probiewankenobi

'Sometimes the Homefront isn't the safest place to be,' the young lieutenant thought as he walked down the corridor to the briefing room.

He had asked to see them. Weir. Sheppard. Teyla. Ronon. And...Rodney. This was something he wanted share with them.

Aside from himself, the corridor was empty. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the walls. The eeriness made his heart pound; he was waiting for it to pop out of his chest. Maybe it was just nerves. Although he knew Sheppard and Weir fairly well, the others were more acquaintances than anything else. Especially Dr. Rodney McKay. The lieutenant rarely ventured near the scientists. But he did know Carson Beckett.

The echoing footfalls came to a halt as he stopped in front of the briefing room door. Taking a deep breath he knocked and said, "It's Lt. Keith, Dr. Weir."

"Enter."
 

"A mandatory playday?" I said questioningly, more to myself than anyone.

Okay, so playday wasn't exactly how it was put; but technically, that's what it was. I'm all for mandatory rest. I love hanging out with my friends and doing absolutely nothing; especially when you're usually on call 24/7. I suppose for others (meaning other than me) it feels far longer than that.

Yes, we all need to relax and push our worries and cares aside. But is it truly possible to completely relax and not worry about anything? To just take the day off and not give your job a second thought?

I've often what ran through the minds of those New York firefighters whose day-off happened on 9/11. Those who went to work on what was their day to relax, to do nothing. Those that didn't go in because they felt they had to. They didn't have to. But they wanted to. They went to work on their day off because they cared. They had no idea what awaited them, what would happen to them. Or if they would live to see their families and friends again.

They were men of courage and integrity. Men of compassion and honor, who weren't afraid to die.

Carson Beckett was a man of courage and integrity, of compassion and honor. He was a man who wasn't afraid to die. He was always where he needed to be.

Sunday was his day off.

Call me skeptical, but when you have a job where anything can and does happen, I believe there's no such thing as a day-off.

Here I am with hundreds of other people, countless miles, or light-years, or whatever you want to use, from home, on another planet in another galaxy, living on a floating city I still know very little about. I'm in it for the adventure, right? But with adventure comes danger. Surprises around every corner. And when you're on another planet, the danger and surprises seem far greater. But you still do your job, regardless of what might be lying in wait.

People find it hard to believe that something that's so innocent looking could be so deadly.

I know there are many jobs in which a person can truly take the day off, where their services will not be required. However, that job doesn't exist here.

I sat in my quarters on Monday thinking about mandatiry rest and how there are those who seem to find an alternate meaning for it, who don't take it. And it's usually those who enforce it. They always seem to find the need to catch up on something work related. "Hey, a day off. I think I'll do something work-related."

You're not supposed to work on your day off, especially on a Sunday. At least, that's what I was taught. Sunday was not a day of work. It was a day of rest. My ma would say, "Whatever needs to be done can wait. I can guarantee it will be there tomorrow. You rest on Sunday."

A lot of "what ifs" have been running through my mind. What if everyone had put-off all things work-related? What if everyone had kept their original plans and not tried to squirm out of them? What if Dr. Beckett had gone fishing? What if that device had not been touched by Watson and Houston? Would someone else have touched it? Would what had transpired that day happened at all? Maybe, maybe not.

But if it hadn't happened that day, that doesn't guarantee it would never happen.

I can ask all the "what if" questions I want, but what's done is done. And it can't change.

No one's to blame. It happened. No matter how much anyone wants to place blame, whether on themselves or on someone else, it's nobody's fault.

That's what Doc Beckett would say.

I know this for certain. I spent more time with the doc than most. I spent more time in the infirmary than most. I came in so many times with cuts all over my hands he once asked me if I kept snapping turtles in my pockets. I came in so often he started greeting me with, "So what's your ailment this time?"

No matter what I came in for, he always had a smile for me. And occasionally, some kind of comment.

We began sharing stories about our lives back on earth, about our families. On one occasion we were discussing sports and he told me about his bad golfing experiences. When he was ten, he inadvertantly let go of his club when he teed-off. Tennis didn't work out so well, either. He served the ball and his racquet went right along with it.

I'm guessing these might be reasons why he took up fishing. Heh.

I can't laugh too much, though. I didn't fair any better in those sports. My dad would yell at me to stop holding my golf club like a hockey stick. I got good distance, the ball just ended up hitting golf carts...and other golfers. My tennis coach would keep telling me to stop holding my racquet like a baseball bat. It worked, though! For the most part. My opponents spent more time running away from my returns than trying to return them.

The doc would laugh and tell me it was good for everyone else that I stuck with hockey and baseball. He once told me that if anyone was annoying me, I should challenge them to a tennis match.

I'm still not sure if he was being sarcastic or serious.

As humorous as most of my visits ended up being, Doc Beckett was there for the more sober moments, too. The times when I was feeling down or homesick or if I was just in a bad mood. He had a way of bringing me back up and getting me back into a good mood. He could always bring me out of that abysmal pit I occasionally put myself in. On one particularly bad day, Doc Beckett told me I could come talk to him anytime, not just in the infirmary. Even if he was trying to get some sleep. And I did that quite often. He never turned me away. He was never too busy. Well, unless he was in surgery or somethin' like that.

Doc Beckett didn't have to do that. But he did. He didn't have to do what he did on Sunday. But he did. He did it for the people he cared about. Without giving any thought to his own well-being. He just did it.

I'll miss all those talks we shared. Heh. I miss 'em already. I miss him. I can't tell you how much I miss him. I just do. You can't put any kind of measurement on that. You shouldn't try to, either.

Sunday was my day-off. Sunday was your day-off.... Sunday was Doc Beckett's day-off.

You see, if there's one thing I've learned from all this, it's this: Heroes never get a day off.

Carson Beckett was a hero.

He was my hero.


The lieutenant looked up from the short stack of papers he held in front of himself and looked around at those sitting around the table. "Well, that's all.... That's all I wanted to say."

He fidgeted slightly. They were all difficult to read, but he was sure they all appreciated what he had to say. After a few apprehensive moments, he saw Teyla smile at him; Ronon gave him a quick nod of approval; Sheppard did the same. McKay had looked away, but the lieutenant decided to stay quiet and turned to Weir.

She smiled at him and gave him a nod of approval. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Lt. Keith smiled back. "If you don't need me for anything, I'll--"

"You may go," she said.

He thought about saluting but the look from Sheppard told him it wasn't necessary. He gave them a small smile and walked out. As he made his way down the corridor, he heard the soft 'whoosh' of the briefing room door.

"Uh, Lieutenant?"

It was Rodney McKay. "Yes, Sir?"

"I, uh," McKay stuttered slightly, unsure of his words. "I just want to thank you for, uh, what you said about Carson and wanting to tell us."

The lieutenant gave him a cock-eyed smile. "You're welcome."

McKay smiled and the lieutenant turned to leave. "Uhm, one more thing."

"Yes, Dr. McKay?"

"I was, uh, just wondering what your first name is. Sheppard wouldn't tell me."

Lt. Keith grinned. "It's Beckett, Sir."

Rodney fidgeted with his hands and gave the lieutenant a cock-eyed grin. "Well, isn't that interesting."

The lieutenant's grin broadened into a smile. "Yeah, the doc liked it, too."

He sits at his desk, silently, taking a sip of his coffee. He flips through some papers, not really reading them, just glancing at them, perusing their contents. He could draw on them if he wanted to, no one there with him would care. It's late. Virtually everyone has gone home for the night. There are no new cases tonight; nor are there any lingering ones. There are a few cold cases, but there's nothing anyone can do about them right now. New sources will arise, new leads will develop. For now, he enjoys the silence.

His watch beeps, signaling a new hour. His medical examiner had gone home hours ago. His forensics specialist had finally left around nine. He remains at the office simply because he does not feel like going home just yet, though he wonders why his team has elected to stay here with him. They should all be home, not here. There's nothing here for them to do.

He looks up from his desk at his junior agent. He has long since passed the "Probie Stage" and has grown into a fine agent, though the moniker still remains. The agent's asleep. He needs to wake the young man up soon; but for now, he lets Tim sleep. It's been a long day and he's worked hard. He deserves the rest.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he looks over at his senior agent. He's pretending to do paperwork. The agent tries to stifle a yawn but fails miserably. He's come a long way since he first became an agent, especially in these last few years. He grins as he glances back and forth between him and Tim, then he chuckles softly to himself. He thinks about slapping him on the back of the head, but Tony's worked hard today. So he let's the man be...for now.

He takes another sip of his coffee and looks over at the young woman seated at the desk once occupied by a former agent of his. She is not an agent. Nonetheless, she belongs to him. It was rocky in the beginning when she first came aboard, but things have smoothed out since then. Unlike Tim and Tony, Ziva's wide-awake, working. She's also worked hard today.

The elevator dings and the door opens. A young man in scrubs steps out, yawning. He thought the assisstant medical examiner had gone home. He must have fallen asleep down in Autopsy. Ducky must have run him ragged. The young man hands him a file and yawns again. He smiles as the young man turns and walks back to the elevator. He may work for Ducky, but Jimmy's still one of his.

Gibbs leans back in his chair, coffee cup in his hands. He scans the dimly lit room, looking at his three "kids." He should tell them to go home. But he'll do that later. For now, he'll just enjoy the moment.