6. Crash and Burn

Mer almost never felt guilty about anything. There was no point to it, even on the rare (extremely rare) occasions it might have been justified. He wasn’t superman, as he told O’Neill repeatedly (for all the good it did him), but as his mother pointed out: He was different from other people; better.

Which meant that the vast majority his mistakes were either so catastrophic they could not have been avoided (he still cringed at the mention of Doranda) or they weren’t actually his fault. There was no reason for him to feel guilty either way, because on the one hand: inevitable; and on the other: morons.

He spun the ring on his finger.

“So is he coming?” Lorne leaned against the lab table, his arms crossed but otherwise fairly relaxed.

“Yes.” Mer stopped playing with the ring and rubbed his face. “Yes, when he’s well enough they’ll pitch him through the gate.”

“I get the feeling he didn’t exactly volunteer.” Lorne smirked. Mer returned the expression.

“He didn’t. I had to kill him off.”

Lorne’s smirk broadened into a grin. “Literally or figuratively?”

“Both, I think. Well, I just did the figurative part. Carson did a good job of killing him on the operating table a couple of times.” Mer returned the smirk.

“And yet, he lives.” Lorne shook his head. “Sheppard had a reputation before he got himself dishonorably discharged, you know.”

Mer frowned, because Lorne offering up information was new. “You knew him?”

“No. Not personally. But his crash-and-burn was pretty spectacular, even if his father got the court martial dropped. Word of mouth; when a pilot flames out like that, we all find out about it one way or another.” Lorne shrugged. “Probably why I hear C³’s against folding Sheppard into the SGC.”

“And we all know how well I pay attention to the Triumvirate.” Mer leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms to mimic Lorne. “Why are we having this discussion?”

“Last time you pulled a fast one, it didn’t end so well,” Lorne said, looking angrily at the wall in front of him.

Mer curled his left hand into a fist, the ring biting into his skin.

“This is different.”

“Don’t make me regret approving the transfer.”

“It won’t be me making you regret it. Save your concern for the Air Force drop out.”

“Oh, I will. But you have a habit of getting your pet projects killed.” Lorne looked straight at him, and it was Mexican stand off until Mer blinked, hating himself for the weakness. Lorne sighed. “Or do you still blame me?”

“The only person I blame is that suicidal maniac for flying a nuclear bomb into a hive ship.” Which was a lie, because if Mer had managed to fix the programming, it would not have been necessary for anyone to fly it. No one would have had to make that call, no one would have decided in that split moment of insanity to fly away and die. It had only taken a blink in time, no longer than a heart attack or a drowning or a field medic getting shot: the greatest deviations were never more than a flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

But in the end, there was only one person to blame, only one person who deserved the guilt, and Mer was not going to let Lorne take that away from him. He turned back to his work. “Now get the fuck out, I’ve got work to do.”

Lorne gracefully didn’t answer as he walked away. Mer was used to it.