Laura sat on her bed, stone still as the last rays of the Atlantean sunset stole through her window. In her hands, she loosely clutched the personal item that had been left for her. A shirt. It was fitting for him to leave something like that behind for him. No books of sentimental value, no pictures or any number of useless knick-knacks he kept in his room. He knew she wasn't that kind of girl.

Part of her felt guilty. She had been offered a chance to return the body to Earth, under the grounds of ex-girlfriend. For some reason, she had turned them down in favor of hiding in her room with nothing but his shirt to honor his passing.

Even now, she could foretell what she would do with it. Each morning, before she prepared for the day, she would hold it close and catch his scent, fooling herself for just a moment that she was in her arms and everything was okay. On particularly bad nights, when the pain became too much, she would wear it to bed or out on the balcony, gazing out at the endless expanse of alien stars as she had with him. The routine would become habit that a day she hadn't held the shirt would prove to be a bad one, even long after his scent had vanished from it.

It didn't matter how long they'd been apart. She had never stopped caring about him. Never stopped… loving him? Who knew. Maybe if she hadn't been so pushy, hadn't started their relationship off on the wrong foot… if they'd still been together, she knew she would have gone fishing with him, and he would have been safe on the mainland. If she had done just one thing different. If she had pestered him one less time, gone one more day without stealing that toothpaste he liked so much…

A hot tear fell down her face. Laura wiped it away with more vigor than was strictly necessary, inhaling sharply. She wasn't the sort of girl that went around wailing about her problems.

"It's all right, lass," a familiar voice murmured. "It's good to cry once in a while."

Laura sighed and closed her eyes.

"Ah no," she muttered, shaking her head. This was a bad sign. Hearing voices, especially of those dearly departed, meant a one-way ticket to Heightmeyer's office.

"Hey," the voice cooed, brimming with the sort of compassion that only Carson could carry. "Laura, look at me."

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, mouthing a breathless 'no'.

"Laura." His voice was nearly pleading with her now. "Come on, we'll get through this together."

"How?" She asked, voice cracking. She turned and dared a glance at him. How could he sit there so serenely, perched on her chair as though this was just a typical argument to be sorted out. "How, Carson? You're dead, you shouldn't even be here!"

"Yes, well," he admit with a casual shrug. "The Ancients tend to bend the rules when it comes to saying farewells, but I'm to keep my business strictly to Atlantis."

"You ascended," she stated unabashedly. "So this really will be the last time, then?"

"Aye."

Laura glanced back down at her comforter and its delicate white folds. White. All she had ever pictured when people said 'ascended' was a lot of white light. She had never pictured a face.

"Carson, I'm sorry," she blubbered, turning suddenly back to him. "If I'd been more sensitive during the whole Michael thing, I-"

"It was never about you, Laura," Carson assured her, leaning forward. "I was the one breaking away."

"Then what about that first kiss?"

Carson bobbed his head in agreement.

"Aye, that could have been a bit more graceful. But to be perfectly honest, I got a bit of a laugh about it later. It was Rodney who was always so uncomfortable."

Something about his tone made the whole thing seem so insignificant. She tried to choke it down, but a giggle burst unbidden from her throat. Embarrassed, she clapped a hand over her lips.

"There's the Laura I know," Carson said fondly. "With that girly laugh of yours."

"It's not that girly," Laura muttered, but she knew he was right. For someone who tried to transform all femininity into strength, she had a collection of tiny attributes that could have easily suggested she was quite the cheerleader.

A silence descended upon them. Laura gazed down at the floor between them, just catching sight of his feet. She wasn't brave enough to look him in the eye. Those perfect blue eyes… and this would be her last time to see them, too.

"What's it like up there?" she asked dumbly.

"Classified," Carson sighed. "You wouldn't believe how stern our ancestors are."

Laura smiled.

"I heard the same thing from Dr. Jackson," she said. "Well, I mean, not from him, exactly, but a friend who had lunch with him and-" she faltered, returning her eyes to his amused face. "Oh, God. I'm really wasting time, aren't I?"

"Technically, there's no time left for us at all, seeing as they're having a funeral over my lab coat back on Earth," Carson reminded her. Laura swallowed again. The tears were returning, blurring her view of him.

"How did it end up like this, Carson?" she asked.

"I can't say," he answered.

"I wanted us to do so much together," she insisted. "I missed you, but all that time, I always thought that someday we could start over. Now I'm just gonna… gonna go on missing you forever."

"Not necessarily," he said, that calm smile gracing his features. Laura had never realized before how many wrinkles he had, and yet, not one of them suggested age. For once, she didn't interrupt him. "Who knows? Maybe one of those marines will finally see the you beneath the sweat and dirt."

"I don't want one of them to see me," she argued. "I only ever wanted you."

"That isn't going to work out anymore," he explained calmly. To him, this must have been so routine, now that he was ascended. Like explaining exactly what had happened to her ankle while she was jogging, gruesome details and all. Just part of the trade.

"Carson," she whispered. "I think I loved you. How can I just shrug and go on as though it never happened."

"You don't. You can cry, you can miss me-heaven knows I miss you and I haven't even really left yet-but you learn to go on with life. I can say it until I'm blue in the face, but it's got to be done."

The tears slipped unbidden down her face. Laura made to wipe them away, but stopped herself. Instead, she hugged his shirt closer.

"Ah," he said, leaning back in the chair. "I had hoped that you would get that shirt."

Laura chuckled hollowly.

"Whoever said I wanted one of your stupid shirts?"

"I always liked the way they looked on you."

"They were too big," she retorted.

"All the better."

Laura nodded. Not so long ago, Carson's uniform shirts and a pair of Winnie-the-Pooh boxers were her favorite pajamas. How many times had Carson gotten a chuckle out of those boxers? She couldn't remember. Didn't matter now.

"Carson?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have to go soon?"

He sighed.

"Probably."

"Will you watch the stars with me one more time?"

"Of course.

o-o-o

Laura changed into his shirt and her boxers, mindful that Carson stood watching her. She could almost pretend it was like old times. She would strip down with her back to him, knowing how flustered it often made him. He would glance aside like a gentleman, a slight blush rising to his cheeks as he occasionally risked a glance. Now she had no idea whether or not he was so embarrassed. When she turned around, he stood a tranquil as he had all evening, smiling that strange, new, all-knowing smile.

They sat out on the balcony, watching as the first stars emerged from the inky depths of the darkening sky and talking about events long past. Near the end of their reminiscing, one of them began the Star Game. One by one, they took turns naming what the alien stars planets probably had in store. When they'd first played it ages ago, it had been a nervous method to pacify their still fresh discomfort with their new home. Then, it had grown into a common way to talk without the pressure of really having to say anything. Carson seemed to particularly enjoy the ridiculous theories they bounced off one another. Even with his newly ascended knowledge, he never let on as to whether or not he actually knew what each star held.

"I bet that planet has beans just like cocoa beans."

"Well, if that one has cocoa beans, that star there has a city made entirely from seashells."

"That one probably has flatscreen tv's."

"Then that one is ruled by a three headed dog."

"On that bright one over there, people can walk through walls and think nothing of it."

"There, houseplants actually talk back to you when you sing to them."

The game went on until night stretched across the expanse of the Atlantean sky. Somewhere between the ocean of pudding and the trees that grew football-sized mangos, Laura recalled admitting something to him she had never before realized herself. Then, the conversation steadily slipped into something profoundly heartfelt. There were tears, confessions, apologies, and at last, peace. He never once laid a hand on her arm in comfort – he probably couldn't – but she felt closer than she ever had in her life.

Around midnight, Laura felt the heavy brush of sleep against her eyes. She fought desperately against it, but when Carson knelt by her chair and encouraged her to close her eyes, she felt herself slipping away.

Her dreams were filled with memories and fantasies she had always treasured about him. A vague part of her sat back, watching herself. Yes, this was the same way she had grieved for her grandfather, her best friend, and the comrades she had lost in the line of duty. That didn't make it any easier to accept, though. She never wanted to admit that this was grieving, that it was true Carson was dead, but it was.

She awoke the next morning tucked safely in her bed, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, clutching at his shirt. It still smelled like him. Startled, she sat up and glanced around. A peach-colored dawn lit the world outside, but for all its beauty, he was gone.

Laura wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her head beneath the safe enclosure of her long hair. This position made his scent that much more powerful. It was musky, as a man's ought to have been, but the distinct scents of antiseptic and mint distinguished it from any other.

Alone in her room, while the rest of Atlantis grieved together, Laura Cadman unabashedly sobbed until there were no tears left.