SPOILERS FOR 'SUNDAY'!
A/N: This really begged to be written, so I finally gave in. This can be taken as either an alternate ending, a missing scene, or a tag for 'Sunday'. Unbetaed.
Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon,
To the fisherman lost on the land.
He stands alone at the door of his home,
With his long-legged heart in his hand.
- Dylan Thomas
He hefts his pack and steps from the jumper. He hates flying the thing, really, though he will hardly admit this to Sheppard, but he can't have some idiot pilot – or worse, Sheppard himself – tagging along. This is something he needs to do alone.
He finds the place without too much trouble. He deliberately landed the jumper close by so he wouldn't have to schlep through miles of forest with all his gear, so even including the time it takes to untangle his vest from a low-hanging tree branch, it's only a five minute hike to the stream.
He gently lays the pack on the bank and rummages through it for the waders. Any other time, for any other reason, he wouldn't be caught dead in the ridiculous-looking garment; here, now, he doesn't give it a second thought. After tugging them on, he reaches into the pack again and pulls out the small can that lies on the bottom. Swallowing hard, he pops open the lid and gingerly withdraws a small worm. He fumbles with the can as he turns to slide the narrow rod from its ready-made pocket on the side of the pack. The hook snags on his vest a couple of times before he manages to figure out how to hold the thing straight, and then it's another titanic struggle to get the tiny piece of bait onto the even smaller barb. The tears in his eyes don't help any.
Finally sorted, he takes a deep breath and steps into the swiftly running current. He isn't a foot from the bank and the water isn't very deep, but he somehow feels as if he's just taken an enormous step forward. As he wades in deeper, he finds that the water swirling around his knees isn't entirely unpleasant. And the sunshine, on his SPF-100 protected skin, feels kind of good too. The pleasantness of the experience doesn't make him feel any better, though; if anything, it only increases his guilt the more.
To take his mind off the thoughts that Kate insists he shouldn't have, he tries to work out how to actually make the rod do its thing. He makes a few experimental flicks and tosses before accidentally casting properly and seeing his bob land several meters away with a small plunk. That inspires a slight pride, which in turn produces a smug, "Ha!" as if to an invisible partner. The absence of any reply causes his smile to droop and fade as his thoughts again turn to the friend that should be there.
He doesn't get a bite all day; he thinks the worm may have fallen off the hook but he doesn't particularly care. He stands in the stream, rod held loosely and probably incorrectly, the current taking the line where it will, and he remembers. The guilt is still there, nagging, but the stream is wearing down its rough edges as if it is one of the stones that litter its bed, smoothed by the long journey from wherever they began. The stream washes away some of the grief, too, slowly cleansing the wound and soothing it with its cool, gentle touch. He stands in that stream, no longer caring about the fish, wondering if he ever did, and he cries out the pain and the sadness and the aching loneliness.
It is only when the sky begins turning red that he turns back toward the bank. He packs up slowly, taking great care to place his friend's possessions exactly how he found them. He shoulders the pack and starts toward the jumper, his mission accomplished and his heart, if not exactly light, at least less heavy. Glancing one last time at the healing stream behind him, he allows himself one small smile.
"Goodbye, Carson."