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Post-Sunday
Jun. 1st, 2008 12:13 pmLorne always thought his next trip back to Earth would be a happy occasion. He figured he’d visit his mom, maybe his sister, see if he could get a door to Milliways to show up so he could bring Jack somewhere with jets.
He didn’t expect to walk through the ‘gate carrying a casket, certainly not one draped with a Scottish flag.
During the funeral, Lorne watches Carson’s mother. She’s surrounded by friends and family, people Carson knew, cared for, healed. He isn’t at all surprised to see so many people there. He’s almost surprised there aren’t more. Mrs. Beckett looks tiny, dressed all in black, dwarfed by the crowd of mourners.
Afterwards there’s food. Lorne supposes it’s a way to cope. Something to do when things get too awkward for speech. He spots Mrs. Beckett across the room and makes his way over to offer his condolences.
He wants to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. God, please yell at me. Hit me. Do something. All I had to do was go fishing with him. I killed him. It was me. It was just a fucking painting…”
Instead, he takes her hand and whispers, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She hugs him as though it were his son who’d died and says, “I’m so glad my boy had friends like you. I’m so glad he wasn’t lonely.”
Lorne can’t stand the way she looks at him like he’s some kind of hero, can’t stand the way Carson’s nephews gaze adoringly at his uniform. He wants to tell them he’s not what they think, wishes they’d glare at him instead. He’s sure his guilt is written across his face, and he almost wonders why no one has yet called him a murderer.
He carefully extracts himself from her embrace and mumbles some sort of excuse, suddenly desperate to get some air.
Threading his way past family members, friends, colleagues, he pushes the front door open and steps outside.
He didn’t expect to walk through the ‘gate carrying a casket, certainly not one draped with a Scottish flag.
During the funeral, Lorne watches Carson’s mother. She’s surrounded by friends and family, people Carson knew, cared for, healed. He isn’t at all surprised to see so many people there. He’s almost surprised there aren’t more. Mrs. Beckett looks tiny, dressed all in black, dwarfed by the crowd of mourners.
Afterwards there’s food. Lorne supposes it’s a way to cope. Something to do when things get too awkward for speech. He spots Mrs. Beckett across the room and makes his way over to offer his condolences.
He wants to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. God, please yell at me. Hit me. Do something. All I had to do was go fishing with him. I killed him. It was me. It was just a fucking painting…”
Instead, he takes her hand and whispers, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She hugs him as though it were his son who’d died and says, “I’m so glad my boy had friends like you. I’m so glad he wasn’t lonely.”
Lorne can’t stand the way she looks at him like he’s some kind of hero, can’t stand the way Carson’s nephews gaze adoringly at his uniform. He wants to tell them he’s not what they think, wishes they’d glare at him instead. He’s sure his guilt is written across his face, and he almost wonders why no one has yet called him a murderer.
He carefully extracts himself from her embrace and mumbles some sort of excuse, suddenly desperate to get some air.
Threading his way past family members, friends, colleagues, he pushes the front door open and steps outside.
