ be on hand” (sigh) “and it’s really only a two minute jaunt with th’ lifts.’’

“So we went the long way?”

“I’m surprised we arrived here a ‘tall, t’ tell you th’ truth.”

Chuckling, Steven rose and began unpacking.

--

There was trouble, and Carson was knee-deep into things.

Head back into the cushions, he shifted slightly to watch the colonel unpack his belongings. A place for everything and everything in it’s place, that military discipline showing in every move he made. Long legs striding across the room – owning any room, his rigid posture bringing him to his full, imposing height, and a rough, raw voice that made everyone respond to attention. And yet, Carson knew, his friend felt close to those he served with, to the extent he was almost overprotective. The colonel respected those that stood up to him and questioned orders within reason, as much as he did those who followed them. He smiled easily and had a playful manner worthy of any boys club rules.

And then there were the little things. The half-smiles that made his eyes come alive and sparkle with unexpected shyness and yes, a little vulnerability. Eating slowly and carefully, always more interested in conversation than food. How he slouched when he sat, even in command (though no one dare say so). Twelve years past and it was all coming back to Carson, like slamming into the gate with the shield up.

He’d been doing so well too, he lamented, turning his head back into the cushions and closing his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to admit the feelings, to confess the reason he refused Steven’s offer of employment under his command after finishing basic training twelve years before.

In the few weeks of training, professional respect soon turned to something more affectionate, something stronger than a crush, that Carson only just stopped himself from admitting aloud. And now… How funny life was, that he felt he had come so far – in time, profession, distance, and still when he looked at the now Colonel Steven Caldwell, he felt the same rush and passion as he had the then-major.

Cruel, indeed. One small rub at the back of his neck, and he was mush. How was he supposed to concentrate with this time off, spent in the presence of--

A full cough sounded from the bedroom, and Carson stumbled from the couch, his professionalism kicking in fast.

Steven was at the corner of the bed, hand covering his stomach protectively. Between coughs, he tried to say with some humour, “It’s not from the run.”

“Shut up,” the doctor said affectionately, reaching into his pocket for the radio.

“No, no,” Steven shook his head, noisily clearing his throat. “None of that. I’ll be fine, really.”

“That doesn’t sound--”

“I’ll be fine,” Steven insisted, shaking his head, the worse of the coughing fit passed.

Carson poured a glass of water from a pitcher ready on the nightstand and sat on the bed next to him, looking at him sideways. “How’s your stomach? Still sore?”

A flicker of annoyance passed through dark eyes as the colonel sipped the water but the doctor wasn’t about to be dissuaded. Very quickly, the room grew cold as the sun started to set, the quiet setting in as a reminder of reality.

Eventually Steven broke the solid heaviness of the mood, saying gruffly, “Sore, yeah. It’s always there now. Sometimes I don’t notice…”

Carson nodded.

“Why don’t you let me give you some pain medication?” The colonel rolled his eyes. “No one would have to know. You’re off-duty. Nothing that would make you drowsy, or cause you t’, I don’t know, rearrange Sheppard’s duty shifts or call th’ patrolling guards into attack positions,” Carson quietly rambled amicably.

Beside him, he felt Steven jostle. “You know, that first one… That wasn’t me. I wasn’t myself when--”

“Good lord, I’ve forgotten.” Damn. “I’m sorry. You know, ever since that time, I keep thinking… I might have noticed--”

“Carson, if you blame yourself…”

The doctor half-turned towards him, eying critically.

Steven finished triumphantly, “Then I will never let you win another of your little runs.”

“I didn’t win this one!” the doctor sputtered.

“But I had considered it,” Steven gruffly lamented.

The sun set fast on Atlantis, the room almost in darkness. Carson couldn’t let the conversation cover up what he suddenly felt to be an oversight on his part. “How bout every time you come t’ Atlantis, we fit in dinner? Or something.” He put a heavy hand on the colonel’s shoulder, coaxing him around to meet his gaze again. Why hadn’t he noticed a Goa’uld in his friend’s body? Why hadn’t anyone? “I’m getting a little tired of seeing a good friend so often, and our only conversation ending with yes, sir.”

Carson hadn’t imagined Steven moving into his touch, feeling the slightest graze of their heads together as he answered, “I’d like that.”

“Well. Good,” Carson answered enthusiastically. He stood and stretched wide, trying to cover his nervousness over their proximity. “Let’s take a run –er, walk down t’ th’ infirmary. I’ll pick you up something t’ help you with th’ soreness.” He looked down and met unhappy eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no one will know!”

“I know,” Steven said tiredly, standing. “I’m going. Car, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Stop stalling, and let’s go.”

--


…to be continued.