4. Neither John Nor Rodney Remembers

John dislikes Los Angeles the second he steps off the plane. The air is that familiar sea-breeze dry and the sun is bright, though without the same pastel tinge as Atlantis. But the hustle of so many people, walking and walking down long pointless white corridors to the baggage claim in a daze . . . it’s like the Twilight Zone, only far more alien.

A group of young girls rush around him, all dressed in a violent pink he’s never seen before and pulling mini play-suitcases behind them.

“Permiso,” a large woman wearing a confusingly bright green t-shirt and farmer-pants pushes past him, trundling after the girls as they dance and giggle, long braids flopping behind them.

It’s all so confusing and John is nervous. What if it isn’t the same? What if Rodney has this whole new life like the movies and he doesn’t want his stupid little brother tagging along? What if John can’t make friends here? What if his asthma acts up and he has to go home? What if CalTech is like the Marine Academy that Sergeant Morris described?

But then it doesn’t matter, because the final ‘escalor?’ down to the baggage claim reveals him like a dream, standing there in jeans and a familiar ripped t-shirt, math equations scrawled across it.

“Rodney!” He’s older now, more filled out after three years, but his hair is still a big golden mop, with a pair of sunglasses buried inside, smile still crooked, eyes still piercing blue.

Rodney grins and pulls John into his arms, touching their foreheads together for a lingering, gripping embrace. “I missed you,” Rodney confesses right off the bat. He’s always been the more emotionally open one, while John himself is prone to shy silence.

He pulls back and Rodney looks him over, frowning. “Hey, are you taller than me now?”

John laughs. “It’s all the orange juice I’ve been drinking in your absence.”

Rodney gives him a little smack to the side of the head for that. “Yeah, well, if you’re going to be staying with me these next few weeks, you’re going to have to put a stop to that. There shall be no death-juice allowed in my general vicinity. C’mon, let’s get your suitcase and get out of here. You have no idea how much parking costs these days.”

Costs? Oh yeah, he’s going to have to figure out this whole money thing.

John’s is one of the first bags out of the chute – a green military duffel, which Rodney grabs, shaking his head. “This is all you brought?”

“Well, I had two more, but the SGC people confiscated the others for ‘possible cultural contamination and classified materials.’” He shrugs.

Rodney rolls his eyes. “Of course, those berserbek-heads. Don’t they realize that this is LA? I’d have to jump over a couple of buildings and shoot laser beams out of my eyes for anybody to notice anything strange.”

Leaving the terminal, John almost gets run over by it large yellow bus-like thing. Rodney grabs his arm and yanks him back. “Walking man means go, red hand means stop. God, you’re just as clueless as ever, aren’t you?”

John shrugs. So he’s not the most observant of people.

“So, how’s Mom?” Rodney asks.

“She’s good. Misses you.” Rodney had always been more of a mother’s boy than John. Something in him seemed to crave that kind of deep, comforting love. Maybe because Rodney’s father died when he was still little. “She’s going to come visit us when you graduate next year. And Aunt Elizabeth will be by in six months for the annual debrief.”

“And Reka?”

John looks away. John attended her wedding just before the Mercury run that brought him here. “I, uh . . . well, you didn’t really expect her to wait for you, did you?”

Rodney sighs. “Not really. But hey, you’re not such a scrawny scarecrow anymore. You find a special someone?”

John looks down at his feet, cheeks flushing. He’s been with people. A one night stand here, another there, until Aunt Elizabeth found out about it and gave him the big lecture about respecting women, especially in a closed community like Atlantis. God, that was embarrassing.

“Not particularly.”

Rodney rolls his eyes, cuffing him. “You are such a little slut.”

Maybe, but not as much as Rodney probably thinks. In truth, even John’s masturbation fantasies have been pretty much on hold since Rodney left.

It’s always the same: skilled hands, abrupt almost squeaking laugh, crooked mouth, blue, blue eyes, small breathy pants.

Surely Rodney remembers that one night just before he decided to leave for Earth when they broke into Sergeant Parson’s secret porn-stash and crawled up into the rafters together. John was still recovering from a relapse of his lung condition and Rodney had to hold him close, wrapped in a blanket against the cold.

John can’t remember the tape anymore, but he can remember the strange hands, somehow familiar, reaching down to grip him as he gasped and shivered, reaching out and touching . . . . It’s sick, he knows. He’s sick. That much he’s always known, but he can’t help himself.

“Yeah, there is someone! Way to go, doofus.” Rodney punches him playfully in the arm.

“Ow!” John complains.

“Someone I know?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not someone I can have.”

“You Tadpole, you,” Rodney is never ever going to let him live that down. And Major Hailey seduced him, so it wasn’t like it was even his fault.

“Hey, at least I didn’t have to wait for a planet of 8 billion people to find a girl who’d do me.”

That earns him another smack. “It’s not my fault the people of Earth happen to have much more class than your little pedophilic trysts.”

Rodney rolls his eyes, loading John’s duffel into the back of a sleek, dark green, beautiful creature. John runs his hands over the smooth paint of the side. There’s no hum when he touches it, no familiar tickle at the back of his mind.

“Yes, yes, John, car. Car, my idiot brother, John.”

John has seen them in movies, of course. 'The Fast and the Furious' was set in Los Angeles, wasn’t it? “Can I . . .”

“Absolutely not. It’s just an old 2012 Honda-hybrid, anyhow. You can’t do any 'Fast and Furious' moves in it.” Rodney gives him this pointed look, the one that says ‘don’t even try, I know you were thinking it.’

“But . . .” it’s so smooth . . . shiny.

“C’mon. You’ll like the drive back. The 110 is still completely and utterly terrifying. Do you know that the thing was built back in the era of Model-Ts? And they’re still using it. How ridiculous is that?”

“I thought Model-Ts were supposed to be cool. The Beach Boys . . .” John has listened to all of the collective music pool.

“That’s a T-bird. Hey, look, we’ll stop at Borders and buy you a car book,” Rodney grumbles. We can wrie it offas an educational expense.”

The drive back is spectacular. It’s like dogfighting, all moving tight and close in a pack, way better than all the driving games on the Playstation VR combined, even Carmageddon. Sailing up on a narrow strip of concrete over the endless city below (something called an ‘overpass’) is almost like flying. Maybe Los Angeles might not suck as much as he thought it would (even if the city itself looks dirty, all grey stone and glass, none of the warm bronze John’s used to).

Rodney’s knuckles are white on the drive-wheel as he pulls them around the tight curves of this ‘freeway.’

“So, when are you gonna teach me how to pilot on of these?”

Rodney looks at him askance before seeing an ‘end of freeway’ sign and swerving. “When I feel like a fun little nervous breakdown. Maybe I can get Heather to teach you. We’ll say you’re from . . . Nebraska or something.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“No, I said I grew up in a commune in Newfoundland. Don’t know why they gave me a Canadian passport, but hey, this could totally work. I mean, it explains why we don’t look anything alike, at least. When I first got here, I told everyone you were a genetic experiment gone wrong, but I don’t think they believed me. Morons. Apparently, that kind of thing is against regulations here. Something about the FDA. Don’t ask me to explain it. Oh, look, Pavillions.”

“What?”

“Grocery store. Oh, maybe they’ve got the Halloween candy in already. There are these egg things with little crunchy bits in them . . . and baklava! You’ve never had baklava! There’s this little Mediterranean place next door . . . and the fruits. I mean, beside this stupid city’s obsession with citrus . . . do you know they have a street called ‘Orange Grove?’ and steak! You haven’t even had fresh steak. Did General Carter by any chance give you a credit card? She’s kind of hot for an old woman, don’t you think? Oh, you’ve never had Cool Whip! And Cheese Whiz!”

The grocery store is confusing to say the least. So many varieties of everything, no bartering, brand names that he doesn’t know, a cold section and an entire aisle of cookies. Rodney charges $680 on John’s credit card, not that John knows if that’s a lot.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I got some inheritance from my father, hence the Canadian passport, I guess, and he was loaded. I’ll pay you back when I get my stipend next month.”

And then they’re loading 12 shopping backs into the back of Rodney’s car and . . . “Hey, Borders!” Rodney drags him up the street, cars honking and people walking aimlessly down along the sidewalk in shorts and tank tops and sunglasses, just like in the movies, completely unguarded.

By the time they finally make it back to Rodney’s small apartment, only a few klicks away (not that it stops Rodney from driving them there), John’s feeling suddenly exhausted, overwhelmed.

When John opens the door, there’s a woman sitting there waiting for them, wearing nothing but one of Rodney’s old expedition T-shirts and her underwear. She’s thin and blonde with a slightly upturned nose and long tangled hair.

“Heather,” she extends her hand, not seeming to mind her lack of proper attire. John’s used to women wearing what all the Marines seems to think is provocative clothing, but in Pegasus it’s ridiculous to go around with your legs uncovered, should the Wraith attack and force you into the brush.

“John,” he gives her his most charming smile and shakes her hand, not looking at that smooth expanse of leg.

“Yes, Rodney has told me so much about you.”

“We’re having steak,” Rodney announces. “You want me to make you baked beans, baby?”

“No, it’s okay. I stopped by Trader Joe’s on the way here.”

“Heather’s a vegetarian,” Rodney explained.

Heather shook her head. “Rodney doesn’t approve. But, I mean, how would you feel if you were a poor defenseless cow and someone rounded you up and then attached you to a machine to shock you to death and then chopped your head off before flaying your insides?”

“I imagine I’d be pretty damn pissed off,” John admits. Ancestors, she doesn’t even know.

Heather chuckles. “I guess I never saw it that way. Too bad cows don’t have the foresight to fight back. Oh, and don’t even get me started on veal.”

“Why? Veal is delicious,” Rodney announces, twinkle in his eye.

Heather throws one of the couch pillows at him. “You just want to murder poor little baby cows . . .”

“Heather. The . . . uh . . . commune was pretty strict about things. We had to hunt for our meat. John’s never had real beef. Let him at least try it before you convert him to your hippie tree-hugging ways, okay?”

“You had to hunt your food?!” She looks betrayed.

John shrugs. “I was never very good at it.”

“Yeah, we spent more time tracking him after he got lost than he did actually following anything,” Rodney chuckled. “John was such a nerd.”

Heather laughs at that, pressing herself up against Rodney and nipping at his neck. “You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘But then How Would Wormholes Work?’ God, Kumar is never going to forget that one, is he?”

“Rodney, I thought that was classified,” John growls nervously.

Heather turns to look at him for a second, wide-eyed and blinking, before bursting out into laughter. “You watch Wormhole X-treme too? God, you’re just as hopeless as Rodney. I keep trying to get him to come to concerts and cultured things with me, but apparently the only music he’s interested in is this experimental electronica stuff.”

John is disliking Heather more and more by the minute. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be cultured.”

Heather laughs at that. “Oh, sure he does. Why else would he be majoring in music?”

“Music?” John asks, eyebrows raised. Rodney always had spent an unnatural amount of time in the organ room, but John hadn’t thought much of it.

“Well, I’m going to double in engineering and physics over at CalTech in four years. What’s wrong with dabbling in music over at UCLA? They use a very interesting tonal scale here. And keyboards. Imagine the organ if I could have gotten the damned computer interface to work,” Rodney hums happily.

John has never seen him so passionate about something. He looks radiant. John doesn’t want to be the one to burst his bubble, and remind him why he needs to come home, and what he’s expected to do when he gets there. General Lorne has already promised them both places on gate teams once they’ve earned at least one doctorate. Nobody was expecting Rodney to languish four whole years in undergrad, even if that’s what’s considered normal for Earth.

But then again, Rodney doesn’t need the city the way John does. He loves Mom and Radek and the people there, but he doesn’t love her. 17 years there and he doesn’t know her. It’s all just another puzzle to him.

“I can’t believe he learned on an organ,” Heather laughs. “I play the flute, by the way. Rodney has such excellent lung capacity. And you have the lips of an oboe player, sweetheart. I don’t see why you don’t . . .”

John doesn’t pay attention to much after that, other than the steak, which yeah, is fantastic.

“So, what do you think?” Rodney asks, after Heather has left for her own apartment with promises to take John to practice driving in the parking lot of this ‘Rose Bowl’ on Sunday, which of course opened up this whole discussion of American Football and some people called ‘Trojans’ that were going to be eaten by bears or something.

John shrugs. “She’s okay.”

“Like her that much, do you?” Rodney laughs. “Yeah, she’s pretty high maintenance, but hot. I mean, seriously, hot. And this thing she does with her tongue . . .”

“You deserve better,” John says, simply, taking a plate from Rodney and drying it off, just like the old days (only, he’d take the plates out of the Ancient sonic scrubber while Rodney put them in). “You need someone who really gets you, not a vegetarian wind-blower player who thinks you actually have a chance of understanding Earth ‘culture.’”

“Well, believe it or not, all these people really doesn’t make that any easier. I mean, the girls here are more likely to be preoccupied with whether or not their nail polish clashes (I still haven’t figured out the meaning of that word) with their outfit than they are with anything important.”

John eyes the keyboard and the speakers plugged into the computer in the corner. “But you like it here.”

Rodney shrugs. “I guess it’s nice to be thought of as exceptional instead of never quite being as much of a genius as the hundred other geniuses you’re surrounded by. I mean, do you ever get the impression that you and I will never be able to live up to some sort of ridiculous standard Aunt Elizabeth and Ronon and Radek have set for us? I know that we were the first children born on Atlantis, and they don’t have their own to coddle, but it’s good to get out, you know? Do something just because I like it?”

John smiles. “It’s a whole new planet. We can do whatever we want.”

“Yeah?” Rodney asks, before splashing John with a handful of dirty dishwater. “Can’t go hiding behind Mom’s skirt anymore.”

John lunges, grabbing Rodney in a headlock and tackling him to the floor. “Hey, I’m a big boy, now. Ready to pick on someone your own size?”

“Taller,” Rodney squeaks, yanking himself around until he’s on top of John, trying to pin his frantically grappling arms. “But you’re still a berserbek-head, I could beat you blind and one handed.”

John struggles up against Rodney, already breathing hard. Kurva, Parsons was right about the smog here, but he’s not going to let Rodney win this one, not after three years apart. What’s the point of playing a game with no winners and losers, after all? “Hey, who are you calling a berserbek-head, srac?”

“Thanks to the Ancestors Mom’s not here to hear that,” Rodney pants, exerting himself now with John bucking up against him. Rodney’s gotten soft in the three years he’s spent here. When he left Atlantis, he could beat any of the Marines in a fair fight without blinking an eye.

John gets a knee between Rodney’s legs, struggling up. In a real fight, he would’ve kneed Rodney in the balls, but instead he feels a familiar hardness pressing down against him. He stops struggling.

Rodney’s eyes are wide, his breath heavy, his lips pursed, serious, like when he’s got a piece of technology dormant before him, another puzzle to be solved. John reaches up and grips the soft material of Rodney’s shirt by his shoulders.

“John . . .” Rodney whispers.

“It’s Earth. No expectations. Just what we want.”

Rodney lowers his forehead to John’s. “I don’t know what I want, John. I’ve prayed to the Ancestors, but I don’t know if they hear me . . . .”

John rocks himself up against Rodney, small gentle thrusts that send warmth spiraling down every synapse, make his spine tingle against the cold tile of the kitchen floor. He lets his eyes speak for him. Rodney must see how long how long he’s wanted this – that there’s nobody else.

“John.” Rodney’s eyes meet his again, voice cracking, broken, as he strokes John’s cheek. John’s afraid to blink and break this spell. “You’re so wraith-damned beautiful. But this is so wrong . . .” No, it was sick maybe, but it was right.

John leans up, brushing his lips against Rodney’s - soft, tender, passionate, understanding. 8 billion people and Rodney will never find anyone better for him than John. “Does this feel wrong to you?”

“Ancestors, no,” Rodney sighs, letting his weight press down onto John, kissing and kissing him, so far from the world where they grew up, but home still.

Afterwards, curled naked at his brother’s side, John looks through the window only to find that here on Earth this choking smog obscures even the stars from view.