1. Rodney Remembers

In fourteen years, Rodney has had 734 sessions of therapy. That's the equivalent of more than a month of his life spent sitting in a chair speaking with Kate Heightmeyer, a true MILF if he's ever seen one (though if Mom ever hears him say that, she'll ban him from hanging out with the Marines. Again).

Despite the amount of time movies and TV shows seem to spend talking about therapy and therapists and things like that, Rodney is pretty sure that his lifetime number of therapy hours has to be some sort of record. But then again, he is exceptional. That, he's always known.

Kate smiles at him. Her smile is warm and familiar, even if it is a little tired.

But then a memory flashes, an accusatory glare, a voice in his head, shouting, shouting, to give her control, and Kate allowing it, Kate betraying him like she never, ever would.

He flinches.

"Rodney?" she asks, leaning forward on the couch to rest her hand on his knee. A week ago, this would have had him half-hard and embarrassed. But not today. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Her eyes are deep and knowing and almost anxious, like she can't wait to break him apart and devour him.

"No," he stammers. "No. I'm fine. You know, same old, same old, working in the lab with Zelenka, Elizabeth's stupid insistence that coffee will stunt my growth, when I know for a fact that I'd grow up to be perfectly healthy if I started at age eleven."

"Rodney." Kate's eyes go wide. "How do you know that?"

He shrugs, searching himself for a lie. "Zelenka. He started when he was eleven."

Kate narrows her eyes. "Rodney." Her voice is still invitingly feminine, but stern, like his mother's. "I thought you referred to your godfather by his first name."

Rodney shrugs. "Everyone else in the lab calls him Zelenka."

"Rodney, I need for you to be honest with me. What do you remember?"

‘Don't trust her,' a part of him says. She's led him wrong before, though he can't remember exactly when.

He puts on his very best confused grin, the easy deflection that he and John share. "Remember? What do you mean, Kate?" He knows he still looks like a boy, all rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes, even if he is already fourteen, or maybe much older. He's confident in his bluff without John here to blab on him (the little tattle-tale, part of him thinks, even as he remembers another John, thrown bleeding at his feet, eyes swollen shut as he spit out the words, ‘Didn't tell them anything.').

She stares at him for a long moment, air heavy and stale, the past hanging above them like a sword. "Nothing. But if you have any problems, Rodney, anything at all, know you can talk to me."

She's been telling him the same thing all his life, but he still doesn't believe her. Not this. He can't tell her this.

"I know," he says, adding a winning smile. He'll have to give her something – something to get her off his back. John used to say this – a long time ago, a different John used to tell him that everyone broke, that you'd eventually give something away. The trick was to give away something you could afford instead of something you couldn't. "I guess I've just been having these feelings recently." He shrugs. "Maybe I should talk to Carson instead."

"What kind of feelings, Rodney?"

Rodney shrugs shyly. "I think maybe . . . I might . . . um . . . I might kinda like guys. But you're still . . . wow, you're still something."

Kate laughs at that. She'd been indulging his crush on her. He can see that now, though a week ago he wouldn't have believed it to be anything other than a secret passion she was harboring for his lithe young body. "Well, thank you, Rodney. I'm flattered." She pats his leg again. "Now, it's perfectly normal to . . ."

If she can indulge his juvenile crush, then he can indulge her psychobabble. He knows the right lines. He's had this conversation before, a lifetime ago.

When he's done he skips out of Kate's office and down the corridor. Mom and John will be almost done practicing in the gym by now and if he doesn't show, she will worry about him.

Rodney rounds the corner to find John, all skinny awkward limbs, in a pile on the floor, mop of unruly hair and Star Wars t-shirt. "But, Mom," he whines, "I'm never going to win if you won't show me the counter-move."

John is never going to beat Rodney. Not only is he four years younger, but he's too skinny, sickly almost. Ever since that near-miss with Athosian pneumonia four years ago, he's needed an inhaler even to use the Playstation VR.

But then he turns from where Mom is helping him up, a slow smile spreading across his face, making his hazel eyes sparkle beneath the frazzled mop of hair that hangs down in front of them. Something flashes in Rodney's memory: John, a man, that same smile, turned flirtatious and seductive, the sickly paleness transforming itself into gorgeous contrast of dark hairs against milky skin, thin giving way to tall and sleek and perfect.

Rodney looks away. "Hey, don't let me stop you letting Mom kick your ass."

"Language, Rodney," Mom sighs, resigned. Her eyes are soft brown, like her skin, so different from her children. Her hair is long and golden, like it has been since she had John and stopped being on a field team. He used to wonder what Mom was like before – when she was cool, instead of just farming and leading ceremonies and going to meeting after meeting with Aunt Elizabeth. Now he knows.

She turns to John. "How many times must I tell you that this is not a competition, John?"

John shrugs, turning around again to give Rodney a wink.

"Now that Rodney is here to practice with you, I believe Colonel Lorne has requested my presence."

"I don't need a babysitter," John pouts, but rushes over to Rodney the second Mom is out of sight. He tackles Rodney before he can even get a word out.

"Hey! No fair! John, you know how easily I bruise!"

John just laughs, forcing Rodney's arms to the ground, sharp elbows digging into his gut.

"John! I'm serious! Mom said practice, not permanently rupture my spleen with your bony little elbows!"

John's face is right up in his, breathing hard. "Don't be such a crybaby, Rodney," John complains, trying for a better hold as Rodney squirms beneath him.

But John is lighter and less experienced, even if a lifetime ago he could kill 64 men in a day without even blinking. Rodney, manages to get a hand free to tickle John's side before he flips them over so he's on top.

John is panting beneath him, the exertion straining his weak lungs. But that's not what Rodney sees. He sees John, older, naked, beautiful, spread out before him, gasping and begging. ‘More, harder, god, Rodney, fuck me.'

He pushes John down by the shoulders as he stands up, panting himself, but not from the exertion. He turns away, hiding his hard-on.

"C'mon, Rodney, I would've gotten out of that," John wheezes, pushing himself to his feet.

"I don't know where you get this deluded sense of optimism, John. You're like one of those yappy little dogs that think they can chase down mail trucks."

‘See, things are looking up,' John had said. ‘Way to stay positive.'

"Mail trucks?" John asks, head cocking to the side in an innocent way that the John Sheppard of Rodney's memory could never pull off.

"Forget it." Rodney needs to get out of here. He needs to get back to his room so he can jerk off thinking about fucking his little brother. He's sick, and everyone knows it. They've known it since the day he was born – hence the therapy, hence the odd looks every now and then, hence the secret parts of the database that even Rodney can't hack.

But, like the annoying brat of a younger brother that he is, John just brushes himself off and trails after Rodney. "But Rod-ney, I want to spar s'more. Please! Please, please, please. I'll give you my blue Jell-o tonight at dinner! C'mon. We can play Search for Spock. You can be Kirk this time."

Rodney gives John a good smack on the back of the head. It's what older brothers do, after all. It has nothing to do with this pervasive memory, an innocuous comment, a lack of trust, a brief punishment. At least John being an annoying little ass is enough to kill the hard on.

"Hey!" John protests, punching Rodney in the arm. "For that, I get to be Kirk."?
"How very 1967 of you."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"C'mon, Rodney. Just one game. Hey, maybe we can sneak into the Jumper Bay. We won't open the roof up this time, so we won't get caught. I promise!"

"No, I have very important research to do. Zelenka gave me a project to work on tonight, and if I don't, we could be looking at . . ."

John tugs on Rodney's shirtsleeve. "What? One of the greenhouses might go a night without power? If you're such an important smarty-pants, then why doesn't he give you something real to do?"

Rodney's usual response would be to say something nasty back, but instead he says. "I'm going for a run. See you later." And then he takes off.

John pants after him until the second ring of transporters, before finally collapsing against the wall with a breathless cry of. "Roooodney! Not fair! I'm telling Mom." John has always been able to convince Mom of anything. Actually, he has pretty much all the women wrapped around his little finger.

If Rodney remembers correctly, that isn't going to change.

He's at the outer limit of the city before he stops, finding an empty room where he can prop himself up against the wall and think. He's a virgin. He hasn't even seen any of the porn that's locked so tightly away on the base server (goddamned Zelenka). But he knows . . .

He knows the way John moans when he comes, a low deep half-shout, like it hurts so good. He knows the way he always makes sure to look up through his eyelashes when he's sucking cock, sliding down slowly, fingers gripping tight on wildly thrusting hips. He knows soft kisses and desperate violent games and drunken fumbling.

He also knows exactly how it feels to die, but he doesn't think about that as he strokes himself, half disgusted, half desperate with it. It's been so long, too long, and John . . . John is still fucking beautiful, though he doesn't know it yet.

But he's also annoying and playful and immature, and still so young. Four years might as well be a lifetime.

Rodney doesn't know how long he sits there, letting the memories swirl around him. He can't remember everything. But there are equations and twisted sheets and screaming, and damn, there was a time when he could accidentally eject the clip while trying to fire a weapon (how embarrassing). And John . . . John would be strong and loyal and just plain gorgeous, voice a rich tenor, eyes lusty and inviting, all smooth swagger and flirtatious grins.

It must be pushing dinnertime when the door opens and John slides in, laptop bulky under one arm and a plate of cookies balanced on the other. "Are you mad at me?" he asks, shyly. In this life, John looks up to him, not the other way around.

Rodney hates seeing him so vulnerable. He always has, in a way. Now he knows why. "Of course not, you moron. Why would I be mad at you?"

John shrugs. He's so shy, sometimes. Rodney wonders if the other John was ever like this. He opens up his laptop, slowly, still looking sad and vulnerable, confused almost.

"What's that?"

"I hacked into one of the secure files in the database. It was gene-encoded." If Rodney thought the city loved John the first time around, he never could have anticipated how growing up surrounded by Ancient technology could affect John. "It was encoded to my gene."

John turns the computer around so Rodney can see. They're photos, just photos, just like his memories. John and Rodney, arms around each other, smiling. Mom, younger and wow . . . hot. A guy Rodney remembers vaguely as Aiden Ford. Ronon, looking even more terrifying than usual. And the last one . . . John and Rodney, the old one with the flabby middle and the receding hairline, on sandy beach, lips locked in a passionate kiss.

"What does this mean?" John practically whimpers. "Are these men . . . are they our fathers?"

Rodney almost laughs at that, but he calms himself, transfixed by the narrow point of John's jaw, the bright confusion in his eyes. "No," he whispers. "They're us."

"Like the future?" John's lower jaw is trembling. He's terrified in a way John Sheppard never would have been.

Rodney shakes his head. "No, the past."

"And we . . . I don't understand . . ." John whimpers, suddenly flinging himself forward onto Rodney's chest, clingy, as always. He buries his face in Rodney's T-shirt, thin arms gripping tight.

There's a warm body in his lap and he's fourteen, so of course something's going to come up. Rodney squirms until he can look cross-eyed at John's face. "Hey," he says, "it's going to be okay. You have to be brave. Try not to faint or anything."

John nods, slowly, looking suddenly mature for his age. "Pass out," he corrects.

‘Pass out from manly hunger,' a voice in Rodney's head says.

"John?" he asks, suddenly unsure.

John smiles a brave little smile, their bodies still pressed together.

Rodney buries his face in John's shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent – soap and sweat and skin, and it's John. "Tell me you remember."

"I remember," John's voice is too small, but he says he remembers. He remembers. It's like permission.

So Rodney tangles his hands in John's spiky hair, softer now. He pulls him down into a kiss. John's lips move tentatively against his, and he's trembling, but God, this is so good. And John remembers and they can be together again and Rodney doesn't have to worry about Reka turning him down for another date, or one of those awkward high school proms that they see on TV, or the old Rodney's disgusting horrible first time with some fat physics groupie and how he came from just her hand on his cock and . . .

He reaches down. John's penis is small and hairless in his hands, but so silky smooth, and he gasps when Rodney fondles his balls, even if his body doesn't yet know how to get hard. His face is buried in Rodney's neck and Rodney is pushing up against him and . . .

The door slides open and Mom and Elizabeth and Radek and Kate are all there, looking down on them.

"Oh my god!" Elizabeth breathes.

John is up and running to Mom. Only now does Rodney see the tears, when John presses his face into her chest, sobbing.

Radek swears in Czech, stepping protectively between John and Rodney.

But it's Kate that Rodney looks to, bewildered. "Will he ever remember?"

She shakes her head, stern and sympathetic at the same time. "I don't know."