Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Entering the apartment, John immediately noticed the sound of the babies giggling. It was a welcome sound, one that made the soreness in his legs from the run and the lingering ache in his lungs feel a little more worth it. He followed the laughter and found Serin, the Athosian teen who had become their live-in nanny, crouched on the floor with the babies. She was making silly faces while holding a small, handmade rattle that one of the Athosians must have crafted for them. The babies were enraptured, their tiny faces lighting up with joy as they clapped their hands and squealed.

Serin looked up when she saw John and gave him a bright smile. "They’ve been in a good mood this morning," she said, her soft Athosian accent lending a musical quality to her voice.

"Yeah? That’s good," John replied, catching his breath as he leaned against the doorframe. "Thanks for keeping them entertained. They, uh, seem to like you better than us some days."

Serin laughed, a light, airy sound that filled the room. "I think they just like that I know how to distract them." She picked up the one who was reaching for her necklace. "You could learn too, Colonel. But, it helps that they’re getting more familiar with me."

John watched her for a moment, amazed at how natural she was with the babies. When Teyla had first suggested Serin, John had been skeptical about letting a teenager take on so much responsibility, but she had proven him wrong from the very first day. When she’d arrived for her interview, the babies had been in the middle of one of their infamous screaming fits. Without a word of greeting, Serin had walked straight past him, Teyla, Ronon and Rodney, scooped up the nearest baby, and started bouncing them gently until they quieted. Then she moved on to the second, and the third calmed down just by watching her.

They had hired her on the spot.

The pay arrangement had been just as unconventional as the rest of the process. Serin had come prepared with a list of things she was willing to be compensated with—Athosians didn’t use money in their day-to-day lives, instead relying on barter or trade. Her requests were simple: a consistent supply of chocolate. Specifically, Ghirardelli squares, which she had tried during a cultural exchange and instantly fallen in love with. After some negotiation, they had agreed to a bag of chocolate squares for every day she cared for the babies. Considering the amount of work she put in, it was a bargain, especially since she had also volunteered to take a night with the babies in the rotation. With Serin added to the schedule, the adults each got three full nights of sleep a week, and that was nothing short of a miracle.

The only hiccup with Serin was the first week.

Rodney had already left in a rush, muttering something about a systems diagnostic. John had settled into the corner of the common area, two babies nestled against him, feeding contentedly. Their little hands fidgeted against his skin, tiny, uncoordinated movements that made him smile despite his lingering exhaustion. Ronon was nearby, leaning back in a chair with the third baby cradled in his massive arms, calmly feeding them a bottle.

The atmosphere was peaceful, quiet except for the soft sounds of the babies and the occasional rustle as Ronon adjusted his grip. John had let himself relax, enjoying the rare moment of calm.

Then Serin walked in.

John noticed her out of the corner of his eye as she paused in the doorway. At first, he thought she was just being polite, waiting to be acknowledged before stepping inside. But then he glanced up fully and caught the look on her face.

She wasn’t just standing there—she was frozen , her eyes wide and locked on him. Her basket or laundry clutched tightly to her chest, as if she’d stumbled upon something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to see.

“Uh, morning, Serin,” John had said, trying for casual, though the weight of her stare was unnerving.

She didn’t respond. Instead, her expression shifted from shock to something he could only describe as reverence. Before John could say anything else, she dropped her basket with a soft thud, stepped forward, and sank to her knees right in front of him.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” John asked, his voice rising slightly in alarm. The sudden movement startled one of the babies, who gave a tiny, protesting whimper.

Serin didn’t seem to notice. She bowed her head low, her voice trembling as she spoke. “You… you are of the Ancestors.”

John blinked, certain he hadn’t heard her correctly. “What?”

“The stories speak of the male Ancestors,” she continued, her words filled with awe. “Those who bore life within them. They were the most sacred among the creators—the ones who brought balance and renewal.” She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with something that made John profoundly uncomfortable. “You are one of them.”

“No,” John said quickly, his tone sharper than he intended. “No, I’m not. I’m definitely not one of the Ancestors.”

“You carried life” she said, her voice soft and reverent. “You nourish them as the women of my tribe do. You—”

“Am not one of the Ancestors or the Ancients,” John cut in, louder now, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I didn’t create the Stargate. I didn’t build Atlantis. I’m just… me. John Sheppard.”

Ronon, of course, wasn’t helping. The big guy had one of those infuriating half-smirks on his face, clearly enjoying John’s discomfort. “Could’ve fooled me. You look pretty divine right now.” Ronon drawled, shifting the baby in his arms.

John shot him a glare. “Seriously, not helping.” But he couldn't help the heat he could feel rising on his face.

Serin, meanwhile, was still kneeling, her expression shifting from awe to confusion. “But you carried life,” she said again, as if repeating it would make him see her point.

“Yeah, I did. Long story.” John said, trying to keep his tone even. “But it doesn’t mean I’m one of the Ancestors.”

Serin seemed to hesitate, her brow furrowing as she processed his words. “But the Ancestors—”

“Are not me,” John interrupted. “I promise you, I’m just a regular guy. Well, as regular as anyone gets around here.”

She stayed silent for a long moment, her gaze shifting to the babies in his arms. Then, slowly, she straightened, rising to her feet with a grace that belied her earlier shock. “If you say so,” she said quietly, though her tone made it clear she didn’t entirely believe him. She bowed her head again, this time more respectfully than reverently. “But I will honor you and your children nonetheless.”

With that, she turned and left the room, leaving her basket behind.

John had stared after her, dumbfounded. “What the hell just happened?” he muttered.

Ronon chuckled, the sound low and amused. “You just became her new religion.”

“Great,” John groaned, leaning back against the couch. “That’s exactly what I needed.”

Ronon grinned. “Hey, at least she’s on your side now.”

John sighed, looking down at the babies in his arms. “I just wanted some peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask?”

Ronon shrugged, grinning. “Not when you’re so divine, Sheppard.”

“Shut up,” John muttered, though he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as the babies cooed softly in his arms.

John heading to the kitchen to grab a water bottle. "You’re a lifesaver, you know that?" He still felt bad about how little they were paying her, even though Serin seemed more than content with the arrangement. Teyla had even pointed out to them the value of the chocolate and what it could get in trade value, still felt weird to them.

Serin shrugged as she balanced one baby on her shoulder and used her free hand to make a stuffed bear dance for another. "It’s not difficult. They’re good babies, and your people have been very welcoming. I like it here." She smiled again, her expression warm and genuine.

John leaned against the counter, watching her for a moment. "Still, if you ever need anything else—clothes, books, whatever—you let us know, okay? The least we can do is make sure you’re comfortable here."

Serin nodded. "I will, Colonel. Thank you." She turned her attention back to the babies, now cooing softly as she started humming a tune from her homeworld.

John finished his water and headed to the shower, leaving Serin and the babies behind. He couldn’t help but feel grateful for the unexpected addition to their little family. It wasn’t the life he had ever envisioned for himself, but as he listened to the soft hum of Serin’s song and the happy gurgles of the babies, he realized it wasn’t so bad.

Getting under the spray of the shower, John felt the tension in his muscles start to ease, the hot water cascading over his shoulders and down his back. He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of the water drown out the chaos of his thoughts. He hadn't realized just how badly he needed this—how much he craved even a few moments of peace in his hectic, kid-filled life.

That peace was short-lived. A sharp knock on the bathroom door shattered the calm, making John jump. He groaned, wiping water from his face. “Occupied!” he called out, his voice echoing against the tiled walls.

The door creaked open anyway.

“What the hell?!” John muttered under his breath, peeking his head around the corner of the shower stall. He was grateful that this bathroom actually had proper walls instead of the glass enclosure his old apartment had. At least he wasn’t completely on display. Still, he didn’t appreciate the intrusion.

“HEY! OCCUPIED!” he barked louder, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and leave.

But it was Ronon. Of course, it was Ronon.

The Setidan strode into the room with zero hesitation, moving with the kind of confidence that came naturally to someone who had no concept of personal boundaries. He barely spared John a glance as he made a beeline for the toilet.

“The other two are occupied,” Ronon grunted by way of explanation. “And I wasn’t about to go in on Serin. Rodney is just weird.”

John groaned, retreating back under the spray of the shower. He stared up at the water as it rained down, silently willing himself to drown out the sounds of Ronon doing his business mere feet away. It was easier said than done. The man had a presence that was impossible to ignore, even when he was doing something as mundane as using the bathroom. John tried not to think about the fact that he was completely naked and exposed on the other side of the wall.

The sound of the toilet flushing jolted him out of his thoughts, followed by the creak of footsteps. He heard Ronon moving, felt the shift in the air, and then—

“You know,” Ronon’s deep voice cut through the white noise of the shower, “it’d be more efficient if I joined you.”

John yelped, his head snapping toward the divider wall just in time to see Ronon’s head poking around the corner. His heart slammed into his chest. “Jeez, Ronon! Privacy!” he spluttered, instinctively reaching for anything he could use to cover himself. His hands found the tiny shower caddy, which offered no help at all.

Ronon raised an eyebrow, looking completely unbothered by John’s reaction. “What? It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before. Besides, I need a shower too. We’d save time.”

John’s face burned. “It’s not about saving time, it’s about boundaries!” he snapped, trying to turn his body away while simultaneously keeping an eye on Ronon.

The larger man shrugged, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” Ronon said, his voice low and casual, but there was something in his tone—something that made John’s stomach twist and his pulse quicken.

John’s breath hitched. His skin tingled under Ronon’s appraising gaze, and he knew he was blushing. Damn it. He tried to brush it off, to act like he wasn’t affected, but he could feel the heat creeping up his neck and into his ears.

“I—I don’t need help!” John stammered, gesturing vaguely toward his head. “Hair’s already washed.”

Ronon smirked, his lips quirking in a way that sent a shiver down John’s spine. “Sure it is,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. His eyes flicked briefly to John’s hair, where the telltale suds were still clearly visible, before meeting John’s gaze again.

With a final, knowing glance, Ronon turned and left the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

John stood frozen under the spray, water dripping down his face and pooling at his feet. He was panting again, but not from exertion this time. His heart thundered in his chest, his mind racing in circles.

What the hell just happened?

He leaned back against the cool tiles, letting his head fall back as he tried to steady himself. His pulse was all over the place, and his body was reacting in ways he hadn’t felt in years. His skin felt too tight, his mouth dry, and yet... other parts of him weren’t dry at all.

It had been so long since he’d felt this kind of pull, this kind of visceral, undeniable attraction. And it wasn’t just anyone—it was Ronon. Big, brash, unapologetically Ronon, who could barge into a room like he owned it and somehow make John’s carefully constructed walls crumble in the process.

John groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t even know how to be ready for something like this. His life was a mess—three kids, constant chaos, barely any time to breathe—and now he had to deal with this? With feelings?

It was a good thing Atlantis never ran out of hot water John stayed until he was pruny, his thoughts swirling as he tried to make sense of the moment. He didn’t have answers—not yet. But one thing was certain: Ronon wasn’t just invading his bathroom. He was invading John’s head, his heart, and everything in between. And John wasn’t sure if he was more terrified or exhilarated by that fact.

Chapter Text

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard did not skip into the control room. It was his first... well, second—second first—day back since his leave. Both Dr. Beckett and Dr. Heightmeyer had begrudgingly agreed that not having a purpose was eating away at him faster than trying to balance being a mother and head of military operations ever could. Turns out, John thrived on being needed. Not that he was ready to admit that to anyone.

Passing through the gate room, John noticed a cluster of crates and boxes being packed near the Stargate. Curious, he wandered over to investigate. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he spotted Dr. Radek Zelenka—who looked distinctly out of his element—geared up for what was clearly an off-world mission.

“You going off world?” John asked

With a huff the scientist muttered. “ M7G-677” looking less than amused.

John’s smirk was immediate. “That the planet with all the kids, right?”

Zelenka shot him a glare that could have melted naquadah. “Yes, the planet with all the kids. Their EM field generator is malfunctioning, and McKay decided I am the most capable person in all of Atlantis to fix it. Pretty sure he just didn't want to deal with them and he's too busy playing house with you to want to go.”

Smirking “Don't worry they're a great group of kids, your going to love them.”

“My sister has a child, he breaks things, he throws things, he smears things on the furniture. Look at the chaos yours cause and they can't even speak yet.”

Before John could retort, Rodney McKay’s voice rang out from the observation deck above. “Colonel Sheppard we can use you in the control room.” Seeing Zelenka still in the gate room. “Oh your still here, say hi to kids for me.”

John smiled and waved at Radek before heading up to the control room with an amused smile. The Czech scientist was grumbling about his impending mission to M7G-677, most of it in Czech, and John couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude that he wasn’t the one dealing with that particular assignment.

As he approached the control consoles, Rodney practically grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward one of the screens. “Look at this,” Rodney said, his tone equal parts irritation and fascination as he pointed at the Atlantis sensors for monitoring their area of the galaxy.

As John approached the control consoles, the hum of Atlantis’s systems surrounded him, faint but ever-present, like a heartbeat. Rodney was already there, hunched over one of the monitors, his fingers flying across the keyboard. The scientist didn’t even look up as John arrived; instead, he practically grabbed him by the arm, tugging him toward the screen with an urgency that bordered on manic.

John leaned in, squinting at the screen. The unmistakable symbols for Wraith cruisers blinked on the display. “Two Wraith cruisers,” he said, his tone low but alert.

Dr. Weir approached from across the room, her usual calm demeanor masking the tension that always came with news of Wraith activity. “How far away are they?” she asked, her eyes darting between Rodney and the screen.

Rodney straightened slightly, a smug look creeping across his face. “A day, maybe a day and a half,” he replied. “I’ve been tracking them for some time now. The good news is it doesn’t seem like they’re heading this way.”

“Just passing through the neighborhood?” John drawled, crossing his arms as he studied the display.

“Yes, seems that way,” Rodney said, tapping at the screen to zoom in on the cruisers. The resolution improved, revealing faint bursts of energy between the two ships. “But I just discovered something rather curious—short but intense energy bursts passing between them.”

“They fighting each other?” Ronon’s deep voice rumbled from behind them, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. He stepped closer, looming over the group as he eyed the screen.

Rodney shot a glance back at him but, for once, didn’t dismiss the question outright. “In my expert opinion… yes,” he said, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.

“That’s good news,” John said, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“Yes, it is,” Elizabeth added, exhaling a breath of relief. She placed a hand on Rodney’s shoulder briefly. “If there’s any change in their course, let me know immediately.” She turned and walked away, her steps measured but brisk as she headed to handle the next potential crisis.

John tilted his head, studying the chaotic skirmish unfolding on the screen. The energy bursts flared brightly for a moment before fading, only to be replaced by another volley. The Wraith ships were clearly taking shots at each other, and John couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“You think we could… you know, encourage this kind of thing?” he mused, glancing over at Rodney. His tone was casual, but his eyes glinted with mischief. “Stir the pot a little? Maybe send some ‘anonymous tips’ to keep the bad guys at each other’s throats?”

Rodney gave him a withering look, his hands never stopping their dance across the keyboard. “Oh sure, Colonel, because tipping off the Wraith is such a good idea. What would we say? ‘Hey, heard your buddy stole your lunch money—go get him!’”

John shrugged, his smirk widening. “Well, maybe not in those words. But if they’re already itching for a fight, why not give them a nudge?”

Ronon let out a low chuckle. “I like it. Let them tear each other apart.”

Rodney rolled his eyes but didn’t outright dismiss the idea. “It’s not like we can just write them a strongly worded letter, but…” His voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities.

“Come on, McKay,” John teased, leaning closer. “You’re the genius. I’m sure you can figure out something clever.”

Rodney sighed, muttering under his breath. “Why is it always me who has to come up with the clever plans? What are you doing here, Colonel? Providing moral support?”

John grinned, clapping a hand on Rodney’s shoulder. “Exactly. Glad you finally understand my role.

Behind them, Lieutenant Cadman chimed in from her console. “It’s not the worst idea I’ve heard today. If the Wraith keep knocking each other down a peg, maybe we’d actually stand a fighting chance.” She stepped around the console to set up at another station. “Colonel, it’s good to see you back on duty,”

“Feels good to be back,” John replied with a warm smile.

As Cadman slid smoothly into one of the control seats, Rodney’s reaction was immediate and as melodramatic as expected.

“What?! What are you doing here?!” he squawked, his hands flailing as though her very presence was some affront to his existence.

Unbothered, Cadman focused on the console, her fingers already dancing across the controls. “Nice to see you too, Rodney,” she quipped without looking up, her tone sweet but laced with just enough sass to needle him.

“She asked to stay longer, so I agreed to the reassignment,” John supplied casually.

Rodney wasn’t about to let the matter drop. “Asked to stay? What? Why?!” His voice rose with every word, his indignation practically echoing off the walls.

John smirked, recognizing the opportunity to poke at the scientist’s still-sensitive nerves. “What’s the problem, McKay? Still sore about the whole sharing-a-body thing?”

Rodney scowled, his arms crossing defensively as they moved into the briefing room. “That’s not the point. It was my body anyway! My body!”

John sighed heavily, rolling his eyes as they reached the table. “Really, Rodney? That was months ago. It’s not like she had a choice. Plus, if you don’t remember, she was willing to die for you.”

Rodney opened his mouth to argue but snapped it shut again with an audible click, though his expression remained mutinous. “Still. My body,” he muttered under his breath.

John’s day—and his mood—took a sharp nosedive when the bomb threat came through. The moment the warning hit the control room, accompanied by the chilling order to halt all outgoing Stargate activity, a gut-wrenching dread settled in his stomach. His instincts screamed to abandon everything and rush to his children, to scoop them up and shield them from harm.

But he couldn’t.

His grip tightened on the back of a chair as he reminded himself, firmly and repeatedly, that the best way to protect his kids was by finding the bomb—or the person behind it—and stopping this nightmare before it could escalate. Stay here, stay calm, stay focused. It became a mantra he clung to as chaos swirled around him.

It didn’t help that Rodney was still obsessing over Cadman. John wasn’t sure if it was anger or something closer to exasperation at this point. “She didn’t choose to share your body,” he snapped when Rodney launched into another complaint about her being stationed on Atlantis. “She nearly died because of it, McKay. And yeah, I get that she made you do things you didn’t want to do—” He paused, rolling his eyes. “Okay, maybe kissing Beckett wasn’t necessary, but she thought she was going to die. Cut her some slack already.”

Rodney’s grumbled response barely registered as John’s thoughts spiraled back to the problem at hand. He hated that they’d decided to start evacuating people—it meant acknowledging the very real possibility they wouldn’t find the bomb in time. He hated even more that his children were among the first to go.

Watching the three tiny figures bundled up and carried toward the gate made his chest ache. He felt a surge of guilt as his instinct to run after them warred with his responsibility to stay. If the city blew, those babies would lose all three of their parents. Not happening. Not today. He shoved the thought aside and forced himself to focus, using that guilt as fuel to keep going.

The interrogation of Kavanagh was, admittedly, a silver lining in an otherwise horrific day. The man was a perennial thorn in everyone’s side, and John wasn’t above finding some satisfaction in turning the tables on him.

When Kavanagh whined, “I don’t understand why nobody likes me,” John’s lips twisted into a humorless smirk.

“Oh, I don’t know, Kavanagh,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly. “Maybe it’s because you spend half your time insulting everyone on this base—including me—and the other half being openly hostile toward my kids.”

Kavanagh blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t—”

“Yeah, you do,” John interrupted, his tone sharp. “You’ve made your feelings about my kids—and me—pretty damn clear. What was it you had called me the other day, 'the slut of the expedition, will bed any pretty face' or what was you said about the babies 'These ‘precious bundles of joy’ are costing Atlantis more resources than they’re worth' Newsflash: People don’t tend to like people who hate babies. And for the record, your lack of friends isn’t my problem.”

The scientist’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish out of water, but no defense came. John let the silence stretch for a moment before leaning back, his expression cold.

It turned out the saboteur wasn’t Kavanagh, as much as John had hoped to see the man’s smugness taken down a notch. Instead, the real culprit was Colonel Steven Caldwell, who had been possessed by a goa'uld. The revelation left John with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it was a relief to have the culprit identified and neutralized. On the other, it raised questions that made his stomach churn.

When had Caldwell been taken over?

The goa'uld’s presence cast a shadow over everything Caldwell had done in recent months. John couldn’t help but think back to how tender and affectionate Caldwell had been when the babies first arrived. Was that genuine? Or was it the goa'uld playing some long game?

But as conflicted as John felt, he couldn’t deny being impressed. When they managed to weaken the goa'uld enough, Caldwell’s strength of will shone through. He’d given them the codes to disarm the bomb, fighting against the parasite’s influence with everything he had. It was a heroic act, one that John would remember.

The team worked together seamlessly to disable the bomb in time. But that wasn’t the end of it. The goa'uld had sent out a distress beacon, luring a Wraith hive ship toward Atlantis. John, Rodney, and the others devised a clever diversion, leading the Wraith on a wild goose chase that ended with them investigating an empty ocean far from the city. For now, Atlantis was safe again.

Even though the crisis had passed, John’s nerves were frayed. He felt an overwhelming need to be with his children. Officially, it wasn’t his night with them, but that didn’t stop him from scooping up his babies after dinner and holding them close.

“John, it’s my night,” Ronon reminded him, his deep voice tinged with frustration as he reached for the smallest baby.

John pulled back, shaking his head stubbornly.

“They need a bath.” Ronon sighed, his patience wearing thin. “We’ll do it together.”

John relented, and the two of them carried the babies into the bathroom. It was a tight squeeze with both of them there, and when Rodney tried to join, there simply wasn’t enough room. He grumbled about the lack of space but made himself useful, standing by with warm towels at the ready.

After the bath, John insisted on taking the babies into the nursery. Ignoring Ronon’s protests, he carefully arranged small nests in the adult bed, lining them with soft blankets and pillows. He changed into his own pajamas, his every movement slow and deliberate as if the act of caring for his children could help steady his frayed emotions.

“Ronon, go get some sleep,” John murmured as he tucked the babies into their makeshift nests.

Ronon crossed his arms, standing firm. “It’s my night. I’m not going anywhere.”

John sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he lay down on one side of the bed, curling protectively around the babies. His hand gently traced over their tiny forms, soothing them as they drifted off to sleep.

The bed shifted, and John looked up to see Ronon climbing in on the other side. The big man stretched his arm over the babies, his hand brushing John’s wrist as he locked them into a protective cocoon.

John’s heart softened at the sight. He nodded off, feeling a rare sense of peace.

But then the bed dipped again, startling him awake. He tensed, feeling an arm wrap around his waist, followed by Rodney’s grumbled complaint.

“You two take up too much space.”

John smiled, feeling the warmth of Rodney’s body pressing against his back.

With Rodney at his back and Ronon on the other side, the babies nestled safely between them, John let himself relax. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt truly safe. He drifted off to sleep, his hand resting lightly on his children, surrounded by the people he trusted most.

Chapter Text

John had discovered that the corner of the coffee table was rounded in such a perfect way to massage his foot just right. He shifted his socked foot over the edge, letting out a small, satisfied sigh as he found the exact spot that eased the tension. His feet still seemed swollen from the pregnancy, a lingering reminder that his body was still recovering. Running earlier probably hadn't been the best idea; his sneakers had felt tighter than usual, pressing uncomfortably against his swollen feet. But running made him feel like he was reclaiming a piece of himself, regaining control after everything he'd been through.

Settling back into the couch, John turned his attention to the book he was reading aloud. One of the ones Dr. Jackson had sent, and this one was about Loki. It was surprisingly entertaining, filled with mischievous antics and sharp wit. John wouldn’t mind it becoming a favorite when the babies were old enough to start voicing their opinions about bedtime stories. The pictures made it even better. Whoever the artist was, is amazing.

The living room was a cozy domestic scene. The babies were nestled in their cot, cooing and wiggling under the watchful eye of their mother, who lounged comfortably just behind them. John had arranged everyone so that he could hold the book up and show the pictures as he read. Not that the babies had any idea what the colorful illustrations meant, but it was the principle of the thing.

Rodney strolled in, stopping in his tracks as he took in the scene. For a moment, he just stood there, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was such a domestic sight, one that stirred something deep in his Alpha instincts. He squashed that feeling down before it could spiral into... other thoughts. John still hadn’t agreed to his proposal, and Rodney was testing the waters, figuring out the limits of what was allowed in this unspoken courtship. So far, John hadn’t told him to back off, and Rodney considered that progress.

“Which one is that?” Rodney asked, gesturing toward the book in John’s hands.

John glanced up. “It’s the one about Loki,” he replied, his voice warm and relaxed. He shifted slightly, switching feet and letting the other foot find the perfect spot on the coffee table corner for relief.

Rodney opened his mouth to comment on how sanitary—or unsanitary—rubbing his foot on the coffee table was, but for once, his brain caught up with his mouth before he spoke. He realized John’s feet must still be bothering him, likely still swollen and sore from carrying the extra weight of the pregnancy. That realization derailed his snark, and instead, he crossed to the baby-changing station and grabbed the diaper cream. It was unscented and, as far as Rodney knew, the only lotion they had in the apartment.

Coming back to the living room, Rodney sat himself down on the coffee table, right next to John’s feet. John looked up from his book, brows furrowing in confusion.

“What’re you—” he started to ask, but Rodney was already reaching for his foot.

Without a word, Rodney grabbed the foot resting on the table, tugging the sock off before John could protest. John yelped, “Hey!” but it was too late. Rodney had already scooped some of the cream into his hands, rubbing it between his palms to warm it before pressing his fingers into the arch of John’s foot.

The gasp that escaped John’s lips was half shock, half pure bliss. His head lolled back against the couch as Rodney worked. But John’s natural snark couldn’t stay quiet for long. “Are you seriously rubbing diaper cream on my feet?”

Rodney smirked, not missing a beat. “Oh, you want me to stop?” he teased, his hands pausing dramatically.

“Don’t you dare,” John groaned, practically melting as Rodney found a particularly sore spot. His body sagged further into the couch, all protests forgotten.

The book and the babies were completely forgotten as well. John was too caught up in the magic of Rodney’s hands. “You know,” John muttered, his voice dreamy, “maybe you should give up being a scientist and become a professional masseuse.”

“Oh, right,” Rodney shot back, his smirk widening. “Because I’m just dying to give foot rubs to everyone on Atlantis.”

“Oh no,” John replied, his tone light but teasingly possessive. “I’d keep you here in the apartment. You wouldn’t be allowed to leave.”

They both laughed, the moment light and easy. But Rodney didn’t stop. He kept working on John’s foot until it was completely relaxed, then moved on to the other. His hands were firm but careful, expertly kneading away the tension.

John felt like he was in heaven. Every stroke of Rodney’s hands sent waves of relief through him, but then... something else started to stir. When Rodney pressed into another tender spot, John let out a low, involuntary groan, and that’s when he noticed it. Other parts of him were waking up. His underwear was suddenly soaked with slick, and he was rock hard. The scent of his own arousal hit him like a freight train.

Looking up, John found Rodney staring at him. The Alpha’s eyes were nearly black, the usual blue barely visible around his blown pupils. Rodney’s nostrils flared slightly, and John could tell he’d picked up on the scent. Rodney’s gaze was intense, filled with something primal, something that made John’s pulse quicken.

“Rodney...” John started, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation. Maybe it was both. His tongue darted out to lick his suddenly dry lips, a nervous habit that only drew Rodney's attention to them.

Rodney’s hands hesitated for a brief moment on John’s foot before he blinked a few times, as if shaking off a spell. Clearing his throat, he quickly looked away, forcing his focus back onto the task at hand. His fingers resumed their precise, methodical movements, massaging the remaining tension out of John’s foot with more determination than finesse. Once he was satisfied, he set John’s foot down gently, but his movements were brisk, almost hurried.

Without saying a word, Rodney stood and made his way to the bathroom. Once inside, he gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His chest rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths. Turning on the tap, he let the cold water run over his hands, hoping the shock would snap him out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. The scent of John’s arousal lingered in his nose, almost taunting him, and he splashed some of the icy water onto his face for good measure.

By the time Rodney returned to the living room, the atmosphere had shifted. John had moved his feet off the table, tucking them beneath himself as he sat cross-legged on the couch. He was finishing the last page of the book he’d been reading, his expression carefully neutral, though the pink flush across his cheeks betrayed him.

Rodney hovered near the bookshelf, not entirely sure what to do with himself. His fingers tapped idly against the spines of the books before he cleared his throat again, his voice just slightly uneven. “Do you... uh... want another one?” He gestured awkwardly toward the row of books with his thumb, trying to find some normalcy in the small gesture.

“Yeah, please. Just grab whatever,” John replied, his voice a little too quick, his face still tinged with redness. He avoided Rodney’s gaze, instead pretending to be very interested in closing the first book and smoothing the cover.

Rodney pulled a book from the shelf at random and walked back over to the couch, hesitating for a moment before sitting down next to John. He handed the book over, noting that it was about Thor this time. He wondered absently if it would cover the real Thor or stick to the mythological version, but he didn’t say anything. The air between them was still charged, and Rodney didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing.

John took the book without meeting Rodney’s eyes. But then, in a move that caught Rodney completely off guard, John leaned over and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Rodney’s cheek. It was fleeting, almost shy, and John immediately pulled back, his eyes glued to the cover of the book as though he were trying to will himself invisible. “Thanks,” John muttered. Rodney froze for a moment, his mind short-circuiting as his cheek tingled where John’s lips had been. Opening the book, the Omega's voice filled the room. Telling the tale of Thor. Rodney would be depriving their children if he forced John into a conversation.

Then, a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face. He leaned back slightly, letting the tension in his shoulders melt away.He didn’t need to say anything. That small, unexpected gesture was enough. He’d take it as a win. For now. He sat with his family letting John story telling sooth him.

Chapter Text

Coming out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, John stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes immediately locked onto the shimmering figure in his living room. His heart skipped a beat before anger surged forward, hot and sharp. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” he shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Atlantis, the shimmering woman with a radiant glow that screamed Ascended arrogance, turned to him with an ethereal smile, her posture soft despite his fury. “I came to see my grandbabies,” she said gently, as if that explained everything.

“The fuck you are!” John growled, storming forward, intent on putting himself between her and the babies. His protective instincts flared like a wildfire. But when he reached out to shove her away, his hand passed straight through her, meeting only air. The reminder of her Ascended nature—untouchable, literally and figuratively—only fueled his frustration. “Haven't you fucked us over enough? What more do you want?!” His voice cracked, his emotions raw and unfiltered.

Atlantis tilted her head, her serene expression faltering slightly. “I came to apologize,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight it hadn’t before. She glanced at the babies, her glowing form bending slightly as though she could physically reach out to them. “For the three babies.”

John’s jaw clenched, his fists trembling. “Apologize?” he spat, his tone incredulous. “You think that makes any of this okay? You planned this, didn’t you? I thought you wanted to get me pregnant?”

“Well the pregnancy yes, but 3 babies,” she said quickly, shaking her head, her glow dimming slightly. “That wasn’t planned. I never expected this. When I chose you and your mates, I...” She hesitated, for the first time seeming unsure of herself. “I didn’t account for the possibility of twins in either of their lineage. I thought... I thought it would only be two children, one from each of your mates. When I realized...”

Her voice trailed off, and her gaze flickered to the babies again, their tiny bodies nestled together in the cot. Her expression softened, her ethereal glow almost flickering as if reflecting her emotions. “I couldn’t do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I couldn’t take one of them away.”

John’s anger paused, replaced by a creeping unease. “What are you saying?” His voice dropped to a dangerous low, a tone that usually sent even Rodney scrambling.

Atlantis looked back at him, her eyes shimmering with something that could almost be mistaken for human regret. “When I realized there were three, it was... complicated. They were bound together, John. In a way, I could have...” She stopped herself, shaking her head as though to banish the thought. “I could have intervened. I could have made it so there was only two. But...” She blinked rapidly, her glowing form trembling like a flame in the wind. “I couldn’t do it. They’re yours. They were yours the moment they existed. I knew you wouldn’t forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

John stared at her, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process her words. “You thought about it?” he finally said, his voice breaking. “You thought about killing one of them?”

“No!” Atlantis said quickly, her voice sharp, almost pleading. “I never truly considered it. Not for a moment. When I studied you, when I chose you for this... I knew. I knew you would never accept that. You would fight for every single one of them. That’s who you are, John. You don’t give up on what’s yours.”

John’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to process her words. He hated how calm she sounded, how reasonable. But her words... they hit him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. “Then why are you here? Why now?”

“I wanted to see them,” she admitted, her voice soft again, almost pleading. Her gaze flickered to the babies, who were starting to stir in their crib. Their tiny hands reached for the air, their delicate movements a stark contrast to the tension in the room.

John’s fists clenched, his knuckles whitening as his anger surged again. His voice, low and sharp, cut through the air like a blade. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to act like this is okay. You used me. You manipulated me. And now you’re here, pretending to care?”

“I do care,” Atlantis said, her voice trembling with an emotion that bordered on desperation. “I’ve always cared. More than you could ever know. You are my grandson, and they... they are my grandbabies.” She looked back at the triplets, her expression softening as though the sight of them eased some hidden ache. “They’re extraordinary, John. Just like you. You remind me so much of my son.”

John let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. The sound was hollow, filled with disbelief. “You don’t get to play the proud grandparent. Even if we are related, it’s so far back in my ancestry that you can’t even be counted as a grandparent. You don’t belong here. Leave.”

The rising tension didn’t go unnoticed by the babies. One of them let out a small wail, their distress pulling at John’s instincts. His features softened immediately as he turned his attention to them. He reached down, scooping up the nearest one—Eleanor—and cradled her gently against his chest. His hand moved in soothing circles along her tiny back, his voice dropping into a low murmur to comfort her.

Atlantis stepped closer but stopped short, her movements slow and deliberate as if not to provoke him further. She waved a hand, and the dancing toys above the crib began to spin and shimmer, trying to calm the other babies, who were starting to fuss. “From what I’ve read about your society, you still revere your great-grandparents,” she said, her tone shifting to something almost conversational, though it was underpinned with a strange, cautious hope. “Many people get the chance to meet them. Would it be helpful if I called you great grandbaby?” Her lips curled into a tentative smile, as if trying to bridge the growing chasm between them.

John’s jaw tightened, his confusion deepening his anger. “What the fuck are you talking about? Great grandbaby? Great grandparents? I thought you guys left to go BACK to Earth 10,000 years ago—and you guys LEFT Earth million's of years ago. So don’t try to tell me about this great-grandparent crap.”

Atlantis didn’t waver. Her smile remained, a mixture of serenity and sadness. “Yes, in the normal timeline, that would be true. But my son... he was different. Janus was a brilliant inventor. Time was one of his favorite fields to explore. He created a device that allowed him to see the future—and eventually, to move through it. After I ascended, I followed his journeys for a while. I wanted to know where he kept disappearing to. He was always so curious, so adventurous.”

John shifted Eleanor slightly, he was beyond frustrated with this Ancient hollier than thou art crap. “Wait hold it! Janus? Wasn't he one of the last of your kind to be in this Galaxy to be in the city? And this city was built LONG before even the Wraith, how could your SON be one of the last to leave?”

With a laugh. “Oh he's not my son, he is distantly related but Janus was a fairly common name, kinda like your's with your people John. The Janus you are familiar with was named after my son and did follow his footsteps in studying time, but no not that Janus. When we realized that we could no longer be sustained in your home galaxy, you call it the Milky way, I started creating this city, to take as many of my people as we could somewhere else. My son loving time thought maybe he could study it to find a different solution. In the process he created his as you would call it a time machine.”

“And what does any of that have to do with me?” John snapped.

Atlantis’s expression softened further, her eyes distant as if remembering something long buried. “On one of his journeys, he found himself in a place you call California, sometime in the 1940s or 1950s. I’m not certain of the exact year. There, he met a young woman in a library. She was clever, kind, and curious—qualities that drew him to her. I don’t know the details of their time together, but he fell in love. Deeply. He stayed with her for as long as he could, creating a life together. But, of course, he couldn’t remain permanently. His time was millions of years in her past. He created a lie of needing to travel for work. So he moved back and forth between times.”

John’s breath hitched. His mind raced to put the pieces together, but they felt like fragments of a puzzle he didn’t want to solve.

“They had a family,” Atlantis continued, her voice softer now, as if she knew she was walking a delicate line. “A beautiful daughter named Diana Foster. Janus ensured their lives were comfortable, using his knowledge to provide for them. With such knowledge that my son had, it allowed his family to be part of your elite society, during one of the events she attracted the interest of a rail-line and real-estate heir.”

John’s throat was dry. He could barely force the words out. “Diana Foster... you mean...” His voice cracked, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him like a crushing force.

“Yes, John,” Atlantis said, her smile returning, tinged with hope and pride. “Your mother, Diana. You are my great-grandson.”

The world seemed to tilt around him. He stood there, holding Eleanor as if she were the only stable thing in the universe. His knees felt weak, and his heart pounded in his ears. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head as if denying it could make it untrue. “This... this doesn’t make sense.”

“It does, John,” Atlantis said, stepping closer, her voice steady now. “You carry his brilliance, his courage, his curiosity. I see him in you. And I see him in them.” She gestured to the babies, her expression filled with a mix of reverence and sorrow.

John’s grip on Eleanor tightened protectively as he took a step back, his mind a storm of disbelief and anger. He wanted to yell, to scream, to demand she leave again, but the words wouldn’t come. He could only stand there, his world spinning around him, as the weight of her words settled into his soul.

While John's world spun on its axis, threatening to spiral out of control, Atlantis returned her attention to cooing at the babies as though nothing extraordinary had just transpired. Her tone was as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.

“I am glad, though, that I fixed your reproductive issues,” she said lightly, almost absently.

John blinked, his mind grinding to a screeching halt. “WHAT!?” His voice cracked with incredulity as he stared at her, slack-jawed.

“You spent so many years on suppressants,” she began, still avoiding his gaze as she gently stroked one of the babies' tiny fists. “I’m not sure if it was those or... what was done to you a few years ago... but there were some issues. Easy to fix, of course, but if left alone, they could have harmed these little beauties.” She glanced down at Eleanor nestled against John, her voice sweetened with motherly pride.

John’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. She might as well have slapped him with a fish. The absurdity—and sheer audacity—left him utterly gobsmacked.

Atlantis continued, oblivious to his growing frustration. “Then there’s your age. If this hadn’t been your first pregnancy, your body would have handled it better. So, I made a few tweaks to convince your biology that this wasn’t your first.” She smiled at him, her expression radiating smug satisfaction. “Considering there were no complications, I’d say it worked rather well.”

John finally found his voice, and it was laced with fury. “You just can’t resist playing God, can you?”

She brushed off his anger like lint from her robes. “Why haven’t you consummated your bonding with your mates?” she asked, her tone shifting from sweet to matter-of-fact as though this was the most logical next topic of conversation.

“My mates?” John’s voice rose an octave. “I’m not mated! I’m not bonded to anyone!” His anger flared again, this time fueled by indignation.

“Yes, you are.” Her reply was maddeningly calm, her expression a perfect mask of serenity. “You may not have a legal claim or the bite marks your people favor, but your souls are bound together. They were long before I decided to intervene. It’s why I did. It was exasperating watching you deny this connection and continue dancing around one another.” She rolled her eyes in frustration, an oddly human gesture. “You three are made for each other. I thought I had removed every obstacle—real or imagined—but you persist in resisting. It’s infuriating.”

John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “The FUCK!?” he exploded. “You think mind-altering tricks, dragging us to another dimension, and getting me knocked up removes obstacles?”

Atlantis blinked, tilting her head as though his outburst was an overreaction. “Well, yes. I thought giving in to your desires and seeing the result of such a union would help you realize there’s nothing to fear.”

John sputtered, his brain struggling to form a coherent response. Atlantis simply turned her attention back to the babies, cooing at them once more.

“Oh, I should mention,” she added, her tone far too cheerful for John’s liking, “I did one more thing for the babies.”

John’s stomach dropped. “Oh, really? Enlighten me.” His sarcasm was biting, his tone dripping with venom. “What did you do? Give them Ancient abilities? Telekinesis? A brain bigger than Rodney’s? The power to knock Wraith ships out of the sky with their thoughts?” He was throwing out the most ludicrous ideas he could think of, desperate to vent his frustration.

Atlantis’s response was maddeningly serene. “They might develop those abilities. I changed their DNA so they are now fully Lantean. Their ATA gene count would have been exceptionally high from you but,” She smiled proudly. “I wanted them to fully experience my city, to connect with her in ways even you haven’t.”

“You gave them a stronger ATA gene?” John’s voice was rising again, nearing a shout.

“No,” Atlantis corrected, her tone still infuriatingly calm. “I made them Lantean. Fully. Even though you are two-thirds Lantean yourself, you’ve yet to tap into everything my city has to offer.”

John froze, her words sinking in. “Two-thirds?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “How the hell can I be two-thirds? Your son was my grandfather, so at most, I’d be a quarter!”

Atlantis’s smile softened, tinged with an almost wistful air. “If it were only my son in your lineage, yes. But there were others throughout your family line—others who carried Lantean blood. You are closer to two-thirds than you realize.”

John could only stare at her, his mind reeling from revelation after revelation. His anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was now accompanied by a deep sense of unease. If she was telling the truth—if he was really more Lantean than human—then what did that mean for him? For the babies? For everything?

--

Walking into the infirmary, John hurried over to Carson's office. A few of the staff saw him, their curiosity piqued, but when he beelined for Carson with a determined expression, they quickly returned to their work, knowing better than to interfere.

Carson usually left his door open, but John still knocked on the doorframe. The doctor in question looked up from the pile of charts and reports scattered across his desk. “Oh, John, what brings ye here?” His tone carried a mixture of curiosity and concern. John willingly walking into the infirmary was rare, but seeing him with all three babies nestled in a sling sent alarm bells ringing in Carson’s mind.

“Do you have a moment?” John asked, his voice tighter than usual.

“Aye, sure.” Carson set his pen down and gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. John stepped into the office, letting the door slide shut behind him. Carson raised an eyebrow. John rarely closed doors unless something was weighing heavily on his mind. “Is something the matter?”

“Can you do an ATA test on the babies? Maybe a genealogy test, too?” John asked, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusted the sling holding his children.

“Ack, ye need not worry,” Carson said, leaning back in his chair as he tried to reassure him. “Ye’re expression of the gene is strong enough that ye’r bairns will surely have it.”

“I’m not worried about that,” John said, rubbing his face with his free hand. “I want to know how they compare to mine.”

Carson’s brow furrowed as he studied John more closely. “Why would ye need to know that?” He sighed, sensing John was skirting around the real issue. “Lad, maybe ye should start from the beginning? What’s got ye so spooked about ye’r bairns?”

John hesitated before wrapping his arms protectively around the sling. “Atlantis came back…”

“Ack... and what did she want?” Carson’s tone was careful, but the way his lips pressed into a thin line made his opinion of the city’s creator clear. He had some choice words about Atlantis and her meddling.

“She wanted to see her ‘grandbabies,’ as she kept calling them,” John said, his voice thick with frustration. “I finally called her out on it. I asked how she could possibly claim to be our grandmother when she’s millions of years down my family line. Turns out, she’s much closer than I ever thought.”

“Ehhh, how can she be closer than you thought?” Carson asked, his face twisting in confusion. “You’re right—she would have ascended millions of years ago. If she truly built this place, it left Earth several million years ago, long before anything resembling us humans came along. Even accounting for the fact I’m starting to see signs in their database that they had a tendency to live several hundred years.” Carson pushed some papers aside, giving John his full attention now.

“Wait, what? They lived several hundred years?” John’s eyebrows shot up, his day full of surprises already.

“Oh aye,” Carson replied. “I’m not 100% certain yet, but doing some calculations, I think they lived for a long, long time. I’ve asked Dr. Jackson to send me some data from Earth to help verify my theory, but... have you ever read the Bible?”

John frowned, unsure where Carson was going with this. “Yeah, sure.”

“You remember the stories of people living hundreds of years? Meeting and speaking to their seventh great-grandsons?”

“I thought it was all symbolic,” John admitted, still confused.

“Well, maybe not,” Carson said. “We know for a fact the Ancients bred with humans on Earth. Some of them must not have at first—or at least not right away. Over generations, as they mixed with humans, their bloodline may have diluted, shortening their lifespans. But before that, they might have lived for centuries. We also know the Ancients were what the Romans referred to as the ‘Road Builders.’ They left their mark everywhere. I need more data before I make this public, so I’d appreciate it if ye kept this between us for now—especially from Rodney.”

John smirked at the thought of Rodney’s excited ramblings if he got wind of Carson’s theory. “You don’t have to worry. I like that someone around here doesn’t run off claiming a theory before they’ve even proofread their napkin word vomit.”

Carson chuckled, his amusement breaking through the tension. They both knew exactly who John was talking about.

“Okay, lad,” Carson said, his expression growing serious again. “Now, what was this about Atlantis being closer to you than Biblical times?”

“She said… when they realized the Milky Way couldn’t support them anymore, she started building this city,” John began, his voice faltering as he tried to piece together everything Atlantis had told him. “But her son… he went a different direction. He started messing with time travel. Found a way to actually do it. He thought the future could hold the answers they needed.”

Carson’s eyebrows shot up. “Like that Janus chap that Old Weir talked about?”

“Not him, but another Janus. I guess it was a common name among the Ancients—kind of like John is for us.” John took a deep breath. “Her son succeeded in time travel, Carson. Somehow, he ended up in California in the 1940s or 1950s.”

Carson blinked, stunned into silence.

John pressed on, his voice shaky. “He met a human woman there. Fell in love. He tried to make a life with her, but he had to keep traveling back to his time. So he lied—said he traveled for work. They had kids… and one of them was my mother.”

“Ye're MOTHER?” Carson couldn't wrap his head around this.

“Yes. At least thats what she said.” John rocked the babies, more trying to sooth himself.

“Oh John....” Carson really had no idea what to say.

“But thats not the worse of it.... She said she wanted the babies to be able to connect with the city in a way I can't, so she went and made them fully Ancient.”

“Sweet Mary and Joseph,” Carson whispered, his face pale as he tried to process what he was hearing. His Scottish accent thickened as he continued, “She made them fully Ancient? John, do you understand what that could mean?”

John ran a hand over his face, trying to maintain his composure. “I don’t know what it means, Carson. That’s why I need you to do a test—confirm or deny what she told me. But you have to keep this quiet. I don’t want anyone finding out that we’ve got... full-blooded Ancients here. Not yet, anyway.” He looked down at the babies cradled in his arms, their tiny forms nestled close to him as though they could feel his tension. “I don’t even know how to wrap my head around this. And if the wrong people find out…” His voice trailed off, his fears unspoken but palpable.

Carson straightened, his expression softening. “Aye, I understand. Don’t worry, lad. We’ll keep this under wraps. Why don't we move this over to an exam room and I'll do ye're checkup.”

John frowned, his protective instincts kicking in. “If anyone sees—”

“If I were to bring all the blood draw supplies here, it’d draw more attention than you’d like,” Carson interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “But if I take ye four to an exam room under the guise of a routine wellness check, it won’t raise any eyebrows. Ye’re due for one anyway, so no one will think twice.”

Reluctantly, John nodded. “Fine.”

Carson extended a hand to help John up, careful not to disturb the babies. Once in the infirmary’s exam room, John settled onto the padded table, his movements stiff and uneasy as he kept a firm grip on the infants. Carson worked methodically, setting up his equipment and offering a reassuring smile. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

John watched closely as Carson did the blood draw, he set up his computer to analyze the blood as he did the rest of the examination, his hands gentle but precise as he checked over each of the babies. “They’re all healthy, as expected,” Carson murmured, his voice soothing. “Strong heartbeats, steady breathing. No signs of any issues.”

When the samples were analyzed, Carson's computer emitted a soft ding. He glanced at the screen, his expression quickly shifting to the unreadable mask of a seasoned doctor. “Well,” he said, taking a breath, “it looks like Atlantis didn’t lie. The bairns are, genetically speaking, almost entirely Ancient.”

John’s heart sank, his stomach churning as he looked down at his children. “If they’re more Ancient than me or their fathers… are they even ours?” His voice was raw, tinged with disbelief and fear.

Carson’s gaze softened, and he put the tablet down. “I ran those tests too,” he said gently. “They’re yours, John. Without a doubt. Genetically, they’re tied to you as their mother. As for their fathers, well…” He hesitated, then added with a small smile, “I could tell you who’s who, but I imagine ye’ve already figured it out.”

John blinked, startled, and then let out a small, shaky laugh. “Yeah, I think I’ve got it. The hair is a dead giveaway.” He brushed his fingers through Eleanor’s dark, soft curls. “If Ronon didn’t have his hair in dreadlocks, this is exactly how it would look.”

Carson chuckled along with him, the tension in the room easing slightly. “Aye, I’d say you’re spot on there.”

But the levity didn’t last long as Carson glanced back at the results. “What’s remarkable is what she’s done to their ATA genes. It’s not just strong—it’s beyond anything we’ve ever seen. They won’t just be able to interact with the city better than most. To the city, they’ll register as fully Ancient, not Earth Human. It’s unprecedented.”

John’s brow furrowed, his protective instincts flaring again. “What does that mean for them? Are they going to be... different? Is this going to mess them up somehow?”

Carson sighed, setting the tablet aside. “I don’t know, John. There’s no precedent for this—no record of anyone artificially enhancing the ATA gene to this degree, let alone in infants. Atlantis claimed she wanted them to interact with the city the way Ancients could. That could mean they’ll have access to systems and areas that even you can’t. But it could also mean their biology might adapt or evolve in ways we can’t predict.”

John’s grip on the babies tightened. “So you’re saying I have no idea what I’m dealing with here.”

Carson placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “What I’m saying is that you’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out as we go, one step at a time. They’re healthy, strong, and they’ve got you. That’s what matters.”

John glanced down at his children again, their tiny faces peaceful and unaware of the weight of the conversation. He pressed a kiss to Eleanor’s forehead, his resolve hardening. No matter what the future held, these were his children. And he would protect them with everything he had.

“Well now, lad,” Carson said with a smile, folding his arms as he leaned back against the counter. “Now that we’ve got the bairns looked at, it’s your turn.”

John groaned, his head falling back against the exam table. “Can’t we just skip me? You already poked and prodded enough for one day.”

Carson raised an eyebrow, his expression amused but unyielding. “Not a chance, Colonel. Ye might be feelin’ better, but that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Now, off with the shirt. Let’s have a look.”

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard walked into the staff meeting with a noticeable bounce in his step. It was his first meeting since returning from maternity leave, and he felt a mix of excitement and relief at being back. The plan had been for him to take a week to ease into even working a full shift before even considering going off world, but after the Trust and the bomb it was hard to find a reason that he needed to take so long to get back to work. So today, he’s finally getting back to off-world missions. It was what he had been craving ever since the babies were born.

The only thing that put a damper on his mood was the mug in his hand. It wasn’t filled with his usual lifeline of black coffee. Instead, it was still herbal tea. He knew he’d have to fully wean the babies before coffee could make a triumphant return to his mornings. He sighed into the steam rising from the cup, imagining the glorious day when caffeine would once again fuel his missions.

Sliding into his usual seat, John glanced around the room. Everything looked the same, but he still felt a slight disconnect, like he had to reclaim his place within the team dynamic. Unable to resist indulging his inner five-year-old, he leaned back and gave the chair a good spin.

“Jeez, John,” Rodney groused, ducking as the chair nearly smacked him. “I’m not sure who’s more mature, the babies or you.”

John stopped mid-spin, fixing Rodney with an exaggeratedly stern look before sticking his tongue out at him. It wasn’t a professional move, but the childish gesture earned him the desired effect—a loud groan and a dramatic eye roll from Rodney.

“Glad to see you’ve returned to us in peak maturity, Colonel,” Rodney grumbled, turning his attention back to his tablet.

Before John could deliver a retort, Dr. Elizabeth Weir entered the room, carrying her usual air of calm authority. She didn’t catch the exchange between the two men, but her eyes immediately landed on John.

“Ah, Colonel,” she said warmly, her smile reaching her eyes. “You’ve been missed. It’s good to have you back.”

John tilted his head, smirking as he leaned casually back in his chair. “Thanks, Elizabeth. Been itching to get back.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly as she took her seat. She did miss having John around. While his recklessness and ability to attract trouble often tested her patience, she knew she could always count on him when it mattered.

“Good to hear,” she said before glancing at her notes. “And just in time—we’ve got a lot to discuss today.”

As the rest of the senior staff filed in and the meeting got underway, John settled into the familiar rhythm of mission briefings and team updates. He felt a sense of normalcy returning.

The mug of herbal tea sat untouched for most of the meeting, a small reminder that while he was back in action, his life had irrevocably changed. Still, as Elizabeth outlined upcoming priorities and Rodney launched into a tirade about equipment malfunctions, John found himself smirking. It was good to be back.

--

Nearly hyperventilating, Rodney muttered to himself, “Okay, okay, need some light... light would be good.” His hands shook as he fumbled with the tiny flashlight clipped to his vest, its narrow beam finally piercing the oppressive darkness. He aimed it toward the dismantled control panel, squinting as he tried to make sense of the chaotic mess of wires and circuits.

When the faint light illuminated a crucial connection, he laughed, a manic and triumphant sound that echoed around the tight space. “Ha! Knew it! Knew you could do it, McKay!”

“Of course you did,” a voice drawled from behind him, casual and familiar.

Rodney froze, every nerve in his body on edge. Slowly, he turned, the motion sending a spike of pain through his pounding head. “What the—? John?!”

There he was, lounging lazily against the bulkhead as though they were in the mess hall and not a life-or-death situation sinking in the ocean in a dead puddle jumper. His arms were crossed, his ever-present smirk firmly in place, and he radiated that infuriating air of “I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-you-think” confidence.

Rodney gawked, his flashlight trembling slightly as he tried to process what he was seeing. “What... how... you were... HOW?!”

John raised an eyebrow, the smirk deepening. “That head injury of yours must be worse than you think if you can’t even finish a thought.”

Rodney’s jaw flapped, but no words came out. Instead, he just jabbed a finger toward John in accusatory confusion.

John shrugged nonchalantly, pushing off the bulkhead with an ease that only made Rodney’s blood pressure spike. “I’m not really here. You’ve got a pretty nasty concussion, and your brain decided you needed a bit of help. So here I am.”

Rodney stared at him, blinking rapidly, his head throbbing with the effort of keeping up. “I have such a bad concussion that my brain decided to hallucinate you?”

John’s grin widened, flashing teeth in a way that was far too accurate for Rodney’s comfort. Even his hallucinations were detailed. Damn his genius brain.

“Lucky you,” John quipped.

Rodney’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Lucky? No, no, no. If this really is my brain’s idea of a helpful hallucination, then you’re clearly not dressed appropriately.”

John tilted his head, amused. “What?”

Rodney waved a hand in his direction, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Why are you in your stupid uniform? If you’re a figment of my imagination, you should be in... I don’t know, something useful! Like a skimpy Omega bikini. Or—or maybe an Omega maid’s outfit. Something inspirational!”

John let out a snort, the sound so quintessentially him that it only annoyed Rodney further. “Really, McKay? You think John Sheppard would ever wear something like that?”

Rodney scowled, heat rising to his cheeks. “Well, a guy can daydream!”

John shook his head, his smirk taking on an edge of condescension. “This is your daydream, Rodney. And clearly, even your subconscious knows John would never do that.”

Rodney groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Great. Even in my fantasies, you’re insufferable.”

“Just here to help,” John replied with a mock salute, the glint in his eyes suggesting he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Help? Help how? Why would my brain think that you, Colonel Flyboy Captain Kirk of the Pegasus Galaxy, would be of any help to me?!” Rodney snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. He regretted it immediately, the sharpness reverberating in his skull like a hammer striking a gong. He winced, pressing a hand to his temple. “Ow, ow, ow. Stupid head injury.”

Fake John raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the outburst. “Because even your subconscious knows I’m smarter than I let on. How many times have I beaten you at chess? Oh, wait—you’ve never beaten me.”

Rodney bristled, his lips forming a tight, indignant line, but John wasn’t finished.

“Don’t forget, you looked up my Mensa score. I got a perfect score. You were—what was it again? Ten points short of perfect?” He smirked. “And I did it twice. The second time, I even finished and walked out thirty minutes before the timer went off. Ringing any bells?”

Rodney sputtered, his face flushing red. “That—that doesn’t even matter right now! Mensa scores don’t help with—!”

Fake John leaned in, his grin widening. “And don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening up in the city. You know I’m up there right now, working my ass off, running everyone else ragged trying to find you. You know I wouldn’t rest until I did.”

Rodney froze, his throat suddenly tight, but John kept going.

“Plus, let’s not kid ourselves, McKay. You’re completely smitten with me. You’ve got a concussion, you’re sinking thousands of feet in freezing water, stuck in a broken jumper, and you just watched some guy you couldn’t have picked out of a lineup yesterday sacrifice himself for you. You wanted comfort, and here I am.”

Rodney snapped his head around, glaring at the hallucination. “I am not smitten with you!” he shot back, voice rising.

John just shrugged, his grin turning almost indulgent.

With a growl of frustration, Rodney turned back to the jumper’s control panel, his fingers fumbling with the mess of wires and circuits. He ignored the ache in his head and the pounding of his heart, focusing instead on boosting the signal. If he could just—

“I wouldn’t do that,” John said, his tone casual as he peered over Rodney’s shoulder.

Rodney ignored him, reaching for a cluster of exposed wires. The moment his fingers made contact, a jolt of electricity surged through his body. Pain flared as he screamed, his whole body jerking violently.

Collapsing against the panel, he wheezed, glaring at John with pure venom. “NO REALLY?! Here to help, why don’t you actually do something useful, Colonel Helpful!?”

John’s grin didn’t falter. “I’m not even here, Rodney.”

“Guhhhhh!” Rodney groaned, slamming a hand against the side of the console in frustration.

Minutes ticked by as he worked, his hands trembling from exhaustion and his mind racing with calculations. Fake John didn’t let up, pacing behind him and offering a running commentary that was equal parts infuriating and—Rodney hated to admit—helpful.

“Don’t connect that. You’ll short the power and make it harder for them to find you,” John said, his voice annoyingly calm.

Rodney threw a wrench over his shoulder, not caring when it passed harmlessly through the apparition. “Oh, you think they’re even looking for me? Please. They’ve probably already had my funeral. Bet there wasn’t even decent catering.”

“Leave no man behind.”

Rodney froze for a second before shaking it off. “That’s John’s motto.”

“Yes, and when has he ever let anyone down?”

Rodney pressed his lips together, refusing to engage.

Fake John grinned, leaning closer. “Exactly.”

Grinding his teeth, Rodney forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “I’m going to get out of this mess, with or without you, hallucination,” he muttered under his breath, and for a moment, John actually looked impressed.

“Attaboy, McKay,” he said, his voice softer than before.

Rodney didn’t respond, but his hands steadied slightly as he worked. Somewhere, deep down, he couldn’t entirely deny the comfort of the imagined voice.

Suddenly, a deafening bang jolted Rodney, throwing him off his precarious perch and sending him sprawling onto the cold, hard floor. His heart hammered in his chest as he scrambled upright. “Whaaaa... What was that?” he stammered, blinking in confusion.

Reaching for his tablet, which was still connected to the jumper’s systems, he squinted at the flickering data. The lines and readings weren’t perfect, but they painted a clear enough picture. “Oh! Oh! We stopped, we stopped sinking!” he exclaimed, letting out a whoop of victory that echoed through the small cabin.

“Rodney, that’s not good,” Fake John said, his expression unusually serious as he scanned the walls of the jumper, his gaze lingering on faint cracks forming in the surface.

Rodney spun to face him, his earlier excitement giving way to confusion. “What?! What do you mean, ‘not good’? I’ve stopped falling, which means—hello!—if anyone’s looking for me, they won’t have to find a moving target anymore!”

“Rodney...” John’s voice was calm but edged with something Rodney didn’t want to identify.

Before he could retort, a soft drip drip drip reached his ears. It was so faint at first that Rodney thought he might be imagining it. Then, as if mocking his momentary hope, a thin trickle of water snaked its way down the wall in front of him, glinting like liquid silver under the dim emergency lights.

Rodney’s stomach dropped. “NONONONO!” he wailed, lunging forward to inspect the damage. “Microfractures! We hit so hard we cracked the hull!” His voice climbed higher with every word, tinged with panic. He gripped his hair in both hands, teetering on the edge of full-blown hysteria. “This is just perfect! I wanted to bang my head against a wall earlier—now the damn ocean is going to beat me to it!”

He slumped onto the bench in utter defeat, his head dropping into his hands. His breath came in shallow gasps, a mixture of cold air and despair filling his lungs.

“And here I thought you were Rodney McKay, the great Dr. McKay, genius, savior of Atlantis, smartest man in two galaxies” Fake John drawled, leaning lazily against the bulkhead. “Giving up already?”

Rodney shot him a withering glare. “What would you have me do?!” he snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm and defeat. “We’re at the bottom of the ocean. I’m sinking, freezing, and drowning. Oh, and let’s not forget the cherry on top: I have a head injury! What am I supposed to do, Colonel Helpful?!”

John didn’t flinch at the outburst, his mocking grin unwavering. “You rerouted the air filtration system earlier to keep yourself from suffocating, right?”

Rodney blinked, taken aback. “Yes? What’s your point?”

“So you’re telling me the guy who can rewire Ancient tech in his sleep can’t figure out how to stop some water from trickling in? Come on, McKay. Where’s that genius brain of yours?”

For a moment, Rodney glared at him, indignant. But then his brow furrowed as something clicked. His gaze darted to the control panel, then back to John, then back to the panel. “Wait... wait a second! That might actually work!”

He leapt to his feet, adrenaline overriding the exhaustion and pain. “If I can reroute the air filtration system to increase internal pressure, it might hold the water out—or at least slow it down long enough for someone to find me!” He snapped his fingers and immediately began scrambling to access the necessary systems.

John smirked. “Now that’s the Rodney McKay I know and tolerate.”

Rodney ignored him, hyper-focused on his work. Every second felt like an eternity as he raced against the rising water, which was already lapping at his shins. His fingers trembled from the cold, making it harder to connect the wires and bypass the failing systems.

Finally, with a triumphant cry, he hit a button and watched as the pressure readings on his tablet started to climb. He could hear the faint hiss as the air pressure increased, pushing back against the water that was threatening to fill the jumper.

“Ha! Take that, ocean!” Rodney crowed, punching the air.

But his victory was short-lived. The water, now knee-deep, wasn’t entirely stopped, and the cold was seeping into his bones. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. “Oh, great. I won’t drown immediately, but I’ll freeze to death first. Lovely.”

“Hey,” John said, crouching down beside him. His tone was oddly gentle now, devoid of the usual snark. “You’re buying time, Rodney. That’s what matters. They’ll find you.”

Rodney’s voice trembled as much as his hands. “They’d better, or I’ll haunt every single one of them,” he muttered, shivering violently.

“Attaboy,” John said with a grin, patting Rodney on the shoulder. “Keep fighting.”

Rodney didn’t respond, too focused on holding himself together as the cold pressed in. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he clung to the hope that John—the real John—was out there, just as determined to save him as Fake John claimed.

Rodney hunched over his tablet, frantically navigating its flickering interface, hoping to squeeze even the smallest bit of extra power from the failing systems. His fingers trembled—whether from the cold or desperation, he couldn’t tell. The water had crept up to mid-thigh now, icy and relentless. Suddenly, as he began inputting new commands, he felt hands close over his own, stopping his movements.

Startled, he looked up—and froze. Imaginary John stood before him, utterly naked, his expression unreadable.

“What—” Rodney began, but Fake John silenced him by leaning in and kissing him full on the mouth.

Rodney flailed, utterly flummoxed, pushing at John’s chest. “WHAT?! First, you refuse to wear anything I consider remotely sexy, and now you’re just—just making out with me?!”

Fake John tilted his head, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “Well, since your time’s getting shorter, I thought you deserved to go out with something nice. Besides,” he added, leaning closer, “this is a great way to keep warm.”

Before Rodney could formulate a response, John leaned in again, capturing his lips in another kiss. This time, despite his initial resistance, Rodney found himself kissing back, his body betraying him in the face of the figment’s surprising tenderness. John’s arms slid around him, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

The moment teetered on the edge of something more until John began to press against him, his hands roaming. Suddenly, Rodney’s brain kicked back into gear. “Ahhh! Nononono!” he yelped, shoving John away. “You are not going to distract me! You’re trying to distract me!”

John cocked an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Why would I do that?” He leaned in again, but Rodney scrambled back.

“Because you’re a figment of my imagination!” Rodney shouted, his voice cracking. “And since you live in my head, you know I’m close to something! You’re trying to throw me off!”

“If I’m a figment,” John said, his tone almost amused, “why would I want to distract you and get you killed?” He brushed a hand across Rodney’s chest, his touch surprisingly solid and warm.

Before Rodney could respond, a loud bang echoed through the jumper, followed by a faint crackling in his ear. It took a moment for Rodney to register the sound—the radio.

He practically leapt away from Fake John, fumbling with the controls. “Rodney, come in,” crackled a familiar voice.

Rodney froze, his gaze darting between the radio and the now-clothed figment standing silently nearby. “Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me?!” he shouted into the receiver.

“Rodney! Hey, can you open the door?” The voice was unmistakably John’s.

Rodney’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?! Open the door?! I’m tens of thousands of feet underwater!” he screeched.

“Radek found a workaround,” John’s voice replied calmly. “We need you to open the door. His fix won’t last long.”

“Oh, and how exactly am I supposed to know this is real and not some hypoxia-induced fever dream?” Rodney argued, glaring at the figment for emphasis.

The radio crackled again, John’s voice filled with dry humor. “If you don’t open the door, I’ll make sure the babies get your tablet as their new chew toy. They’re at that stage where they put everything in their mouths.”

Rodney’s eyes widened in indignation. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me,” John deadpanned.

Muttering under his breath, Rodney smacked the door release. With a groan of metal, the hatch slid open, revealing John standing just outside, framed by the eerie glow of the ocean floor.

“There you are,” John said with a relieved smile, reaching out to grab Rodney’s arm. “Come on. We need to go.”

Rodney stumbled to his feet, still disoriented. As John helped him through the doorway, a loud, mournful sound reverberated around them. It was low and resonant, like whale song, but far louder and more haunting. Rodney’s gaze snapped upward—and he froze.

Above them, a massive creature swam gracefully through the murky water.

“Oh, no. No, no, no! You don’t get to eat me!” Rodney yelped, trying to scurry faster toward the waiting jumper.

John chuckled, steadying Rodney with a firm grip. “He’s not going to eat you. He’s the reason we found you. You should really be thanking him.”

Rodney shot him a disbelieving glare but kept moving. His head throbbed, and his legs felt like lead, but John’s steady hand guided him to the jumper. Once inside, John settled Rodney on the back bench before sprinting to the pilot’s seat.

The jumper powered up, its systems humming to life as John deftly piloted them away from the wreck. Rodney slumped against the bench, his head lolling to the side.

“You’re safe now,” John said, glancing back at him with a reassuring smile.

Rodney closed his eyes, his body finally relaxing as the exhaustion overtook him. Everything would be okay.

Chapter Text

John and Rodney were sprawled out on John's bed, watching Star Trek: The Original Series on Rodney's laptop. The screen rested on a thick book perched between them, a makeshift solution that brought back memories of lazy evenings before Atlantis decided to she was a God. For the first time in a long while, things felt... normal. Comfortable, even. Ronon, who didn't care much for Star Trek, was on baby duty, so they used that as excuse to watch their favorite.

Rodney had his arm casually draped around John's shoulders. It wasn’t unusual anymore—since moving into the shared quarters, Rodney had been increasingly affectionate. John could tell it wasn’t just casual touches, though. Rodney was clearly trying to court him again, and for the first time, John wasn’t pulling away. He liked the attention, even if he’d only admit it to himself or during his sessions with Dr. Kate Heightmeyer.

The touches, the way Rodney’s hand would linger on his shoulder or his back—it felt... nice. Comfortable. Reassuring. Rodney had even given him a foot rub. John didn’t even try to hide how much he’d enjoyed it. He had melted at Rodney's touch, grumbling something about Rodney being wasted on science when he could have a career as a professional masseuse. But maybe John had melted too much, he had made a mess in his shorts, fortunately Rodney for once was gentleman and said nothing when the smell of aroused Omega had to had been choking him.

Lately, John had noticed some other changes in himself, too. His body was clearly shifting out of the post-pregnancy phase—no longer focused on growing or feeding babies. He’d started having... urges again. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wanted the touches to go further, for there to be less clothing involved. He even started having the occasional wet dream again, something he hadn’t experienced in ages.

Those dreams were... interesting, to say the least. They featured both Rodney and Ronon, most of time individually but there had been a few where it was both together, though they were vague enough for John to feel safe that is wasn't some Ascended being playing with him.

During his sessions with Heightmeyer, he’d brought it up. The newly awakened sexual desires were something they’d discussed at length. While Heightmeyer encouraged him to trust his instincts, her repeated advice of “you’ll know when the time is right” was less than helpful. She believed that John's prolonged use of Suppressants, then his stint with the Taliban had managed to suppress any sexual urges. But then the pregnancy, birth then feeding the babies had flushed his body and restarted him.

As they reached Amok Time, one of John’s favorite episodes, he felt himself getting lost in the storyline. Spock’s emotional turmoil over thinking he had just killed his captain and best friend was intense. When Spock saw Kirk alive, the Vulcan's rare display of joy and relief hit John harder than expected. It made him think about almost loosing Rodney just a few days ago. They came pretty close -again.

Before he could really think about it, John acted on impulse. He leaned over, tilting his head up, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Rodney’s lips. It was brief—just a peck—but it was enough to make his heart pound.

Rodney froze, his eyes widening as he processed what had just happened. For a moment, neither of them said anything, the episode continuing to play in the background as Kirk smirked on-screen.

John pulled back, his face heating up. “Uh... sorry. I—”

“No!” Rodney interrupted, his voice cracking slightly as he shook his head. “No, don’t—don’t apologize. I just... wasn’t expecting it.”

John hesitated, glancing at Rodney’s face. The scientist was flushed but smiling—a nervous, hopeful kind of smile.

“I wasn’t either,” John admitted softly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly. “It just... felt right, I guess.”

Rodney let out a soft chuckle, his hand still resting on John’s shoulder. “Well, I’m not complaining,” he said, his voice gentler than usual.

They sat there for a moment, the awkwardness gradually giving way to something softer, more intimate. The tension that had been lingering between them for weeks, months even, seemed to melt away as John allowed himself to relax against Rodney. Leaning back into the bed, John let Rodney’s arm settle back around him, the warmth of the Alpha’s presence both comforting and grounding. The moment felt natural, unforced, as though this was exactly where they were supposed to be.

They didn’t get far into the next episode playing on Rodney’s laptop before John’s hand began to wander. At first, it was subtle—his fingers brushing against Rodney’s thigh in feather-light touches. It was nothing overt, but from the way Rodney’s breathing began to hitch, John knew the Alpha had noticed. The attention emboldened him, and John shifted slightly, turning just enough to nuzzle against Rodney’s neck. The scent there was intoxicating, and the faint pounding of Rodney’s heartbeat under his skin only encouraged him further.

Giving in to what his Omega instincts were screaming at him to do, John hesitantly licked at Rodney’s pulse point, the taste of the Alpha’s skin sending a shiver down his spine. The reaction he got in return was immediate—Rodney shuddered beneath him, a low groan escaping his lips.

“John,” Rodney breathed, his voice a mix of surprise and want.

John didn’t stop. His lips parted as he began to nibble and suck at the sensitive spot on Rodney’s neck, leaving marks that he knew would darken by morning. He wasn’t ready to bite—not yet—but he wanted there to be evidence. He wanted it to be obvious to anyone who saw Rodney tomorrow exactly who had put those marks there.

Rodney’s hands twitched against John’s sides, torn between staying still and grabbing hold. His breathing quickened as John worked, gasping as he finally managed to say, “If you don’t plan on this going further, you need to stop.”

John pulled back just enough to look at Rodney, his eyes dark and filled with determination. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and grabbed Rodney’s crotch through his pants, earning a full-throated groan from the other man. John smirked, his confidence growing. “Nah, I think I like where this is going,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Rodney’s head fell back against the pillows, his pulse racing as John returned to nibbling at his neck, his teeth scraping just enough to tease without breaking skin. The collar of Rodney’s shirt got in the way, and John growled in frustration, tugging at the fabric. “Mmm, too many clothes,” he muttered.

Sitting up slightly, John grabbed the hem of Rodney’s shirt and tugged. “Off,” he commanded, his voice firm but laced with anticipation.

They paused, breaths heavy and mingling in the warm air of the room. Rodney blinked up at John, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. “You’re awfully bossy,” he teased, his voice husky but still carrying that familiar, teasing edge.

John smirked, his lips curling as he leaned back just enough to give Rodney space. “Pot calling kettle,” he quipped, pulling his shirt off, his movements quick and deliberate.

Rodney didn’t argue, instead grabbing the hem of his own shirt and pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. They discarded the fabric carelessly, their focus entirely on each other. Now bare to the waist, John wasted no time diving back in, his mouth latching onto Rodney’s neck once more. His teeth scraped and nibbled, leaving marks as he went, but his hands were exploring now too, roaming across the broad expanse of Rodney’s chest, the soft trail of hair, the hard planes of muscle.

Rodney groaned under the attention, his hands finally catching up as he began to map out John’s body in turn. His palms glided over the Omega’s ribs, his fingers pressing and stroking in a way that sent sparks through John’s system. Rodney cupped the omegas breasts, they were much more round and full now that he was breast feeding, the Scientist felt his alpha swell with pride feeling what has been feeding his children. Soon, they were both panting, their skin slick with sweat as they moved together, the room filled with the sounds of gasps and low moans. At some point, John’s exploration of Rodney’s neck shifted upward, his lips finding Rodney’s mouth. Their kisses were intense, a clash of tongues and teeth, both of them greedy for more.

But then, with a groan, John suddenly pulled back, untangling himself from Rodney and climbing off the bed.

“John… what are you doing?” Rodney asked, his voice thick with confusion and frustration. He propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes following John’s every move.

John didn’t answer, at least not verbally. Instead, he started undoing his pants, the sound of the zipper cutting through the haze of their shared arousal. When he pushed the fabric down his legs and stepped out of them, Rodney got the message loud and clear. Without hesitation, he started fumbling with his own pants, shoving them down without even bothering to leave the bed.

Now completely bare, they took a moment to look at each other. The intensity of Rodney’s gaze was almost overwhelming, his eyes raking over John’s body with unabashed hunger. His stomach still had a pit of a pooch to it and the addition of stretch mark, his breasts were a lot fuller than they were before the pregnancy, but smaller than what a woman would have.“Shit, John,” he breathed, his voice reverent. “You’re so beautiful. Fuck, how did I get so lucky?”

John’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he smiled, a genuine, almost shy smile that contrasted sharply with the heat in his eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmured, climbing back onto the bed. Rodney never boasted of a strong physical physic, but his time on Atlantis and John forcing him to exercise had been working for him. A lot of the extra padding he had always carried had been replaced with muscles, but there was still enough there to make snuggling very comfortable. This time, he straddled Rodney, his knees bracketing the Alpha’s hips.

Rodney hadn’t moved from his reclined position, which made it easy for John to lean down and kiss him again. Their lips met in a slow, languid kiss, but John’s right hand had a different goal. He reached between his legs, his fingers dipping into his slick folds as he began to stretch himself open.

Rodney’s kisses trailed to John’s neck, his lips and teeth teasing the sensitive skin there. John moaned softly, his head tilting to give Rodney better access as his fingers worked himself open. The stretch burned, but it was a good burn, one that sent shivers through his entire body.

When he felt ready, John pulled his fingers free, his hand glistening with slick. Rodney caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and stilled, his gaze locking onto John’s hand. Without a word, he grabbed John’s wrist, bringing it to his mouth. His tongue darted out, licking John’s fingers clean, savoring the taste of his Omega.

John could only stare, wide-eyed, his breath hitching at the sight. The heat in Rodney’s eyes as he licked John’s hand clean sent a fresh wave of arousal through him. When Rodney finally let go, John placed both hands on Rodney’s shoulders, using them as leverage as he reached back to line himself up.

With a steady, deliberate motion, John began to sink down onto Rodney’s cock. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, but it felt so good. He took his time, not rushing but not hesitating either, until he was fully seated, his body flush against Rodney’s.

Their breaths intermingled, each exhale carrying the weight of their shared pleasure as they held still, both of them trembling with the intensity of the connection. John’s forehead rested against Rodney’s, their skin slick with sweat, and the quiet intimacy of the moment was almost overwhelming. The bond they hadn’t fully acknowledged before now felt tangible, an unbreakable tether that tied them together.

As the overwhelming sensations settled into something more manageable, John began to move. He started with slow, deliberate circles of his hips, testing the feel of Rodney inside him, his own body adjusting to the fullness. A shiver ran through him as the motion sent sparks of pleasure dancing up his spine. Rodney’s hands found their way to John’s hips, his grip firm but not restrictive, as though offering support rather than control.

The slow circles weren’t enough for long. The need for more began to creep in, and soon John was lifting himself off Rodney’s cock only to sink back down again. His movements were deliberate at first, testing the pace, but they quickly became faster, needier. His thighs trembled with the effort, and he used Rodney’s shoulders for leverage, his fingers digging into the Alpha’s skin as he rode him.

Rodney groaned beneath him, his head falling back into the pillows, his lips parted as soft curses and praises spilled from his mouth. “John… oh, fuck, you’re incredible,” he managed, his hands tightening on John’s hips as though to ground himself.

But for both of them, it had been far too long since their last release. The pleasure built quickly, spiraling higher and higher until neither could hold on. John’s breath hitched as he felt the first tug of Rodney’s knot catching at his entrance, the sensation sending him over the edge. He cried out, his body clenching tightly around Rodney as his orgasm tore through him.

The sight of John coming undone was too much for Rodney. Feeling John clench and shudder around him. He groaned loudly, his fingers digging into John’s hips. “Oh, John… I’m gonna—” he tried to warn, his voice thick with need, but John wasn’t about to let him hold back.

Taking Rodney’s words as a challenge, John clenched the muscles of his slick walls around him, milking every inch of his cock. He rode Rodney harder, his movements desperate and demanding, pushing them both to the brink. Rodney’s breath hitched, his grip tightening as he groaned low in his throat.

And then, with a sudden, powerful thrust, Rodney’s knot popped, locking them together. The sensation sent John spiraling into a second orgasm, his body trembling violently as waves of pleasure crashed over him. This time, the intensity was too much, and his vision darkened as he blacked out.

When John came to, he was slumped against Rodney’s chest, his cheek pressed against the Alpha’s damp skin. He could still feel Rodney pulsing inside him, the knot holding them together as they both recovered. John let out a soft, contented sigh, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through his body.

“Shit, John…” Rodney murmured, his voice full of awe. One of his hands was stroking up and down John’s back in soothing motions, while the other rested protectively on John’s hip. “Oh man… that was… that was hot. Incredible. I don’t even have words.” He pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head, his lips lingering for a moment.

John hummed softly, the sound almost a purr as he nuzzled into Rodney’s chest. He felt warm, safe, and completely sated. “Mmm… yeah, that was… better than I thought it’d be,” he admitted, his voice muffled against Rodney’s skin.

Rodney chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath John. “Does this mean you accept my courtship?” he asked, the teasing edge in his voice softened by genuine hope.

John tilted his head to look up at him, a small, lazy smile on his lips. “Mmm, I think so,” he murmured, his eyes heavy-lidded but full of warmth. He let his head fall back against Rodney’s chest, closing his eyes as they waited for the knot to deflate.

The two of them lay there in comfortable silence, their bodies entwined, the world outside forgotten. For the first time in what felt like forever, John felt truly content. It had been far too long since he’d allowed himself to be this close to someone, and he couldn’t help but marvel at how good it felt to finally let go.

Chapter Text

Panting heavily, John leaned against the walkway railing, sweat dripping down his forehead. “Oh man,” he gasped between breaths. “I really... got out... of... shape.” Each word was a struggle as he tried to steady his breathing.

Ronon, who had jogged far ahead, stopped and glanced back. Hearing John's strained words, he jogged back effortlessly, not even winded. Of course he wasn’t. The man could probably run laps around a hive ship and still look like he’d just taken a casual stroll.

“It’s only been three months since you had the babies,” Ronon said, his voice calm, as though they were chatting over coffee. “From what I understand, it takes a while to get back to where you were before a baby.” He reached into his pocket—how did he even hide anything in those tight clothes?—and pulled out a bottle, handing it to John.

John looked at the bottle skeptically, his pride wounded. But his dry throat burned with every breath, and after a coughing fit, he caved, snatching the bottle.

After a long drink, he managed to get his breathing under control. “Since you’ve got all this stamina to spare,” John said with a raised brow, his voice still tinged with irritation, “why don’t you go and do three more laps?”

Ronon smirked, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes that softened the jab. “You’re improving,” his voice steady, but there was an edge to it, something unspoken lingering in the air.

John took another drink, some of the water spilling down his chin and trickling along his neck. Ronon’s smirk faded as his gaze followed the line of water, transfixed.

Before John could say anything, Ronon reached out with his calloused fingers, tracing the path of the water down John’s neck in a slow, deliberate motion.

John froze. Ronon’s hand lingered for a moment too long, his thumb brushing against John’s jaw as though cleaning up the spill. But they both knew better. No matter the culture, a gesture like that was unmistakably intimate.

John’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat—not from exertion but from the charged tension between them. His mind scrambled for a coherent thought, yet all he managed was to stand there, frozen, his body buzzing with anticipation. The heat of Ronon’s gaze bore into him, dark and unreadable, and when Ronon leaned down and captured his lips, John wasn’t even startled. The only coherent thought his frazzled brain supplied was: Finally.

The kiss was all-consuming, a heady mix of relief and desire. Without hesitation, John wrapped his arms around the larger man, the bottle in his hand forgotten as it thudded against Ronon’s back. If Ronon noticed, he didn’t care.

When John broke the kiss to gasp for air, his lungs still struggling from the run, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he nibbled at Ronon’s earlobe, drawing a low growl from the Satedan.

With surprising ease, Ronon swept John off his feet and pinned him to the wall. John let out a needy whine, his legs wrapping instinctively around Ronon’s waist. Their mouths collided again, tongues battling for dominance, the kiss deep and unrelenting.

They were so engrossed in each other that the sudden sound of shuffling at the end of the walkway jolted them both. They froze, their heads snapping toward the noise.

John tried to disentangle himself, attempting to place his feet on the ground, but Ronon’s grip held firm. “Come on,” John whispered, his voice low and breathy. “Let’s take this somewhere without an audience.” He reached up and twirled one of Ronon’s dreadlocks between his fingers.

Ronon grunted, his lips twitching into a smirk as he gently set John down. The tenderness in his actions reminded John of how Ronon cradled the babies when putting them to bed. Unable to resist, John leaned up and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

The walk back through the city was agonizing. John fought the urge to plaster himself against Ronon as they navigated the public areas, maintaining a carefully neutral distance. His heart thudded with every step, his mind spinning with anticipation.

When they finally reached their quarters, the space was empty. Rodney was undoubtedly in the labs, and Serin had mentioned taking the babies for a walk along the piers, enjoying the beautiful day.

The cooling-off period from the walk hadn’t entirely dulled their earlier intensity, but the air between them was calmer now, charged with a simmering heat instead of an inferno.

John smirked, trailing his fingers down Ronon’s chest. “You were so desperate to take a shower with me the other day. Still want to give it a shot?” He punctuated his words with soft kisses along Ronon’s jaw, nibbling at his chin.

Ronon mirrored his smirk, his hands settling firmly on John’s hips before slipping lower. “You want me to wash your hair and everything?” he asked, his deep voice laced with amusement.

John’s breath hitched as Ronon’s grip tightened, pulling him flush against the Satedan’s solid frame. “Only if you’re thorough,” John teased, his voice low as he let his hands explore the expanse of Ronon’s chest.

John suddenly turned away with a teasing sway to his hips, heading for the larger bathroom connected to the master suite. “This one has better soundproofing,” he tossed over his shoulder with a smirk, his tone both suggestive and playful.

Ronon, never one to miss an invitation, followed without hesitation. He couldn’t resist reaching out to pinch John’s rear as they walked. The resulting squeak—a sound Ronon had never heard from John—made him grin broadly. John shot him a glare over his shoulder, though it lacked any real heat.

Once inside the spacious bathroom, the energy between them buzzed like static. Neither wasted time undressing, the urgency of the moment stripping away any pretense. John, however, hit a snag when his boxers clung stubbornly to his skin, a result of sweat and something more intimate. He huffed in frustration, and Ronon’s deep chuckle filled the room as he leaned in to help, his hands warm and steady against John’s hips.

Finally free of their clothing, they stood face-to-face, panting slightly, their gazes locked. For a moment, time seemed to slow. Ronon’s eyes roamed over John’s body, lingering on the faint scars, the lines of muscle, and the flush of his skin. John’s breath hitched as he took in Ronon’s broad frame, the strength in his stance tempered by the gentleness in his expression. It was a vulnerable moment, unspoken feelings simmering just below the surface.

But neither lingered for long. They moved simultaneously, their bodies meeting in a heated embrace. John’s hands slid over Ronon’s shoulders, marveling at the warmth and solidity of him, while Ronon’s hands found their way to John’s waist, pulling him close.

The sound of rushing water filled the room as the shower turned on, responding to John’s unspoken thought. A smile tugged at Ronon’s lips as he realized how deeply connected John was to Atlantis. Without breaking their kiss, he lifted John effortlessly, grinning at the startled gasp it elicited.

John felt the warmth of the water cascade over them, mingling with the heat radiating from their bodies. He tangled his legs around Ronon’s waist, holding on as the larger man nuzzled along his jawline and down his neck. When Ronon’s lips found the sensitive spot near John’s scent gland, John gasped, his fingers tightening in Ronon’s hair.

“Ronon,” John murmured, his voice breathy and laden with emotion.

Ronon pulled back slightly, meeting John’s eyes. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low but filled with genuine care.

John smiled, his hand brushing against Ronon’s cheek. “Better than okay,” he admitted, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to Ronon’s lips.

Those three words seemed to ignite something deeper between them. The playful teasing from earlier melted away, replaced by something more profound. Every touch, every movement, became an unspoken promise—an acknowledgment of the bond they were building, not just as partners, but as a family navigating their way through life in Atlantis.

They were both getting wet under the warm spray of the shower. John found himself pressed up against the shower wall. John had better purchase with the wall at his back and started rutting against the other man.

The Setidan wanted to explore more started mouthing at John's jaw and down his neck, he found the scent gland. From Johns reaction he kept nibbling and sucking on it. He had taken more lessons with Dr. Becket about Omega biology so he knew what it was doing to John to keep playing with that spot.

With a cry that Ronon had never heard from John. When the large man looked down to see what was wrong he found their bellies coated in a thick white substance. Ronon smirked. He made the Omega come just from mouthing at him.

Knowing if he didn't move on soon he would finish before they even started. He reached behind John and up. He found the soft fold, coated in a thicker substance than water. He pushed one finger in.

John groaned and leaned forward against the Setidan. Giving him better access. When the finger started wiggling he whined. “OH! Ronon please!”

He didn't need to be told twice, he shoved a second finger. Twisting and stretching he finger fucked John. Each movement earning a groan or a whine. He soon discovered the gland that Dr. Becket talked about. It was right were an Alpha's knot would hit. Pressing and petting that spot made his hand drip with something sticky.

“Stop playing and finish.” John groaned in Ronon's ear.

With a smirk he yanked his fingers from John. Using both hands he maneuvered John to lean up against the wall again. Lifting the Omega up some, he then lowered him down but with his cock impaling him.

As he sunk down on the cock John couldn't help the breathy whines. He was sounding like the Omegas from Pornos.

Both of them were too wound up to last long. Ronon's thrust became short and erratic. John stopped trying to help and just clung to the other man, mewling the whole time.

Ronon gave one final hard thrust, spilling his seed inside the Omega. Feeling the warmth spreading inside John came with a groan.

They stayed pressed against the shower wall, letting the warm water cascade over them, washing away the tension and heat of the moment. For a time, neither spoke, their breaths mingling as they leaned into each other, content to simply be. The intimacy of the moment wasn’t in the fervor of their earlier actions but in the quiet closeness that followed.

Eventually, Ronon shifted, careful as he gently pulled back and helped guide John down from the wall. He held him steady, his large hands firm yet tender as they supported John until he was sure the smaller man could stand on his own. John leaned into him, his forehead resting briefly against Ronon’s chest as his breathing slowed.

When he finally looked up, John’s smile was soft, his eyes reflecting a warmth that made Ronon’s heart tighten. Without a word, John tilted his head up and pressed a gentle kiss to Ronon’s lips—a chaste gesture, but one that spoke volumes.

Reaching around the larger man, John grabbed his soap, Athosian made, the earthy scent he’d come to appreciate after giving up the hope of maintaining a steady supply of Earth-made products.

With an unspoken understanding, they began to wash each other. John lathered the soap in his hands before gliding them across Ronon’s broad chest, his movements slow and deliberate, as though memorizing the feel of every scar and muscle beneath his fingertips. Ronon watched him intently, his own hands steady as they traced the contours of John’s shoulders and back, their touches more like reverent caresses than practical scrubbing.

Between each swipe of their hands, they paused to kiss—soft, lingering kisses that built a rhythm all their own. John chuckled when Ronon traced the soap across his collarbone, his fingers tickling slightly, and Ronon grinned in return, leaning down to press a kiss to the spot he’d just cleaned.

They took their time, neither in a rush to break the spell of the moment. The water continued to fall around them, the sound blending with their quiet laughter and whispered words. By the time they finally declared themselves clean, their skin was pruny, and the soap was nearly gone.

As John rinsed off the last of the suds, he leaned against Ronon’s chest, his fingers trailing lazily over the larger man’s forearm. “This might’ve been the longest shower I’ve ever taken,” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement.

Ronon chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of John’s head. “Worth it,” he rumbled, his deep voice resonating against John’s skin.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the water washing over them as they held each other in the quiet sanctuary of the shower, content in the closeness they’d found.

Chapter Text

“I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t take them up on their offer. You could’ve been a king!” Rodney said, his mouth half-full of food.

John rolled his eyes as he passed the mashed potatoes to Teyla. “Because I didn’t want to be a king—especially not there,” he said, scooping a small portion for himself. Dr. Beckett still had him on his mostly meat-and-fat diet, but with how creamy and buttery the potatoes looked, how could anyone resist? He took a small bite, savoring the indulgence.

Rodney nearly choked. “WHAA—” he sputtered, spraying bits of food onto the table.

John gave him a disgusted look. “Seriously, Rodney, could you gain a few table manners? The kids are going to think that’s okay.” He gestured pointedly at the splattered mess with his fork.

“Huh.” Rodney glanced down at the carnage he’d created. “Eh, since when did you become a snob, Colonel elbows-on-the-table?”

John narrowed his eyes. “I’d just rather not have to dodge food flying out of your oversized mouth, McKay.”

“It is pretty gross,” Ronon chimed in, flicking a stray piece of chewed food further away from his plate with a flick of his finger.

Rodney froze, his mouth open in pure disbelief as he turned to Ronon. “Are YOU kidding me? Mr. I-don’t-know-what-a-fork-is?” Rodney’s voice rose to an almost shriek.

“At least I don’t spit food all over my companions,” Ronon said with a shrug, grabbing another roll and biting into it, unconcerned.

Teyla, ever calm, added, “Indeed. At least Ronon keeps his mess to his own plate.”

Rodney’s jaw dropped as laughter erupted around the table. “Oh, come on!” he exclaimed, but his indignation only added to the hilarity.

Even John had to stifle a grin, shaking his head. “You’re a hazard, McKay.”

“You’re all hazards,” Rodney grumbled, stabbing at his food with exaggerated annoyance. “I’m surrounded by savages.”

The laughter only grew, the camaraderie of the table shining through despite Rodney’s grumbling.

“Though that princess would’ve been very disappointed when you showed up with your own kids,” Ronon teased, his tone light but laced with amusement.

This earned a genuine laugh from John. “Oh, very disappointed.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Serin tilted her head, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “Why would she be disappointed that you already have children?”

John shrugged, trying to keep his answer vague enough to avoid delving too deeply into the awkwardness of it all. “Oh, because she would’ve wanted to make kids with me herself.” he said, giving a lopsided smirk.

Ronon chuckled deeply, adding, “Their reactions would’ve been priceless when they saw you breastfeeding.”

John groaned and rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that mental image.”

Serin, however, remained unfazed, her tone as matter-of-fact as ever. “It would’ve confirmed to them that you, and they, are truly the Ancestors. It’s your birthright.”

The table fell silent. John sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Serin still hadn’t grasped—or refused to accept—that he was not one of the Ancestors, nor were the babies in the way she believed. But after witnessing how the city responded to him, her faith had only deepened.

They had told her about Atlantis and the role she had played, hoping the truth would help ground her beliefs. Instead, it had solidified them. She was utterly convinced she was not only caring for her gods but actively helping to raise them.

They’d shared the truth with her only because they were worried that with their extra strong ATA gene that the babies would need extra supervision. It was essential to keep others, especially those outside their trusted circle, from finding out. Serin had been given strict instructions on who was allowed to handle the children and under what circumstances.

Breaking the tension, Rodney chimed in, thankfully without a mouthful of food this time. “Yeah, they really would’ve lost their minds if they found out what the babies’ ATA count is—100%!”

“And that is the last time we discuss it,” John snapped, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument.

His jaw clenched as his mind raced. The mere thought of the IOA or SGC discovering the truth about the babies—or worse, the Goa’uld—was enough to send a chill down his spine. Full blooded Ancients running around would be a game-changer, and not in a good way.

The table remained heavy with John’s words, the implications clear but unspoken. Finally, Teyla’s calm voice broke the tension, her measured tone providing some reprieve. “I hear Dr. Beckett’s treatment has enabled more people to operate the control chair, reducing their former hierarchy.”

Rodney, ever the pragmatist, added, “Not sure how much good it’ll do them, though. Their ZPM's were nearly depleted. They were even losing the ability to launch drones.”

Ronon’s lip curled in disdain. “Guess they shouldn’t have been using them to terrorize their own people.”

John leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “I just hope the former peasants don’t do what you see in a lot of Earth’s history.”

“What happened on your world?” Serin asked, her curiosity genuine as she leaned slightly forward.

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well, when oppressed people realized their rulers were losing power—or when they finally had enough—they often revolted. It wasn’t just about overthrowing them, though. It could get brutal. The violence wasn’t always directed at just the ruling class, but anyone connected to them, no matter how distant. Even children weren’t spared.”

The table fell quiet again, the weight of John’s words sinking in.

Teyla’s brow furrowed. “Do you think the people there would do such a thing?”

John exhaled sharply, his tone firm. “That’s exactly what Elizabeth is trying to avoid. That’s why she approved the gene therapy and sent teams to evaluate their agricultural systems. If we can help them get better crop yields and find more efficient ways to use the city, it might keep them too busy—and too hopeful—to think about rebellion.”

Rodney nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Panem et circenses.”

Ronon frowned slightly, then offered, “Gesundheit.”

Rodney turned to him with an incredulous glare. “It’s Latin, you ape!”

Teyla, ever the diplomat, interjected, “That sounds like the language of the Ancestors.”

“Dr. Jackson believes the Romans may have learned their language from the Ancients,” Rodney supplied, his irritation giving way to his natural penchant for explaining things.

Serin tilted her head, curiosity shining in her eyes. “What does that phrase mean?”

John leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he answered. “During the Roman era on Earth, there was a period of great hardship for the people. To keep the population from revolting, the government created laws to provide food and entertainment—basically to keep people distracted. Panem et circenses means ‘bread and circuses.’ Rodney’s comparing what Elizabeth is doing to that—providing food and distractions to maintain order.”

Rodney’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward John. “Since when do you know Latin?”

John smirked, leaning forward slightly as he delivered his response in perfect Latin.
“Mordere me . Unus es liber homo, Rodney. Instructum est de gradu III usque ad graduatio. Putasne ? Quomodo tuum est Latinum?”

Rodney froze mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. His brow furrowed as he processed John’s words. “Wait… wait a minute! Did you just—?”

John didn’t let him finish. He leaned back casually, his grin widening as he continued in the same fluent Latin:
“An vero credis te solum sapientem esse? Sapientia tua quanto flos qui vento cadit. Et tu putas me stultum?”

Rodney’s eyes narrowed, and he jabbed his fork in John’s direction. “Oh, very clever, Colonel. I caught ‘sapientem’ and something about being stupid. You’re insulting me, aren’t you?”

Ronon snorted, clearly amused but entirely out of the loop. “What’s he saying?”

“No idea,” Teyla replied, watching John with mild curiosity.

Rodney groaned, throwing his hands up. “Of course you don’t! He’s showing off, that’s what he’s doing!”

John’s grin didn’t falter. “Rodney, maybe you’d understand more if your lingua wasn’t always so longa.”

Rodney blinked. “My… wait, did you just say my tongue is longer than—” He glared, his face reddening. “Oh, you are insulting me!”

Ronon laughed harder, clapping a hand on the table. “This is great. He’s got you all worked up, and we don’t even know what he’s saying.”

Teyla tilted her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could translate for us, Rodney?”

“Oh, sure! Let’s all join in on the ‘Rodney’s the idiot’ game!” He turned back to John. “You know what, Colonel? Just because you can spout off some dead language doesn’t make you smarter than me.”

John shrugged, all nonchalance. “Quod erat demonstrandum, Rodney.”

Rodney groaned in exasperation as Ronon and Teyla exchanged puzzled glances. “What did he just say now?”

“No idea,” Rodney muttered, stabbing at his food. “But I’m sure it was smug.”

John gave a mock salute, his grin never wavering.

--

Translation:

• Bite me. You're a one-book man, Rodney. It was taught from grade 3 all the way to graduation. Do you think private school would have never taught it? How is your Latin?

• Or do you believe that you alone are wise? Your wisdom is as great as a flower that falls in the wind. And do you think me foolish?

• tongue and long

• That was to be demonstrated, Rodney.

Chapter Text

John sat on the couch, his babies cradled securely in his arms. Their small, rhythmic breathing and the occasional sleepy wiggle offered a fragile sense of calm, but it wasn’t enough to settle his racing thoughts. He leaned back, resting his head against the cushion, and closed his eyes, trying to push down the lingering discomfort clawing at him. He still felt violated. Violated and thoroughly pissed off.

Thalan had been an unmitigated ass. That much was clear.

The other man’s consciousness, invasive and arrogant, had been practically gleeful when he gained access to John’s memories. John’s Omega biology had utterly fascinated Thalan. But fascination quickly turned to exploitation. Thalan hadn’t just been curious; he’d been opportunistic, seizing on John’s every vulnerability with the glee of someone who had absolutely no boundaries.

John grimaced as he adjusted the babies, his grip tightening slightly, as though holding them closer would purge the memory of Thalan’s invasive commentary. The man had an almost academic interest in John’s biology, but the way he talked about it, listing potential uses for it like a mad scientist brainstorming experiments, made John’s skin crawl. And no matter how many times John had shouted at him to knock it off, Thalan refused to acknowledge that John’s body wasn’t his to dissect—mentally or otherwise.

“It’s not your body, you smug bastard,” John had snarled more than once during their mental standoffs, his frustration mounting as Thalan laughed him off. “Just because you’re in my head doesn’t mean you own me!”

But Thalan hadn’t seen it that way. If he was in John’s body, he considered it his biology too, and no amount of yelling or mental shoving would dissuade him.

Still, it wasn’t all one-sided. Having access to John’s mind had opened the door for John to access Thalan’s, a revelation that had turned the tables in a way Thalan clearly hadn’t expected. John had picked through the other man’s memories with the same tenacity Thalan had applied to his, digging through fragments of Thalan’s life and uncovering more than the other man likely intended.

That’s how John figured out how to end the body sharing sooner than panned.

It turned out Thalan wasn’t as indomitable as he wanted John to believe. He found out that if Thalian used up too much energy he wouldn't last the whole 2 hours. So John had baited him, needling him, throwing him into a frenzy until he burned through his energy and slipped out of John’s consciousness earlier than he probably would have otherwise.

Still, the whole ordeal left John feeling raw.

He glanced down at his babies, his gaze softening as he took in their tiny, peaceful faces. They were blissfully unaware of the chaos that had just unfolded, and for that, John was grateful. They were his anchor, the one thing grounding him in the midst of everything.

But that peace had almost been shattered.

John scowled at the memory of Thalan’s plan. The bastard had been on his way to John’s quarters, fully intending to hold his babies hostage as leverage. The thought made John’s stomach churn, the protective instinct roaring to life as he tightened his arms around them.

If it hadn’t been for Teyla…

Now, in the quiet of his quarters, John exhaled slowly, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of each baby’s head, his heart heavy but resolute.

He would never let anyone—or anything—threaten his children. Not Thalan. Not anyone.

The door chime echoed through the quiet room, breaking John out of his thoughts. He really didn’t feel like getting up, not with the babies nestled against him, their warmth acting as his only source of comfort. Instead, he used his ATA gene to unlock and open the door remotely. The swish of the door sliding open was followed by a hesitant pause. Then, to John’s surprise, Colonel Steven Caldwell stepped inside.

“Colonel,” Caldwell greeted, his tone neutral as his gaze landed on John.

John shifted uncomfortably, his anxiety immediately spiking. “Oh, Colonel,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “What brings you here?”

Caldwell stepped fully into the room, his movements measured as he made his way around the coffee table to stand before John. He glanced down at the couch and then back to John, raising an eyebrow. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the seat next to him in a silent request.

John hesitated, his gut instinct telling him this wasn’t going to be a casual visit. Reluctantly, he nodded, his throat tight as he swallowed hard. “Sure,” he said, his voice strained.

Caldwell took the offered seat, lowering himself slowly, and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just wanted to check in,” he began, his tone surprisingly soft. “This isn’t official or anything. I’m not here as your commanding officer. I’m just someone who has an idea of what you’ve been through.”

John blinked at him, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic display of empathy. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, almost too quickly.

Caldwell smirked, clearly not buying it. “I can see that,” he said dryly, his eyes dropping to the way John was clinging to the twins. “John, it’s okay to not be okay with having your body taken over and being forced to do things you’d never do.”

John looked away, his jaw tightening as he nuzzled one of the babies, using them as a shield against the conversation he didn’t want to have.

Caldwell’s expression sobered as he leaned back, giving John some space. “He did more than just make you try to kill Dr. Weir, didn’t he?” he asked carefully.

John’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What makes you think that?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

Caldwell met his gaze evenly, unfazed by John’s defensiveness. “The way you’re holding your kids like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded,” he said, his voice calm but pointed. “The way you reacted when you regained control. And the fact that you didn’t want Rodney or Ronon to touch you.”

John stiffened, his grip on the babies tightening slightly. “Why do you think I wouldn’t let them touch me?”

“I ran into them in the mess hall,” Caldwell admitted. “They were with your nanny. They told me you practically bolted out of the infirmary, grabbed the babies from Serin, and kicked everyone out of your quarters.” He paused, studying John’s reaction before continuing. “They said they were going to give you a few hours to decompress before they called Dr. Heightmeyer.”

The mention of the psychiatrist’s name made John flinch, a reaction Caldwell didn’t miss. Just what he needed—more probing questions from Heightmeyer during his mandatory sessions. His jaw tightened, but before he could redirect the conversation, Caldwell pressed further.

“Did he threaten the kids?” Steven asked carefully, his tone measured.

John let out a heavy sigh, leaning back into the couch as the weight of the question settled over him. “Yes,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “Once he gained control, he... he went through all my memories. Every single one.” His grip on the twins tightened protectively. “And then he started making plans—talking about how my... biology... would be best used.” He hesitated, his voice faltering. “No matter how much I fought him, no matter how much I tried to reason with him, he didn’t care. I even told him that whatever he did, it would affect him too, since he was the one controlling my body. He didn’t listen.”

John paused, his voice growing hoarse with suppressed emotion. “I figured out from his own memories that the more he exerted himself, the faster I could get him out. I could shorten the two hours. So I pushed him—hard. He didn’t like that.” His eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s when he decided to come here. He was on his way to my quarters, to get to the babies. He was going to hurt them if I didn’t stop fighting.”

Caldwell closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly shaken by the revelation. It was worse than he’d thought. When he’d first heard about Thalan, he assumed the other consciousness would have made some cruel comments about John’s Ancient genetics or mocked him for being an omega—an oddity even in the Pegasus Galaxy. But this? This was far beyond anything he’d imagined.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Steven said softly, opening his eyes to meet John’s tortured gaze. “That’s worse than I thought it would be. But... you won. He didn’t. He had the biggest loss. He didn’t get to the babies, he wasn’t able to act on his threats. The babies are safe. You’re safe.”

The weight of Steven’s words settled over John like a blanket, heavy and suffocating, yet oddly comforting. Emotions churned within him—relief, guilt, exhaustion. He looked down at his children, their tiny, peaceful faces grounding him in the moment.

“When...” John hesitated, his voice unsteady. “When you were possessed by the Goa’uld... did you get into arguments with it?” For the first time, he wanted to know—really know—what it had been like. Was it anything like what he’d gone through?

Caldwell raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question. “You’re the first person who’s ever asked me that,” he admitted, a trace of surprise in his voice. He sighed, leaning back into the couch as he considered his response. “No. We didn’t argue.”

John frowned, his curiosity growing. “Why not?”

Steven’s lips pressed into a thin line as he gathered his thoughts. “Honestly? It mostly ignored me.” He paused, his expression grim. “I had access to its memories, just like you did with Thalan. But the Goa’uld... it thought it was better than me. Superior. I wasn’t even worth acknowledging. It’s how they justify saying that nothing of the host remains. To them, we’re nothing—just vessels for their greatness.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. “I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be trapped like that for years, decades, even centuries. To be ignored. Not even acknowledged. To watch your body do things you have no control over. I think... after a while, most hosts give up. Their spirits just... break.”

John shuddered, his stomach twisting at the thought. As terrible as Thalan’s presence had been, at least he’d fought back, refused to let the other man have full control without resistance. But Caldwell’s words painted a grim picture of what could happen when that fight was gone.

“I guess I’m lucky then,” John said quietly, his voice barely audible. “Thalan wasn't nearly that arrogant, but I think it also helped that I knew it wasn't permanent, that there was an end and I even could make it faster.”

“Lucky might not be the right word,” Caldwell said with a wry smile, though his eyes were still filled with sympathy. “But yeah, I’d say you didn’t make it easy for him. And that’s a good thing, John. You didn’t give up.”

John watched as Caldwell’s eyes softened while looking at the babies nestled against his chest. There was something deeply reassuring in the way the older Alpha regarded them, something steady and sure.

“You should let their fathers back in,” Caldwell said gently. “They’re worried about you. And I think, whether you want to admit it or not, they’d be a comfort to you.”

John sighed, shifting slightly against the couch. “I sent them away because Rodney was being... well, himself. He kept demanding his night with the babies and trying to take them away. Ronon wouldn’t stop pestering me, and Serin—she thought I was mad at her for some reason. She didn’t understand why I took the kids so suddenly.”

Caldwell chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I’m not saying they’re the most emotionally mature group, or that they always know how to express themselves properly,” he said with a smirk. “But they do care.”

John hesitated, watching Caldwell as he continued to gaze at the twins. It was rare to see the older man so unguarded—his expression was almost wistful. The sight tugged at something deep in John’s chest.

“Do you wanna hold one?” he finally asked.

The change in Caldwell’s expression was immediate. His entire face lit up, his normally stern demeanor cracking into something that could only be described as delight. He looked positively elated at the offer.

“I would love to,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

John carefully shifted one of the babies, making sure they were still wrapped securely in their blanket before extending them toward Caldwell. The older man reached out with practiced ease, cradling the tiny bundle in his arms like something precious. His hands were large, but impossibly gentle as he adjusted his hold, his thumb brushing lightly over the baby’s cheek.

The baby stirred slightly at the movement, their tiny mouth opening in a sleepy yawn before settling again, nuzzling against the warmth of Caldwell’s chest. Steven let out a breath of quiet amazement, his expression soft in a way John had never seen before.

“They’re incredible,” Caldwell murmured, his voice almost reverent. “You did good, John.”

John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He wasn’t sure why that simple statement affected him so much, but it did. Maybe because part of him had been waiting for someone to tell him that—not about the mission, or his skills as a soldier, but about this. About his children.

He watched as Caldwell rocked the baby slightly, his expression peaceful.

“You want the others?” John found himself asking before he could think better of it.

Caldwell blinked at him, surprised but pleased. “Are you sure?”

John nodded, shifting the others in his arms before carefully passing them over. Caldwell adjusted easily, settling the infants in the crook of his arms. He looked down at them with something close to awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was holding them.

John let himself relax just a little, watching the way the babies snuggled against Caldwell without fear. It was... nice, having someone else here. Someone who wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding. Just being.

Maybe he really had won after all.

Chapter Text

Rodney stumbled into the shared apartment, rubbing at his tired eyes. It had been another late night in the labs—his most productive hours, really. All the idiots had cleared out hours ago, finally allowing him to get work done without interruption. But now that the rush of scientific progress had worn off, he was exhausted, and more than that, he didn’t feel like going to bed alone.

John had been letting either him or Ronon stay with him at night, and Rodney had quickly developed a taste for it. He wasn’t sure if it was just the warmth, the comfort, the sheer presence of John, or the fact that casually sharing a bed ended up with sex at some point, but whatever it was, he needed it. Now that he’d gotten used to curling up next to him, the thought of sleeping alone in his own bed felt almost unbearable.

As he padded softly through the darkened living space, he nudged open the bedroom door just enough to peek inside. His heart did a little victory leap when he spotted only one lump in the bed. No towering mass of dreadlocks. Just one solitary form curled up under the blankets, John’s unmistakable spiky hair just barely visible above the fabric.

Rodney broke into a Cheshire grin.

Silently, he slipped into the room, carefully closing the door behind him before toeing off his shoes. He tugged off his uniform jacket and set it aside before creeping toward the bed. He wasn’t sneaky exactly—stealth had never been his strong suit—but he was quiet enough.

John was curled on his side, the blankets pulled up around him, his breathing soft and even. He looked... small like this, which was an absurd thought because John was anything but small. But wrapped up like that, sinking into the bed’s warmth, he seemed almost fragile in a way that tugged at something deep in Rodney’s chest.

Carefully, he lifted the edge of the blankets and slid in behind him, pressing himself close enough to feel John’s warmth but not enough to wake him. The bed was warm, and John’s scent surrounded him.

Rodney let out a slow breath as he settled in, his arm instinctively draping over John’s waist. He hesitated for half a second, then carefully curled his fingers against John’s stomach, half expecting him to stir or grumble at the intrusion.

But John didn’t move, didn’t protest. Rodney took this as a win, his brain was too active to fall asleep easily so he decided to do something about it. He quickly learned he falls asleep pretty quickly when he was knot deep inside John.

Moving his hand down from Johns stomach into the waistband of his sleep pants. Lucky him, John liked sleeping commando. Nosing at the back of the omega's neck he breathed deep the smell of John.

Shoving John's sleep pants down as far as he could, John mumbled something and shifted. But didn't wake. The shift actually helped Rodney. He was able to get John's pants past his buttock.

He slipped a finger inside John to test how ready he was. He found John pliant. The finger, earned him another mumble and a groan. With another grin, Rodney took it as John's sleeping body enjoying the attention.

It didn't take much repositioning for him to start breaching John. He was only tip in when suddenly John screamed. With the scream John jackknifed trying to get away from Rodney. He half twisted aiming a punch. He landed hard, right in Rodney's nose, his vision exploded. He saw stars. There definitely was a crunch.

John was still screaming, but the words spilling from his lips were unintelligible—harsh, guttural sounds that Rodney couldn’t make sense of. Another language? His mind barely had time to process before John shoved him back with a strength that belied his lean frame. Then, suddenly, there was a hand around Rodney’s throat, squeezing, cutting off his air.

Rodney’s eyes went wide with panic as he clawed at John’s grip, but the Omega was like a wild animal, eyes glassy and unseeing, his body running purely on instinct. His other hand lashed out, fists connecting with Rodney’s face, his ribs—anywhere he could reach. Each hit was backed by pure terror and fury, a desperate need to defend himself against a phantom threat that only he could see.

Rodney gasped, his lungs burning as his vision swam. His free hand flailed, reaching for anything to break John’s hold, but the moment he touched John’s wrist, John snarled—an honest-to-god snarl—and twisted hard. Rodney barely had time to register the pop before a fresh wave of pain surged through his arm. He opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing came—only a choked, wheezing sound.

Just as the edges of his vision started to darken, a new voice cut through the chaos.

“John!”

A heavy weight slammed into them, knocking them apart. Rodney collapsed onto his side, gasping for air, while strong arms wrapped around John from behind, pinning him in place.

“John, stop!” It was Ronon’s voice, deep and commanding, but still gentle enough that it didn’t send John further into whatever nightmare had overtaken him. John thrashed, his body still tense, his chest heaving as though he couldn’t get enough air.

Ronon didn’t let go. “John, it’s me! You’re safe.”

John’s breath hitched, his struggles slowing as Ronon murmured to him in a low, steady voice.

Rodney, still clutching his injured arm, managed to push himself up just enough to see John’s expression. He wasn’t seeing the room—wasn’t seeing them. His eyes were distant, pupils blown wide, his face streaked with sweat. It was only when Ronon shifted, pressing a hand against John’s chest, that he finally shuddered, like something inside of him had snapped back into place.

“Ronon?” John’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze darted around wildly, landing on Rodney—and the bruises already forming on his face. His breath caught, and his whole body went rigid.

John ripped himself free from Ronon’s hold, scrambling backward until his back hit the headboard. His hands were shaking. “No—no, no, no—” he gasped.

Ronon held up his hands, palms open, making no move to approach. “John, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

John wasn’t listening. He looked between them, his breathing ragged, his entire body quivering like a cornered animal. Horror crept across his face, his pupils still too wide, his skin damp with sweat. “What did I do?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

Rodney wiped a shaking hand over his mouth, his lips pressing into a thin line. His ribs throbbed with every breath, his nose was a mess of pain, and his arm hung limp at his side, white-hot agony radiating from the shoulder. His brain felt sluggish, still trying to catch up to everything that had happened in the last few seconds.

“You—” Rodney started, then hesitated, wincing as he touched his swelling nose. His voice came out raw and weak, but his glare was sharp as a knife. “You tried to kill me.” He wanted to yell, to accuse, but his throat felt like sandpaper, raw from the choking.

John gasped like he’d been gut-punched. His breath hitched, and then suddenly, he crumpled in on himself, curling into a tight ball against the headboard. A strangled sob tore out of him, then another. Before Rodney could even react, John was sobbing outright, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

Rodney blinked, stunned. He’d never—never—seen John like this. The man who always deflected with a smirk, who carried the weight of every mission like it was nothing. The man who never let anyone see him break.

Over the sound of John’s raw, gasping sobs, another noise filtered through. It took Rodney a second to place it—thin, reedy cries, high-pitched and distressed. The babies.

His gut twisted as he turned his head toward the doorway. The door had been left open, and there, standing just inside, was Serin. Her face was pale, eyes wide with horror as she took in the scene—Rodney bruised and bloodied, John curled in on himself, Ronon crouched between them like a sentinel.

Ronon followed Rodney’s gaze, his expression unreadable as he looked at Serin. Then he turned to her fully. “Can you call medical for him?” He jerked his chin toward Rodney. “Then go check on the babies?”

Serin hesitated for only a second before nodding sharply and darting away. Her footsteps faded away.

Ronon exhaled through his nose, turning back to Rodney with a hard look. His sharp eyes took in the bruises forming along Rodney’s throat, the way he was cradling his arm, the blood trickling from his nose. He frowned, gaze narrowing in suspicion. “The Wraith hell did you do?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Rodney bristled, anger flaring red-hot again. “ME?!” His voice cracked with the effort, his throat protesting. “He’s the one who freaked over nothing and tried to kill me!”

Ronon’s jaw clenched. His shoulders squared, eyes darkening with something Rodney didn’t like. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, low and warning. He didn’t believe Rodney.

Rodney scoffed, but his breath hitched when the movement pulled at his ribs. He bit back a groan, scowling at Ronon. “What?! You think I deserved to be nearly strangled to death?”

Ronon didn’t answer. He had already turned his focus to John.

John was still pressed against the headboard, sobbing so hard his whole body trembled. His hands were clutching at his own arms, fingernails digging into his skin like he was trying to hold himself together. He rocked slightly, his breath stuttering with every sob.

Ronon’s expression softened, the anger in his stance melting into something Rodney couldn’t quite place. He moved slowly, carefully, and reached out, the barest brush of his fingertips against John’s arm.

“John,” Ronon murmured.

John flinched at the touch, a small, broken whimper escaping him. His whole body tensed, his breath catching. Then, like an injured animal, he whined—a soft, pained sound that curled around the room like a physical thing.

Rodney’s breath hitched.

Something about the sound burrowed under his skin, clawing at something primal inside him. His alpha instincts surged forward, reacting to the unmistakable distress of an Omega. It bypassed logic, bypassed the pain in his body, bypassed everything except the overwhelming need to comfort, to soothe, to protect.

His body twitched forward automatically, but the sharp stab of pain in his ribs and arm pulled him up short, and his anger snapped back into place like a rubber band.

John had just tried to kill him.

Rodney grit his teeth, torn between instinct and fury. His throat ached, his pulse still hammering too fast. His instincts were screaming at him to fix this, to fix John, but his rational brain—the part still reeling from being nearly strangled—wasn’t ready to let go of the anger just yet.

Ronon, still focused entirely on John, exhaled slowly. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. His voice was softer than Rodney had ever heard it. “You’re safe.”

John didn’t respond. His fingers twitched against his arms, his breath still shaky, uneven.

Rodney swallowed hard, trying to force down the tangled mess of emotions in his chest. His voice came out rough, hoarse. “John,” he said, softer this time. “What—what the hell just happened?”

John didn’t look up. He just curled in tighter, his whole body shivering.

His sobs had tapered off into hitched, uneven breaths, but he was still trembling violently, his hands clutching at his arms as though trying to hold himself together. The only sounds in the room were the ragged inhales and exhales—John’s from the aftermath of his breakdown, Rodney’s from the sharp, stabbing pain every time he tried to breathe. Each inhale felt like knives in his ribs, his throat raw from both the choking and his earlier attempts to yell.

Then, from the living room, came the sudden noise of hurried footsteps, the shuffle of movement, and the clatter of a med kit.

The bedroom door had been left open.

Rodney barely had time to register what was happening before the medical team rushed in, moving with brisk efficiency. They halted just inside the room, taking in the scene before them—Rodney half-slumped against the bed, his face bruised, his nose swollen and bloody, his arm cradled protectively at his side. John, curled into himself, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Ronon, crouched between them like a sentry, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Rodney groaned internally. It wasn’t the medical team. It was the B-Team.

He immediately recognized them as the night shift crew—the ones he’d mentally classified as second-stringers. The ones who, in his mind, weren’t good enough to be on Dr. Beckett’s real staff. The B-Team gets the night shift because there's less work, fewer serious injuries. They do the minimum and call it a night.

One of the medics, a lieutenant whose name Rodney had never bothered to remember, gave a quick scan of the room before turning to the others. "Prioritize McKay. He’s the one in immediate need."

Rodney scowled, his frustration warring with the dull, persistent throb of pain in his ribs and the fiery ache in his arm. “I—no, I’m fine—” he started, only to immediately wince at the sharp pain in his throat.

The medics ignored his protest entirely. They were already on him, hands assessing, fingers pressing too hard against already bruised skin. Rodney flinched, groaning as someone palpated his ribs.

“Possible fractured ribs,” one of the medics muttered. “Nasal fracture likely. Arm—dislocated?”

Rodney tried to bat their hands away with his good arm. “Ow, for god’s sake! Stop poking me! And I am not letting the B-Team do their voodoo on me—get Carson or get no one!”

He tried to inject as much authority into his voice as possible, but it came out hoarse and weak. The effort alone made his throat feel like sandpaper and sent a new wave of pain radiating through his ribs.

The medics, unimpressed, exchanged a look but continued their work.

“All Serin said was that there was an accident in Colonel Sheppard’s quarters,” one of them murmured. “Didn’t mention the extent of the injuries.”

Another medic gestured to the gurney they had brought in. “Let’s get him to the infirmary. He’s not gonna like it, but he needs to be stabilized before Beckett can see him.”

Rodney tried to protest again, but a sharp movement from one of the medics jostled his ribs, and he let out a strangled yelp instead.

“Yep, that’s what I thought,” one of them said dryly. “Alright, on three—”

Rodney barely had time to brace himself before they maneuvered him onto the gurney. He hissed through his teeth, but the fight drained out of him. Every inch of him hurt, and he was too damn exhausted to argue further.

As they wheeled him toward the door, the head medic paused, turning back toward the bed where John still sat curled in on himself, unmoving.

The Colonel was a mess—his sleep clothes wrinkled and damp with sweat, his hair sticking up wildly, his breath still uneven. The raw, shattered look on his face was enough to make even the medic hesitate.

He had never seen Colonel Sheppard looking so broken.

“How’s he?” the medic asked quietly, glancing at Ronon.

Ronon didn’t take his eyes off John. His expression was guarded, his voice a low rumble. “Not sure. He won’t let me touch him, won’t even acknowledge me speaking.”

The medic’s frown deepened. He might not have been part of the A-team, but he wasn’t blind. The Colonel was in distress—deep distress. And while he didn’t appear physically injured, it was clear that something was very wrong.

“Do you want me to call Heightmeyer?” the medic asked. “If the Colonel’s not physically hurt, she might be better suited to handle this.”

Ronon considered it for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “That would be good.”

The medic nodded in return. “I’ll send word now.”

With that, he turned and strode out after his team, leaving Ronon alone with John.

For a long moment, Ronon just sat there, watching his friend—watching the way his shoulders curled inward, the way he shook, the way he refused to lift his head.

Ronon sighed, low and quiet.

Now, all he could do was wait.

Chapter Text

"Damn it, man!" Carson had finally reached his limit. He had been yanked from his bed in the middle of the night, dragged to the infirmary to tend to Rodney, and since his arrival, the scientist had been extra ornery—more so than usual, which was saying something.

And now, after everything, Rodney was still refusing to take any responsibility for what had happened.

Carson slammed the tablet down onto the bedside table with a sharp thwack, making Rodney jump.

“John would not have attacked you for no reason!” Carson snapped, his accent thickening with frustration. “So ye must have done something!”

Rodney let out a dramatic, wounded gasp. “Oh, sure! Blame the victim! I’m the one in the infirmary, Carson! I’m the one with broken ribs and a swollen face! I’m the victim here, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

Carson pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply in a futile attempt to summon patience. “Alright, fine, lad. Let’s start over. What exactly was happening right before John snapped?”

Rodney huffed, shifting uncomfortably on the infirmary bed, but Carson just crossed his arms and waited.

With a reluctant sigh, Rodney finally started. “Well... I came back from the lab, and I figured I’d check in on John. He’s been letting me share his bed lately, and I really didn’t feel like sleeping alone.”

There was a flicker of something on Rodney’s face—an odd little smirk, almost sheepish, almost smug. He clearly thought back to the moment he’d found John alone in bed and liked the memory.

Carson, however, was rapidly losing whatever patience he had left. “And?”

Rodney’s smirk faltered slightly, but he continued.

“When I got into bed with him, I thought, well… you know, se–” Rodney hesitated, visibly considering how to phrase it. “A little, uh, sewing would be nice.”

Carson blinked. “Sewing?”

Rodney waved a hand dismissively. “You know what I mean, Carson. I thought we could fool around.”

Carson felt a pit forming in his stomach. “Rodney…” His voice was slower now, more careful. “Did you wake him up first?”

Rodney winced at the question. “Not… exactly.”

Carson’s stomach dropped.

Rodney avoided his gaze, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the infirmary sheets. “I thought, you know, he’d eventually wake up…”

Carson stared at him, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Rodney.” His voice was flat, devoid of any of the warmth that usually softened it. “Are ye tellin’ me ye initiated sex with John while he was still asleep?”

Rodney visibly flinched, but then scowled, defensive. “No! I mean—technically—” He shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I just got started, and I figured he’d wake up eventually and, you know, join in—”

Carson’s expression darkened.

“So ye did start without his consent,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

Rodney stammered. “It’s not—I mean—we’ve done this before! He likes it!”

Carson’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Did he give ye consent this time?”

Rodney’s mouth opened, then closed.

He didn’t answer.

And that was all the confirmation Carson needed.

“Damn it, man!” Carson exploded, his voice ringing through the infirmary. “YE CAN NOT DO THAT!”

Rodney jerked back, startled, but Carson didn’t care.

"But... isn't that something people do all the time? You see it in movies, shows, books..." Rodney floundered, his voice trailing off as Carson’s glare intensified. He could see how furious the doctor was, but he still didn’t understand why it was such a big deal.

“Yes. FICTION, lad!” Carson snapped, rubbing a hand down his face in exasperation. "Fiction! And even if it happens in real life, it’s something that’s been discussed beforehand!"

Rodney shifted uncomfortably. "Discussed?"

"Aye! Proper couples—respectful partners—talk about these things! There’s a bloody understanding in place, McKay! Do ye understand what consent means?" Carson’s voice was like a whip, sharp and biting.

Rodney swallowed, opening his mouth as if to argue, but Carson steamrolled over him.

"I know ye and John are engaging in that kind of relationship. But tell me, when ye do that, who usually initiates it?"

Rodney hesitated. His face burned. He was beginning to feel very, very stupid.

"...Well, umm... John usually does," he admitted, mumbling under his breath.

Carson’s expression turned grim. “There ye go, lad. John decides. John sets the pace.”

Rodney frowned. “Okay, but what does that—”

Carson slammed his hands down on the side of the infirmary bed, making Rodney jump. "Ye should know by now that John has trust issues, especially with this kind of thing!"

Rodney recoiled slightly, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. "What—how should I know that? And what do you mean especially?!" He snapped back, more defensive now.

Carson inhaled sharply, reigning in his temper, but his voice remained deadly serious. “Rodney, ye know what happened to John. How could ye think waking him up like that was even remotely okay?”

Rodney blinked. "What? I know what happened to him?" His pulse quickened, his gut twisting uneasily. “What are you talking about? What happened to him?! Did that Ladon ass do something to John?” His voice rose in panic, raw and frantic—only to be cut off by a sharp fit of coughing.

Carson sighed and handed him a glass of water. “Calm down, lad,” he muttered.

Rodney gulped it down, his throat burning, but the question still clawed at his mind. “Did Ladon do something? He’s the one who kidnapped John, trying to bargain for jumpers and guns! If he hurt John, I swear to God, I will—”

Carson stared at him. “Rodney.”

Rodney froze.

Carson’s face was unreadable, but there was a distinct note of disbelief in his voice. “Did ye not hack John’s files?”

Rodney immediately looked guilty. His lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders hunching up like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar.

“Well, ummm… no…” He coughed, shifting again. “I mean… at first, I didn’t care enough to bother. He was just some dumb flyboy with a good expression of the ATA gene and better control than you.”

Carson raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Rodney winced. “Okay, that came out wrong.”

Carson’s silence was loud.

Rodney sighed heavily, rubbing at his face. “Then when I did start caring, I… I didn’t want to ruin things. I figured if I hacked his file, I’d find out something—something I wasn’t meant to know—and I’d slip up eventually. And then he’d hate me.”

His voice dropped to something small, something uncertain.

“For snooping.”

Carson exhaled slowly, his anger giving way to something a little more complicated. "Oh, lad…" He pinched the bridge of his nose again, as if fighting off a headache. “Rodney… ye and Ronon both need to sit down and have a long conversation with John.”

Rodney frowned. “What? Why Ronon?”

“Because if ye plan on continuing yer courtship—or, as ye hope, leading to mating with him—then ye both need to understand what John has been through.”

Rodney’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—

“WHAT?!” His voice cracked in a way that would have been comical in any other situation.

Carson just looked at him. “Don’t act so surprised, lad. It’s clear to anyone with eyes where this is headed.”

Rodney turned a shade of red that was nearly violent. “Th—that’s—” He spluttered, at a complete loss.

Carson sighed. “Rodney.”

Rodney stilled.

His fingers twitched against the infirmary sheets.

“…What happened to him?” He asked again, quieter this time.

Carson’s expression hardened. “I’m not going to tell ye.”

Rodney scowled. “What?! Why not?! You’re the one who keeps alluding to something!”

Carson grabbed Rodney’s wrist, preparing to start setting the bones. “Because it would break doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Rodney yelped as Carson applied gentle but firm pressure to realign the bones.

Then Carson’s gaze snapped to his, sharp and serious. “But ye better not hack his files,” he warned. “This is something John needs to choose to tell ye.”

Rodney stared at him, his brain racing at a million miles per hour.

Then, after a long pause, he mumbled something unintelligible.

Carson narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

Rodney grumbled again, barely audible, but the pain meds were finally kicking in, dragging him toward sleep.

Carson sighed, shaking his head. “Ye really are a right mess, lad.”

Rodney let out a sluggish, sleepy huff. “Yeah, well… he likes me anyway…”

Carson chuckled dryly. “Aye. That’s the real miracle, isn’t it?”

But Rodney was already out cold.

Carson sat there for a moment, watching him, then sighed again and got to work.

This was going to be a long road ahead.

Chapter Text

Dr. Carson Beckett knocked gently on the door, resisting the urge to ring the bell. He didn’t want to startle anyone, especially not John, after everything that had happened. The door swished open quicker than he expected, revealing Ronon standing in the doorway. The Satedan had an imposing presence on a normal day, but now, with his arms crossed and his eyes dark with scrutiny, he looked downright dangerous. For a brief moment, Carson was reminded of just how formidable Ronon could be.

Then, recognition flickered across Ronon’s face, and his stance shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Oh. Doc.” His voice was still gruff but lacked the edge it might have held for someone else. “Something you need?”

Carson nodded. “Aye, I was hoping to speak with you. Maybe John too, if he’s up for it.”

Ronon stepped aside, allowing him inside. “John went back to bed.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Carson stepped into the quarters and immediately noticed how unusually calm and quiet it was. The air carried a stillness that felt fragile, like a moment of peace that could easily be broken. “The babies? Serin?”

“They went down for a nap after breakfast,” Ronon answered, leading Carson further inside. “John told me to wake him for lunch. Said he’d need to feed the babies himself or be forced to use the pump, and we all know how much he hates that thing.”

Carson chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, that we do.”

As Ronon settled onto the couch, Carson took a seat across from him. He laced his fingers together, then got straight to the point. “The reason I came by… I was going to release Rodney from the infirmary. I wanted to make sure he still had a place to come back to—or if I needed to gather his things and find him somewhere else to stay.”

Ronon’s expression darkened slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Did you ever find out what he did?”

Carson exhaled through his nose. “Aye, he told me. Did John tell you?”

Ronon shook his head. “No. But he talked to Heightmeyer for a few hours. She came by not long after McKay was taken away. Managed to get John to actually respond to her.” He hesitated before adding, “She asked for privacy. I have no idea what they talked about.”

Carson nodded. He’d received a brief update from Heightmeyer over the radio, but it had been vague—intentionally so. She hadn’t gone into details, just confirmed that John had spoken and was lucid enough to engage in conversation. That alone was a good sign, but it didn’t answer the question of how he would react to Rodney’s return.

“Do you think it’ll be a problem if McKay comes back here?” Carson asked. “I was going to release him in time for lunch.”

Ronon let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t say. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it freaked John out. On Sateda, we called a breakdown like that Lost Between Battles. It’s what happens when someone sees or experiences something so horrible, they can’t move past it. Their body might be home, but their mind is still trapped in the fight.”

Carson hummed in understanding. “We’ve got something similar. These days, we call it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—PTSD for short. But over the centuries, it’s had many names. Battle fatigue, shell shock... whatever we call it, the meaning remains the same.” He exhaled. “And aye, Rodney absolutely set off John’s PTSD. But I’ve had words with him. I think he finally understands, at least enough to think before he tries something like that again.”

Ronon’s gaze sharpened. “What did he do?”

Carson hesitated, rubbing his face as if the act itself might soften the weight of his next words. Then, with a weary sigh, he said, “Rodney snuck into John’s bed and tried to have sex with him without waking him up.”

Ronon closed his eyes for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, almost resigned. “Of course he did.”

The room fell into silence. Carson watched as Ronon clenched his jaw, clearly trying to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t reacting with the outright anger Carson might have expected. Instead, there was something else—a kind of careful consideration, as if Ronon was already thinking ahead to how John would handle this.

“I’m not going to assume anything for him,” Ronon finally said. “Rodney can come back. But if John tells him to leave…” His expression hardened. “I’ll make sure he does.”

Carson nodded, more relieved than he wanted to admit. “That’s fair.”

For now, all they could do was wait and see how John would respond.

Chapter Text

Dr. Heightmeyer sat at the head of the table in a small, rarely used conference room, its neutral setting chosen deliberately to ease tensions. The air was thick with unease as the group gathered, all of them carrying their own burdens of guilt, anger, and uncertainty.

Rodney sat stiffly, staring at his hands, fidgeting with his fingers. John, in contrast, kept his gaze fixed on some vague point on the table, his expression carefully composed in that detached, unreadable mask he wore when he didn’t want to engage. But his shoulders were tight, betraying the stress he was holding in. Ronon, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaned back in his chair with an imposing stillness, his glare fixed on Rodney with quiet menace.

Heightmeyer took her time observing them, gauging their body language, waiting for the right moment to begin. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle but firm.

“Well, does anyone have anything they would like to say before we begin?”

Silence stretched between them.

Rodney cleared his throat, the sound breaking the tension. “Well... uhh…” His voice was quiet, uncertain—far from his usual confident bluster. Finally, he lifted his gaze from his hands and looked at John directly. “John, I just wanted to apologize… I shouldn’t have done that… I... I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

John blinked, caught off guard. He had expected excuses, justifications, maybe even defensiveness—but not this. Not an apology without qualifiers, without a single “but” to soften the weight of responsibility. It was raw, unvarnished shame.

Across the table, Kate smiled slightly, pleased by the unexpected sincerity. She had prepared herself for a battle with Rodney’s ego, but it seemed he had taken the first step on his own. That was promising.

When the room settled into another silence—less tense, but still fragile—Kate took the opportunity to move forward.

“Thank you, Rodney,” she said warmly, acknowledging his words. Then, with a small sigh, she pressed on. “Now, I won’t sugarcoat this. Since your relationship started in a very… unconventional way, and since all of you have expressed a desire to move forward, we need to address things openly if we want to prevent more misunderstandings.”

She turned to John. “John, do you still believe that if Rodney and Ronon had a better understanding of what you’ve been through, last night could have been avoided?”

John still wouldn’t lift his eyes from the table, but after a moment, he gave a short, stiff nod.

“You don’t have to go into details,” Kate assured him gently. “But if you want to avoid more painful missteps, they need a general idea.”

John swallowed hard. His fingers clenched against his pants, his jaw tightening.

“When… when I…” He cleared his throat, trying to force the words out past the lump that had formed there. “My last tour in Afghanistan… I was shot down.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but his body betrayed him—his shoulders curled inward, muscles locking up as if bracing for impact.

“I was taken hostage by the Taliban.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “At first, they treated me like any other captured soldier—beatings, electrocution, starvation… you know, the basics.” His lips curled in a humorless, bitter attempt at a smile. No one else in the room found anything remotely amusing about it.

Rodney’s face had gone pale, his mouth opening slightly as though he wanted to protest, to say something—but he didn’t.

John pressed on. “But after a while… my suppressants… even the implant… failed.” His voice wavered for the first time, and he had to stop to swallow again. “They figured out I was an Omega.” He said the word like it was something filthy, something that barely deserved to be spoken aloud. His hand trembled slightly on the table.

“And then… they decided I had ‘better uses.’” The way he said it made Kate’s stomach turn. Even though she already knew what had happened, hearing him admit it aloud was like a physical blow.

John’s breathing was shallow now, but he forced himself forward, like a soldier marching into hell. “They raped me.” The word landed like a gunshot in the silent room.

“I was chained to a bed,” he continued, his voice quieter now, as though he were speaking from a distance. “It was three months before I was liberated.”

He stopped. He couldn’t go any further. His throat worked, but no more words came.

Kate placed a gentle hand on the table near his, but she didn’t touch him, didn’t push. “Thank you, John,” she murmured.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

Rodney looked stricken—his usual bravado completely stripped away, leaving only raw horror and guilt in its wake.

Ronon’s expression hadn’t changed much, but there was something darker in his eyes now. Not surprise, exactly, but fury—cold and quiet, a simmering rage barely restrained beneath the surface.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of John’s revelation pressed into the room like a physical force, thick and suffocating.

“SHIT, JOHN!” Rodney wailed, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I'm so SORRY. Oh my God… FUCK… I'm such an ASS… I just… I… FUCK… JOHN, I’m so sorry…” His words tumbled over each other in a frantic rush, as though he could outrun the guilt clawing at his chest. His eyes burned with unshed tears, not for himself, but for John, for the suffering he had endured, and for the utter failure Rodney felt in not realizing it sooner. “I should have guessed… you gave enough hints… when we saw the scars…” His voice broke, and he wiped at his eyes furiously, feeling like the biggest asshole in not just this galaxy but probably two galaxies over.

The chair shot backward so fast it slammed against the wall with a loud bang, making everyone in the room jump. Ronon had moved so abruptly that it took them all a second to register what had happened before he was already across the space between them.

John barely had a second to react before Ronon wrapped him up in a crushing embrace, his massive arms locking him in place. At first, John stiffened, his body instinctively rebelling against being held—being confined—but then he realized there was no threat. There was no demand, no expectation, only the solid, unwavering comfort being offered. Slowly, he let himself relax into the embrace. He tried to return the gesture, but their positioning was awkward, his arms pinned at an uncomfortable angle against Ronon’s solid chest.

“I knew you were stronger than you let on,” Ronon murmured into John’s hair, his voice rough but steady. “I could see it in the way you carried yourself, in the way you always made sure everyone was taken care of. The way you protected everyone, even those not under your command.”

John shuddered. He hadn’t expected those words to hit him as hard as they did. He let out a slow breath and shifted slightly, pressing his forehead into Ronon’s shoulder. The solid presence of the other man grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected, anchoring him in the moment instead of letting him spiral into the past.

The room was silent, but this time it wasn’t filled with tension—just quiet understanding. After some time, John stirred, signaling that he needed space. Ronon took the hint and loosened his grip, stepping back but keeping a steadying hand on John’s shoulder for a beat longer before finally letting go.

Kate watched them with a small, approving smile. “Well, gentlemen, we’ve covered everything I wanted to address today.” Her gaze landed on John, warm but firm. “I think you’re making progress, but you all need to work on communication. I know that’s not something any of you are used to—expressing your feelings, letting people know your real needs and desires. And I know the way your relationship started makes it even harder. The babies make it harder.” She softened slightly, her expression turning almost maternal. “But they also make it more important. If you feel like you can’t do this on your own, my door is always open.” With that, she stood and quietly left the room.

The men remained for a moment longer, as though absorbing the finality of the session. Then, John moved, standing up and heading toward the door. As if drawn by an unspoken understanding, the others followed.

“John,” Rodney said as they reached the threshold, hesitating slightly before stepping closer. “Umm… may I… will you…” He fumbled for words, his hands making vague, awkward gestures.

John understood. He saw the motion, saw the uncertainty, and without hesitation, stepped into Rodney’s space, wrapping his arms around the scientist.

Rodney was warm and solid, and there was something deeply comforting about the way he hugged. John wouldn’t admit it out loud, but there was something about the extra squish in Rodney’s hugs that made them feel even more grounding, more secure, more real.

“I’m not mad at you, Rodney,” John whispered into his ear.

Rodney made a wet, shuddering gasp, his entire body trembling as he squeezed back even harder, as if trying to absorb some of John’s pain and replace it with something safe and steady.

John let himself be held.

Chapter Text

“Gahhh! Seriously!? NO NO NO, it's supposed to go in your mouth!” Rodney groaned, his voice carrying across the mess hall. “No, not that—that is NOT supposed to go in your mouth!” His hands flailed as he tried to pry his tablet out of Theodore’s chubby little grasp. The baby, completely unbothered by Rodney’s distress, had latched onto the edge of the device and was happily gumming at the corner as if it were the most delicious thing in the universe.

Meanwhile, Kael had managed to knock over his bowl, smearing mashed something—Rodney wasn’t even sure what anymore—across the tray of the high chair. And the ever-curious Eleanor was gleefully grabbing at the spoon Rodney had been trying to use, treating it more like a drumstick than a feeding utensil.

It was absolute chaos.

John walked in on the spectacle, a tray of his own in hand. He paused for a beat, taking in the sheer disaster unfolding before him, before smirking. “How’s it going there, buddy?”

Rodney shot him a glare, his free hand still struggling to wrestle his tablet away from Theodore. “Oh, just fantastic, Sheppard! Stellar, really! I’ve got one treating a spoon like it’s a weapon, another finger-painting in their own lunch, and this one—” He finally managed to tug the tablet free, wiping the drool off with the hem of his shirt before waving it in John’s direction. “—has apparently decided my very expensive piece of technology is a teething ring.”

It was a bit early for the lunch rush so the mess hall wasn’t exactly full, but the few people present had clearly been enjoying the show. A couple of Marines were poorly stifling laughter, and one of the nurses from the infirmary actually had a hand over her mouth to keep from snorting.

John strolled up, setting his tray down before leaning against the table, arms crossed. “Looks like you got it under control.”

Rodney scoffed. “Oh yeah, absolutely. I’m a natural.” He shot a look at Kael, who had, in the half-second he looked away, managed to smear even more of his food across his face. He sighed. “Carson’s the worst for this, you know. Acting all smug. ‘Oh, they’re showing signs they’re ready for solids,’” Rodney mocked, imitating the doctor’s Scottish brogue. “I thought we had more time, but noooo. ‘Do your homework, Rodney. Read a book, Rodney.’”

John grinned. “Which is why we got the audiobook. You should be thanking me.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because three sleep-deprived adults trapped in a Jumper for eighteen hours listening to a parenting book was exactly what I imagined doing with my life.”

John plopped down in the chair next to him. “Worked out, though.”

Teyla had, surprisingly, been completely on board with listening to the book. But she had also pointed out, in a very calm and slightly amused way, that everything it said was mostly common sense. “Honestly, John, is Earth parenting really so strange that you need entire books just to tell you how to do what comes naturally?”

Rodney huffed, handing Kael a clean spoon in the hopes that it would distract him from flinging more food. “Teyla has a point. It’s like parenting on Earth is some kind of impossible math problem people need to study for.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. We just like to overcomplicate things.”

Rodney sighed dramatically. “Yeah, well, right now, I’d settle for understanding the math on how to keep three babies from making my life a nightmare.”

Just then, Theodore reached for the tablet again.

Rodney groaned. “Oh, for—John, HELP.”

John just grinned. “Nah, buddy, you got this.”

At that exact moment, Kael—seemingly the most innocent-looking of the bunch—raised his tiny fist, clutching his spoon like a warrior about to strike. With an impressive amount of force for someone so small, he smacked it against his bowl at precisely the right angle, sending it flipping into the air in a perfect arc.

For a single, gravity-defying second, time seemed to slow as both men watched the bowl spin, its contents—a gooey, unidentifiable mash of something vaguely vegetable-based—hurtling toward Rodney.

SPLAT.

The mess landed with a particularly wet and sickening squelch, right on Rodney’s shoulder, splattering across the front of his shirt and even managing to fling a few stray blobs onto his cheek and into his hair.

There was a stunned silence—just for a beat.

And then:

“GAHHHHH!” Rodney screeched, hands flailing wildly, as though trying to ward off more incoming attacks. “OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—WHY ME?! ALWAYS ME!”

That was it. John completely lost it. He doubled over, laughing so hard his ribs ached. The rest of the mess hall, which had already been barely containing their amusement, finally let go. Laughter erupted from every corner. A couple of Marines actually had to brace themselves against the table, wheezing. A scientist at the next table over choked on his drink, and even the nurse, who had been trying to stay professional, was now wiping away tears of laughter.

Kael, completely unbothered by the chaos he had just caused, simply cooed in satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself.

Rodney, however, was far less amused. He stared down at his ruined shirt, then at John, whose face was now red from laughter. “Oh yeah, hilarious. I’m so glad my suffering is everyone’s entertainment.”

John wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “I mean, buddy, you gotta admit—Kael’s got some serious aim. We might need to put him on the training schedule for the defense teams.”

Rodney shot him a glare that promised vengeance. “Oh, just you wait, Sheppard. Your turn is coming.”

John smirked, still shaking with leftover laughter. “Oh I've already had my turn, several turns in fact.”

--

Ronon had faced a lot in his life—running from Wraith, surviving with nothing but his own strength—but nothing compared to the quiet routine of giving three four-month-old babies their nightly bath.

Not that it was a challenge. He’d done this plenty of times before.

The babies were already squirming in their onesies when he got them set up, their soft babbles filling the small space. Kael, the little alpha boy, was watching him intently, his tiny brow furrowed in that serious way he always had when he was trying to figure something out. Eleanor, their fearless alpha girl, was kicking excitedly on the changing mat, letting out delighted squeals every time her feet hit the surface. And Theodore, the omega boy, was snuggled against Ronon’s chest, blinking sleepily at the warm steam curling in the air.

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” Ronon muttered, shifting Theodore to the side as he reached for the first towel. “You guys act like I haven’t done this before.”

Kael went in first. He always protested at the start, his tiny nose scrunching up like Ronon was trying to torture him, but as soon as his little feet hit the warm water, he let out a happy sigh, muscles going slack.

“There we go,” Ronon murmured, steadying him with one hand as he poured water over his little shoulders. “Knew you’d like it.”

Eleanor was already reaching for the water, her fingers stretching out like she was desperate to get in on the action. The second Ronon lowered her in beside Kael, she let out a delighted screech and started kicking, sending tiny waves splashing everywhere.

Kael got caught in the splash zone and wailed in protest.

Ronon sighed, lifting his free hand to rub his temple. “Eleanor, easy.”

She giggled and smacked the water again, completely unbothered.

Theodore, still warm in Ronon’s arm, let out a soft noise and nuzzled closer. He was always the last one in, not because he protested, but because he liked to stay curled up against Ronon as long as possible.

When Ronon finally set him in the water, Theodore just let out a little sigh and blinked up at him with sleepy, content eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” Ronon rumbled, wiping a cloth gently over Theodore’s tiny round belly. “You’re my easy one.”

He started to hum.

The deep, rolling melody filled the small space, a song from his childhood, one his mother used to sing when the nights were cold, and he couldn’t quite fall asleep. It was a lullaby in the old Satedan tongue, the words worn smooth from generations of parents singing to their children.

“Sleep, little ones, the stars keep watch,
The night is soft, the wind is kind.
Dream of sunlit fields and silver rivers,
Rest, rest, my heart, be light.”

His voice was low and steady, the familiar tune curling around them like a warm embrace.

The routine was second nature by now—washing their soft curls, carefully cleaning each tiny hand, making sure Eleanor didn’t drink half the bathwater.

Ronon kept singing, his voice a quiet rumble in the dim light.

“No harm will find you, no fear will wake you,
You are safe, my love, my light,
Close your eyes, my little warriors,
Rest, rest, until the dawn.”

By the time he was done, Kael was drowsy, Eleanor was still kicking but starting to slow, and Theodore had his fingers curled around Ronon’s wrist, barely awake.

Ronon wrapped them up in towels one by one, settling them against his chest. Their warmth seeped into him, their tiny breaths even and steady.

The door cracked open, and John stepped in, his usual smirk softened into something quieter, something fond. “Didn’t know you could sing.”

Ronon shrugged slightly, careful not to jostle the sleeping babies. “Not something I do much.”

John crouched beside him, brushing a gentle hand over Kael’s damp curls before smoothing a thumb across Eleanor’s tiny cheek. “Well, they love it.”

Ronon let out a low chuckle. “Yeah. Guess they do.”

John just smiled. “C’mon, let’s get them to bed.”

Ronon shifted carefully, rising to his feet with all three babies still tucked against him. John reached out to help, but Ronon shook his head. “I got ‘em.”

John didn’t argue, just led the way, glancing back with that same soft expression.

Ronon followed, his deep voice still humming the last notes of the lullaby, carrying the song with them into the night.

Chapter Text

“Ronon! Ronon, wait! Ronon, I’m sorry!”

John’s boots pounded against the smooth floor as he chased after the Satedan, his heart hammering with more than just exertion. He had been trying to catch up to the big man for a while now, but Ronon had long legs and an angry stride, which made keeping pace nearly impossible. Now, John watched in growing panic as Ronon neared his personal bedroom, one large hand reaching for the panel to open his door. If John didn’t stop him now, that would be it. Ronon would lock himself inside, shut everyone out, and John knew from experience that if Ronon went to bed mad, there was a high likelihood that he’d wake up still mad and if he woke up mad he stayed mad for a long time if he ever forgave.

And Ronon Dex holding a grudge was a terrifying thought.

Desperate, John pushed himself forward, nearly stumbling as he blurted, “I’m sorry!”

Ronon froze.

He didn’t turn around, didn’t look at John, but he also didn’t step inside. His hand hovered near the panel, fingers curling slightly, the tension in his broad shoulders so tight it looked like he might snap the door frame if he gripped it.

John’s chest heaved as he slowed his approach, careful not to push too hard now that Ronon was listening.

“I’m sorry, Ronon,” he said again, softer this time. He swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter. “I disregarded your concerns. I didn’t listen to your experience.” He trailed off, feeling the weight of his own guilt settle deep in his bones.

For a long moment, Ronon didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he turned—and the sheer fury in his expression made John take an instinctive step back.

“YOU PUT THE BABIES IN DANGER!”

Ronon’s voice boomed, vibrating through John’s chest like the force of an explosion.

John startled, his breath catching. He had never had Ronon’s anger directed at him like this before. He had seen the man fight, had seen him go into a berserker rage against the Wraith, had even seen him chew out Marines for being reckless. But never—not once—had John felt that wrath aimed his way.

Ronon took a step forward, and John instinctively took another step back.

“I see that now,” he said quickly, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry.”

But Ronon wasn’t finished. He stalked toward John, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in. His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble, low and simmering with tightly leashed fury.

“You put the babies in danger,” he repeated, his tone filled with something heavier than just anger—there was betrayal in it, deep and raw. “Even after I told you what would happen.”

John resisted the urge to keep backing up, but it was damn hard when Ronon towered over him, radiating enough rage that John wouldn’t have been surprised if the air around him started crackling.

“Yes, I’m aware,” John said carefully.

Ronon scoffed, his lip curling. “Oh, now you’re aware?” His hands flexed at his sides, like he was restraining himself from just grabbing John and shaking him. “You ignored me. You ignored Teyla. You acted like you knew better than us.” His voice sharpened. “You thought you were superior to us. That because the Wraith keep people from advancing, you—” his voice dripped with venom, “—the all-knowing Earthers, would know better than the people who actually live here.”

John felt the couch pressing into the back of his legs and realized that Ronon had cornered him.

“I never thought that,” John defended, holding his hands up again.

Ronon scoffed, unimpressed. “Really? Then why did you keep brushing us off?”

John opened his mouth, then hesitated. The answer was obvious, but saying it out loud was another thing entirely.

Ronon crossed his arms over his chest, glaring, waiting.

John exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a steel band around his ribs and kept tightening it.

“Because I wanted it to work,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter but no less desperate. His gaze flickered to Ronon’s, searching for something—understanding, maybe. “If Beckett’s serum worked, it could have saved this galaxy. It could have made things safer—for everyone.” He hesitated, then forced out the words that had been weighing on him the heaviest. “For our babies.” He took Ronon's distraction to get away from the couch and the scary man. At least not have the couch tripping him up.

His throat tightened. Saying it out loud made it real—the risk he had taken, the consequences he had almost caused.

Ronon, who had been staring at him with fire in his eyes, suddenly stilled.

“Our babies?” he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

John felt the sudden shift in energy like the drop before a free fall. His brain scrambled to figure out what just happened—where the conversation had turned.

“Well… yes.” He hesitated, suddenly uneasy under Ronon’s piercing gaze.

Ronon’s nostrils flared. His jaw clenched, and the heat in his stare became something else—something sharper, more personal.

“Ours,” Ronon growled, his voice rolling through the air like distant thunder.

John’s mouth went dry. His mind went into overdrive, trying to process what was happening. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, utterly foundering as he searched for the right response. “Umm… yes?”

By the time he got the word out, Ronon had already moved.

John barely had a second to register it before his back hit the wall, hard enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. Ronon wasn’t touching him, but the way he loomed was just as effective—one powerful arm braced against the wall next to John’s head, the other flexing at his side. It wasn’t an outright threat, but it sure as hell wasn’t comfortable, either.

“Ours,” Ronon said again, low and firm. “And you made the ultimate decision—without asking us.”

John swallowed, acutely aware of the weight of Ronon’s presence boxing him in. His heart pounded against his ribs, though whether it was from adrenaline or something deeper, he couldn’t tell.

“Yeah,” he admitted, forcing himself to meet Ronon’s gaze.

Ronon’s free hand clenched into a fist, then released. His whole body radiated barely restrained fury, but there was something else there too—hurt. Deep and raw.

“You don’t get to be the only decision-maker for the babies,” Ronon said, his voice steady but intense. “You don’t get to make choices that affect their very lives without our input.”

John inhaled slowly, forcing himself to hold his ground even though every instinct told him to move. To put space between them.

But he had done enough running.

“Ronon, I’m sorry,” he said, the words feeling like they weren’t enough, but he had to start somewhere. “But I made my choice as the head of military.” His voice hardened slightly, and he straightened his spine despite the close quarters. “I didn’t make my choice based on making sure you and Rodney had a fair say in the kids.”

There. That was the truth of it.

Ronon’s eyes flashed.

John barely had time to brace before Ronon moved, his arm pressing more firmly against the wall, his body shifting just enough to make John feel the full weight of his anger.

“And that,” Ronon said, his voice a dangerous whisper, “is the problem.”

“Ronon,” John started, his hands coming up to shove at the larger man’s chest, trying to create some space. Ronon barely moved, solid as a wall, but John kept pushing anyway. “I know I said I’d include you guys in decisions that affect the babies, and I meant it. But you also need to realize that I have to make decisions that affect this whole city.” His voice was sharp now, his frustration bubbling up alongside the guilt. “And yeah, those choices are always going to cross over. In fact, I can guarantee that every decision I make as head of military is going to impact our children.”

His shoving finally got through. Ronon took a deliberate step back, not because John had moved him, but because he chose to. John exhaled sharply, rubbing at his face before meeting Ronon’s gaze again.

“What do you want me to do, huh?” His voice was weary now. “Ask you and Rodney for permission every time I have to make a call? Every time I need to make a requisition order?”

Ronon’s eyes flickered downward, staring at the floor between them. His jaw worked as if he was chewing over the words.

John sighed, shoulders slumping. The anger drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion. “I’ll try not to be so dismissive next time,” he muttered, the admission tasting like gravel in his mouth. He hated being wrong, hated admitting when he had screwed up. But he had.

Ronon nodded once, sharp and final. “Good.” Then, without hesitation, he turned on his heel. “I’m taking the babies tonight.”

John blinked. Wait— “Ronon—” He started to argue on instinct, but then he stopped himself.

It was supposed to be his night.

But this? This wasn’t about schedules. This was about trust, about fear that Ronon wouldn’t voice but carried in the tense set of his shoulders and the quiet fury in his eyes. John had scared him—more than Ronon would ever admit, even to himself.

At least now, Ronon was just annoyed with him and not outright pissed.

So John just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay.”

Ronon disappeared into his room without another word.

And John was left standing there, staring at the closed door.

Chapter Text

John knocked on the door, hesitating only briefly before stepping inside at the gruff command of, "Enter!"

The room was dimly lit, a single lamp casting long shadows against the walls. Ronon was already in bed, the blanket pooled around his waist, but it didn’t look like he’d been there long. When he turned his head to look at John, his expression was unreadable in the low light.

“Ronon?” John’s voice was quieter now, not quite sure if he was intruding.

“Sup,” Ronon grunted. His voice was rougher than usual, the aftereffects of inhaling the toxic air on Taranis.

John crossed the room, stopping at the edge of the bed to get a better look at him. Checking for himself, because, honestly, words weren’t always the most reliable way to gauge if someone was okay. Ronon’s breathing was steady but deep, as if he were still trying to clear his lungs.

“I never got a chance to check up on you,” John admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Ronon exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a huff. “I’m good.” The reply was short, clipped, but not dismissive. Just Ronon’s way.

John raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? ‘Cause from what I heard, you were on supplemental oxygen for hours after we got out of there.” He crossed his arms. “Not exactly ‘good.’”

Ronon rolled his eyes and grumbled, “I’m breathing now, ain’t I?”

John smirked. Stubborn bastard.

“I heard you got stuck too,” Ronon said, his tone shifting slightly, an edge of something unreadable beneath the gruffness.

“Yeah,” John admitted, rocking back on his heels. “But I was underground when it happened, not out in the open like you. Didn’t have to breathe in all that crap.”

Ronon just grunted, but John could tell that he didn’t like the reminder. The silence stretched for a beat too long, the only sound the quiet hum of the city outside the window.

Then, before John could react, he was no longer standing.

One second, he was at the edge of the bed. The next, he was in the bed, flat on his back, with Ronon wrapped around him like a human-sized security blanket.

John blinked, his brain short-circuiting as he tried to process how the hell Ronon had managed that. His arms were pinned for a second, and by the time he squirmed into a more comfortable position, Ronon was already nuzzling into the crook of his neck like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Well,” John huffed, a small grin pulling at his lips. “Guess you didn’t lose any agility.”

Ronon grunted again and tightened his grip, shifting slightly to get them both more comfortable.

John exhaled, feeling the tension slowly ease out of his body as he settled into the warmth. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this too. The weight of the past twenty-four hours had been pressing down on him, but here, in Ronon’s arms, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

“Is this your way of asking me to sleep over?” John teased, voice softer now.

In response, Ronon lifted his head just enough to press a firm, lingering kiss to John’s lips—no hesitation, no preamble, just there.

Then he pulled back, muttering, “Shhh,” before burying his face in John’s hair.

John huffed out a small laugh but didn’t argue. He just let himself sink into the warmth, into the quiet, into the feeling of being held.

Yeah. He was staying.

John slowly came to, he felt someone alternating between running their fingers through his hair and giving him a scalp massage. Stretching he purred. Hearing the deep rumble that was more felt than heard, he remembered where he was.

He felt Ronon shift, but he didn't feel like opening his eyes to see. When Ronon's mouth covered his own he still didn't open his eyes. Just returned the kiss and blindly wrapped his arms around the large man.

When Ronon broke the kiss and started nibbling along his jaw, he finally did open his eyes. The room was still dim, it was still night.

Groaning when Ronon hit near is scent gland at his neck. His lower anatomy was now very much awake. Grinding up into Ronon -it was his fault anyways- he felt that the man was in the same situation.

“Mmmm, pretty sure Becket would yell at us both if we kept this up, so soon after you near suffocated to death.” John nibbled on Ronon's earlobe.

Grinding his groin against John's “We'll just have to take it slow.”

John groaned.

Ronon pulled back, John had a whine in the back of his throat, till the big man grabbed the hem of his sleep shirt. He started to peel the omegas shirt off.

John tried to help, laying on the bed didn't help and every time he tried to sit up, Ronon shoved him back down.

He finally was free of his shirt. Ronon just sat above him, looking down with the hungriest look John had ever seen.

Licking his lips. He reached out to tug on the Setidan's shirt. “Bit over dressed there buddy.”

Smirking. He pulled his own shirt off much quicker than he did John's and with a better flourish. Tossing it somewhere neither cared about.

John took the time to appreciate the view. Reaching out he started caressing the hard plains of Ronon's abs. He had appreciated Ronon's body, even when the man had them trussed up in a cave on their first meeting. He hated that he such a stereo type for Omegas, liking the big muscle guys. John hadn't cared that Ronon was undesignated he was still hot.

Little did John know that Ronon had been thinking the same thing of John. Finally having his fill of just looking at the Omega, he decided now was a good time to explore the smaller man.

Ronon ran his hands up John's torso. Stopping at his breasts to fondle them. He was still fascinated by the fact John was producing milk for their babies. He knew that John had a flat chest before the babies but now seeing the mounds -though small- was a marvel.

He didn't have much experience on seeing women's nipples, especially breast feeding ones, but he for sure knew John's nipples were much bigger than a mans. Cupping and caressing the flesh, he soon learned they were sensitive.

Leaning down he captured the Omegas lips. Swallowing his moans and whines. Ronon started rutting against John, rubbing their cocks through their sleep pants. He soon realized this was a BAD idea, it would finish him much too quickly.

Moving so he could keep things slow. This earned him a whine of disappointment and John bucking up trying to find friction. Remembering something from one of the books Carson was helping him read, Ronon moved his leg so John could rut against his thigh.

The book had said Omegas could come many times in a short span. That an Omega needed to ejaculate several times in an act to even feel satisfied. Ronon decided now was a good time to find out if it was true. In their past encounters, John had come at least twice, so there must be something to it.

Nibbling along John jaw, the stubble scratching at him, but if Ronon was being honest with himself he kinda liked it.

Gasping, John kept grinding against Ronon's thigh. He had wanted to explore Ronon himself but the larger man's attentions to him kept getting in the way. The big buy started kissing, nibbling and sucking down his throat, when he hit John's scent gland and started sucking on it, even adding a bit of teeth, John's vision whited out. He wasn't out of it for long, but he did notice his sleep pants were a lot more sticky.

John could feel the Setidan's smirk as he moved from the scent glad down his chest. Mouthing at his breasts. But the licking was too much, John gave a pained whine. He breasts were over sensitive. It was common for Omega males to not like their milk filled breasts played with, they had to grow rapidly for the milk supply and then the constant feedings made everything raw and tender.

Ronon jerked when he heard the pained whine. Stopping immediately, it clicked what happened. He could only image how tender John was there, plus the books said he would be. Moving up to give John a quick peck on the lips in apology.

John tried to wrap his arms around the man and keep the kissing going. He loved kissing Ronon, there was something about the way he did it. As he ended up having sex more often with both his partners he was discovering the old wives tales about each partner bringing something different to the bedroom is true.

Ronon didn't let John win, he slipped John's hold and moved down again, this time skipping the tender breasts. He did give a quick peck right above them.

Moving down Ronon got to John's abdomen. He never saw John shirtless, but he had seen him it tight shirts. So he knew John was still slightly pudgy from the babies. Finding the first stretch mark, he followed it with his tongue. He did this with all the stretch marks. Far fewer than Ronon thought he would have ended up with, considering how big he had gotten.

John was panting and whining. The attention was bordering on too much. He was annoyed at loosing Ronon's thigh to grind against and glad it was gone at the same time, less stimulation. He was starting to feel like one of the pillow princesses. He hadn't been able to do anything for Ronon.

“Ronon...” He gasp. “PLEASE.” John, needed Ronon, to move on.

With a smirk, Ronon gave a kiss to John's belly button. Hooking his fingers in the sleep pant waistband, he pulled them down. This allowed John to help with. John arched off the bed allowing them to be pulled from his rear.

Tossing the pants to join their shirts. Turned out John liked commando for sleep. Ronon looked down smiling. It wasn't his smirks he usually wore but a fond smile. Running his hands up John's thighs. “Your so beautiful” He rumbled.

John blushed at the complement. “Not too bad yourself buddy.”

Swooping down he claim the Omegas lips. He was still smiling. Getting off John and the bed. Before John could protest Ronon kicked off his own sleep pants, he also liked commando.

John wasn't sure where the whine came from, but seeing Ronon completely naked he couldn't stop the whine that came out. He recognized it, it was a whine from an Omega for their mate.

Ronon could guess what the whine meant. John wanted him back in bed. Climbing back into bed, kneeling between John spread legs.

Laying on his back, legs splayed, hair more spiky than usual, John looked divine. Ronon traced the slighter man's ribs, feeling him panting. His skin had a good flush to it, with the sweat making him glint.

This was the first time either of them had the chance to explore each other. Most of their interactions have been in the shower or pressed against the wall on one of the cat walks no one used.

Grabbing John's calves, he manipulates the Omega to bend his legs and spread them even further. He finally got a look at what made John an Omega. He wasn't too shocked, Ronon had been learning more about Omegas since the babies arrived. It was still strange to him, John still had a penis but just below that was soft folds that looked just like the women of this galaxy.

John's breath hitched. Ronon's eyes snapped up. Looking at John's face he could see that there was some concern there. He clearly had been spending too much time looking and was making John self conscious.

Leaning over and kissing the smaller man. The kiss chased any worries away. While kissing Ronon rubbed at the Omega folds making John whine high and breathy.

Not entering just yet, Ronon petted and rubbed at the outside lips. Savoring every whine and gasp. He was starting to recognize the sounds John made when he was close to coming. Hearing those sounds now he kept up his treatment.

Kissing John like he held the last bit of oxygen, he rubbed and fondled Johns clit. The Omega broke the kiss with a cry. This time Ronon felt the come hit his own abdomen. He also felt how sticky his hand had gotten.

Pulling back some, he admired his thoroughly debouched mate. Not giving John a chance to recover he shoved 2 fingers in.

Johns moans from his most recent release blended with the ones at finally being penetrated. Scissoring his fingers, Ronon stretched out the Omega.

Rocking onto the big mans fingers the Omega couldn't stop the whines and moans. Ronon moved around till he found the muscles that got stimulated when an Omega was knotted. John's whimpers and whines turned into sobs of pleasure.

Ronon couldn't but smirk as he kept up his treatment. He moved from John's mouth back to his neck. Licking and sucking at the scent gland.

It wasn't long before John came again this time with a whimper. Ronon's hand was so wet and sticky he was having a hard time even feeling anything anymore.

Deciding he waited long enough, he yanked his fingers out of his Omega, which made him whine at the loss. First he used the slick that coated his hands to lube himself up. Repositioning Ronon continuing to nibble on John's neck. With a smooth trust he entered John.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head, John moaned. Scrabbling for anything to hold onto, he grabbed at the large man's shoulders. Not paying attention he scratched at Ronon's shoulders and back trying to hold on. Ronon didn't care about the scratches.

Ronon had to hold still for a bit, so he didn't blow his load on the first trust. By time John's breathing became less frantic he thought he could move without loosing it too soon. Pulling back, he thrust back in. This earned him more whines.

Wrapping his legs around his mate, John clung to him. Arms and legs trapping the man. Ronon soon found a good rhythm that had them both moaning and gasping. John nuzzled into Ronon's neck.

Licking and mouthing where a scent gland would have been had he been an Earthling. He did find that Ronon's earlobe and behind Ronon sounded more and more like a wild animal. It didn't help that with every thrust in, John would squeeze his pussy around the man.

Ronon was not going to last long. Thrusts getting more frantic and harsh. He used one hand to yank John to meet his final thrust but used the other to grab the base of his own cock to slip his fingers into John with his cock. Wriggling his fingers against John's walls right were an Alpha knot would sit. He came inside the Omega.

Feeling the heat of Ronon's come inside him and the fingers John came with a cry. Clinging to Ronon. They stayed there in each others embrace. The Setidan supporting them both. John was wrapped around him like a monkey.

When their breath got back to almost normal, Ronon lowered himself down to the bed, bring John with him. He maneuvered so both of them were laying on their sides. He moved to free his softened cock from John much to the protest of the Omega. But he was soon appeased when Ronon started running his fingers through John's sweat soaked hair.

“Fuck” John sighed. “Somehow that was hotter than wall sex on the cat walks.”

Ronon just chuckled. Petting John's hair. They soon drifted off again, sweaty and sticky but that was a problem for their morning selves.

Chapter Text

John groaned as he dropped onto the foot of his bed, exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones. His muscles ached from the past few days. First getting the Orion, now trying to repair it. Finding a new home for the Taranis. They were being so picky. They even turned down joining the Athosians on the main land. The babies were starting to teeth, so that was a new level of fun. They think they found a good home for the Taranis so now, back in the relative safety of Atlantis, he just wanted to sleep for a week.

He bent forward, fingers moving sluggishly to the laces of his boots. The familiar routine was grounding, something normal after days of chaos. Just as he started working the first knot loose, a soft knock echoed against the door.

John sighed, straightening just enough to call out, "Yeah?" His voice was rougher than he intended, but he was too damn tired to care.

The door swished open, and Rodney stood there, looking about as comfortable as a cat in a bathtub. He stepped inside but hesitated a few paces in, fidgeting with his hands as if second-guessing his decision to come. The door slid shut behind him with a finality that made John's shoulders tense.

"Something you need?" John drawled, hoping the conversation—whatever it was—would be quick.

Rodney shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Well, ummm... I was wondering..." His gaze flickered downward, fixating on his hands as he rubbed them together. "Why you seem mad at me?"

John scrubbed a hand over his face, inhaling slowly through his nose. "And what makes you think I’m mad?"

Rodney let out an exasperated huff. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe because ever since we got the Orion back, you've been—what’s the word? Short with me. You barely acknowledge me, and when I try to be near you, you find an excuse to disappear. You do realize how unsettling that is, right? I mean, sure, you’re moody, and I fully expect some degree of broody, lone-wolf nonsense, but this feels targeted."

John looked away, jaw tightening.

Rodney folded his arms, frustration creeping into his voice. "And before you try to deny it—again—Carson and Radek both told me to just ask you outright because, shocker, I apparently suck at social cues." He made an agitated gesture. "So here I am. Asking. Because if this is some kind of passive-aggressive cold shoulder thing meant to make me apologize for something, well, news flash, I have no clue what I did!"

John exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to kick off his boots at the wall. "Okay, fine. Yes, I have been avoiding you. And yes, I’m mad."

Rodney blinked. "What?! Then why didn’t you just say that instead of making me drive myself crazy replaying every interaction we've had for the past week?"

John scowled. "Because maybe I didn’t know how to handle why I was mad, McKay! Maybe I needed time to figure out what the hell I was feeling before I confronted you!"

Rodney threw his hands in the air. "That is ridiculous! You're a grown-ass man, and might I add, a military officer! You confront things all the time! Like Wraith! And Genii! And terrifying alien technology that tries to kill us! But no, when it comes to me, suddenly, you need a week-long silent retreat to process your emotions?!"

John shot him a glare, his patience snapping. "You really want to know why I'm mad?"

"Yes!" Rodney said, exasperated. "Lay it on me! Hit me with your worst!"

John stood, the movement abrupt enough to make Rodney take a half-step back. His eyes were dark with frustration, hands clenched at his sides.

"Fine. Maybe I’m mad because I have no fucking idea what’s going on with you," John snapped, voice low but edged with something raw. "First you declare you want to marry me. I say no, so you ask to court me instead. I ask for time, and then when I do say yes, you go full throttle—doing all the things a courting Alpha is supposed to do. We’re even having sex, Rodney. And then—" His voice turned sharper, his hands gesturing between them. "Then you go and flirt with someone else!"

Rodney’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

John pressed on. "So maybe I’d like to know what the hell you actually want from this relationship!"

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with accusation and vulnerability. John was breathing hard, hands gripping his hips like they could keep him steady.

Rodney looked stunned, like someone had slapped him across the face with a laptop. His mouth opened, then shut, like his brain was buffering. “I!...” He floundered for a moment before realization dawned, his expression shifting from shock to guilt. “Oh… oh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, John… I didn’t— I wasn’t aware I was doing it… I…” He swallowed hard, his hands flexing in agitation before curling into fists at his sides. “I just… I hardly ever get someone as pretty as her to notice me. So when Norina started— I responded.”

John’s glare could have ignited steel. “‘You responded,’” he repeated, his voice sharp enough to cut.

Rodney winced. “Yes. I’m sorry, John. I never— I mean, it used to be never— got attention from anyone close to as pretty as her, so when I did… I would try and flirt back. I didn’t realize it had become habit…”

“A habit?” John spat, his jaw clenching. “A habit of flirting?” His voice climbed in volume and intensity. “Other than Alpha playboy rakes, who the hell makes flirting a habit?” His tone was just shy of a full-on snarl, and his whole body radiated fury.

Rodney flinched at the sheer anger radiating from his Omega. His shoulders curled inward slightly, his gaze darting to the side like he was debating making a run for it. “I’m sorry, John… I didn’t even know I was doing it,” he mumbled, shoulders hunched, voice smaller than usual.

John groaned in frustration, raking a hand through his hair. He had a strong feeling this was exactly what had happened. Rodney was… Rodney. So clueless about social interactions sometimes. It was one of the reasons John had wanted to wait to talk to him—he’d known this wasn’t something Rodney had done maliciously. But between his exhaustion, the babies, and everything else going on, he just hadn’t had the bandwidth to deal with it before now.

Plopping down on the foot of his bed, he buried his face in his hands. “Rodney,” he groaned, his voice heavy with weariness.

For a long moment, he just sat there, trying to gather himself, until he felt a hesitant hand on his thigh. The warmth of it, the solid presence, made him look up.

Rodney was kneeling in front of him.

The man—who prided himself on his intellect, his superiority, his importance—was on his knees. His face was open, unguarded, a rare and vulnerable sight. His hands gripped John’s thighs like they were his only tether to reality.

“John, please.” His voice was raw, stripped of its usual arrogance. “I’m happy with what we have. I don’t find myself wanting or even thinking about others. I—” He hesitated, then wet his lips and pressed on. “I never told you this, but when I was in the sinking Jumper… when I was concussed and barely conscious… I imagined you. You.” He squeezed John’s thighs for emphasis. “Not Sam—who, logically, would have been way more qualified to help me. Not Radek—who knows the systems almost as well as I do. Not even some playboy cover model—no matter how many times people joke about my ‘type.’” His voice was trembling now, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

John just stared, breathing unevenly, caught between anger and something else, something fragile.

Rodney’s grip tightened. “It was you, John. You are the one my subconscious reached for when I thought I was going to die.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I love you.” He took a shaky breath, then said it again, firmer this time. “I love you.”

There it was. Out in the open. Raw and unfiltered.

Rodney had bared himself completely, and John could see how much he meant it. This wasn’t just some panicked confession to smooth things over. Rodney loved him. Had likely loved him for far longer than either of them had admitted.

Hearing Rodney say the words made John realize why he had been so mad in the first place. It wasn’t just frustration or annoyance—it was jealousy. The gut-churning, stomach-twisting kind. Jealousy usually hid love and attachment, but John had been too exhausted, too caught up in the moment, to recognize it for what it was.

“Oh, Rodney…” John whispered, his voice softening. His fingers twitched before he reached out and cupped Rodney’s face, thumbs brushing over the faint stubble on his jaw. The Alpha's face lit up at the contact, relief flooding his features, his breath hitching slightly like he hadn’t dared to hope.

John exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “You know I’m not very good at the… expressing my emotions thing.” He grimaced like the words themselves tasted strange in his mouth. But this was important—Rodney needed to hear it. “But the reason I was so mad? I was jealous.” He let that sink in, watching Rodney’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. “I didn’t want you to be interested in anyone else. I don’t want you to be.”

Rodney blinked, processing, and then—slowly, hesitantly—his lips curled into a smile. Not his usual smirk, not the cocky, self-assured grin he wore when he was feeling particularly clever. This was something else entirely. Something real. He grabbed John’s hand, cradling it between his own, and brought the palm to his mouth, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss against it.

John felt the warmth of Rodney’s lips against his skin, and his chest clenched, something inside him settling into place. His fingers curled slightly around Rodney’s as he started to smile back—only for it to be interrupted by a sudden yawn.

Rodney chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Oh, you’ve been running around like a chicken without a head,” he muttered, still holding John’s hand. “Between all your missions, your ridiculous habit of never sitting still, and the babies starting to teeth—you have to be exhausted.”

John didn’t deny it. His whole body ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue.

Rodney finally released his hand, but instead of pulling away, he crouched down further, his hands moving to John’s boots. Without a word, he started working on the laces, fingers deft despite their usual twitchiness. It had become a thing between them—Rodney taking care of John in small, subtle ways. And one of those ways? Foot massages.

Rodney had never been particularly great with words when it came to emotions, but he was good at this. At doing things to show he cared. And this? This was one of the few things Rodney always felt he was doing right.

Getting the boots off, he moved to sit on his butt and move John's foot to his lap. He started to massage the foot through John's socks. He found it easier to massage through the sock when he didn't have oil or lotion.

It didn't take long for John to become a puddle. Rodney was good at this. One could argue too good, but why would you?

Bracing his arms behind him John leaned back. Head falling backwards with another groan. With each massage Rodney got better. It didn't take as long for the tension to ease and for John to succumb.

Soon the room was filled with the smell of aroused Omega. John found himself less and less embarrassed by how turned on he got with each massage. Though now the massages usually ended with sex but that was also good.

Rodney knew had gotten every knot and sore spot because John's groans turns from relief to pleasure. He got higher pitched and breathy. Rodney would never tell John but the Omega sounded like the Omegas from pornos. He never would have guessed that, that was how they really sounded.

Putting John's foot down, he moved forward, getting on his knees again. Running his hands up John's legs, felt the muscles jump and relax with the movement. Reaching the Omega's belt fingers brushing the buckle he looked up.

John's eyes were on him, he was breathing hard. His eyes were so dark, his face was shining with sweat. John licked his lips.

Rodney hadn't seen or heard a no, so he undid John's belt. Not bothering to remove the belt he attacked the button and zipper to his BDU's. Hooking his fingers in the belt, waistband and the boxers he started to pull them down. John pushed up onto his hands to lift his butt off the bed.

Pealing the Omega's pants and boxers off, Rodney settled back between John's legs. He grabbed his hips to move him closer to the edge. Give him better access. Finally seeing his prize, he licked his lips.

John's pussy was already wet and glistening. He could see slick gliding out. Not bothering with ceremony. But when had he ever, he dove in.

John made a high pitched whine. Rodney's tongue impaled him without preamble without prep, just straight in and started licking at his walls. His first stop was the muscles that sat where an Alpha's knot would inflate. Using the point of his tong to poke and paint the muscles.

Crying out John curled around Rodney. His hands went into the Alpha's hair. His legs wrapped around the Alpha further trapping him. Rodney moaned when John pulled his hair. The vibrations went right through John, making him whine. He started rocking into Rodney's mouth, or at least as best he could from his position.

The scientist had a talented tongue, a very talented tongue. He ate John out with more gusto than he did with pudding or a turkey sandwich. Moving in such a way that his nose would bump up against the base of John's cock.

John was now whining high pitched and needy. Using his grip in the Alpha's hair he pushed his face further into himself. He didn't care if he suffocated the Alpha. He was close.

Rodney's face was dripping in Omega slick. He was loving every moment of it. John tasted so good. Plus the sounds the Omega made just triggered things in his Alpha hind brain. He needed to get John to make those sounds more often.

With a final bump of his nose against the base of John's cock the Omega came with a cry. The Omega let go of his Alpha as he rode out his high. Rodney pulled back, grabbing one of John's hands as it tried to slip away from his hair, he kissed the fingers.

Using one hand to worship John's hand he massaged John's thigh with the other. Letting his Omega come back to himself. Not hearing John panting anymore he looked up and saw his Omega with his trademark smirk.

“Think you're a little over dressed there buddy.” John drawled. Rodney just smiled back. “Strip” John used his Lt. Colonel commander of Atlantis voice.

Rodney gasped in anticipation. He stood up as fast as he could, granted not that fast, his knees were protesting. But once he was upright he followed orders. John just kept smiling at him.

When Rodney wasn't paying attention John decided to rid himself of his shirt and socks. When Rodney stood naked before an equally naked John. The Omega took the time to admire his Alpha. Yes Rodney was more teddy bear vs grizzly in the muscles vs padding department but John secretly loved it. He was a cuddler at heart even if he would never admit it.

Scooting himself back to the headboard of the bed, John patted the bed next to him then held out his hand in invitation to the Alpha. Rodney did not need to even be asked. He jumped as fast as he could.

Rodney knelt next to John on the bed. Reaching to caress his Omega he found himself thrown onto his back with John soon straddling him. Before he could even voice a protest John dove in and covered his mouth with his own.

John could taste himself on his Alpha. John tried to reciprocate what Rodney had done to him through the kiss. Soon it was Rodney who was wrapping himself around John and pulling him close. Both were hard and rutting against each other.

Sitting up abruptly John broke the kiss. He needed Rodney inside him now. Grabbing the base of the Alpha's cock, he sat up to give himself some room. Not bothering to stretch himself out, Rodney did a good job of that earlier.

Lining up the tip of the Alpha cock, he lowered himself down. It wasn't quite an impaling himself but he didn't take his time. Fulling seated on the Alpha, they both took the time to adjust and catch their breath.

Rodney could only stare up at his Omega in Awe. He still couldn't get over the fact John chose him. That someone like John would even be nice to him, let alone make a family with him. Holding onto the Omegas' hips, he rubbed circles with his thumbs. He couldn't get enough of touching John.

Smiling down at the Alpha John started to move. Raising up a bit and lowering down. Both groaned with the movement. John did it again but raised up even more. Soon he found their pace. He would raise up so the Alpha cock was just the tip then lower down. On the way down he would squeeze the cock.

Rodney's grip had turned bruising, but neither noticed nor cared at that moment. “Fuck... John... Fuck” Rodney panted, even during sex he couldn't shut up. “Your so fucking hot.”

With a groan John twisted his hips in a way he learned made Rodney crazy.

“Fuuck... John... so beautiful..” Rodney moaned. Fuck he loved it when John did that.

All ready tired before they even started John was feeling the strain on his legs already. He decided to end this sooner. Keeping up with the twist and squeeze motion on each down stroke. The omega knew his alpha was close. His moans turned higher pitched and he was nearly hyperventilating trying to catch his breath. Plus his knot was starting to catch at his rim.

With a finally down stroke, he had to practically shove himself onto the knot and it wasn't even fully deflated. Rodney's knot blew, locking them together. John's vision whited out as soon as the knot filled him.

When he came back to himself, he was laying on top of his Alpha, knot tying them together. He could feel his Alpha still coming, filling him with his seed. He shifted some, feeling his own mess he left all over his Alpha. Wriggling as best as he could while being knotted he rutted against his Alpha, trying to get off again.

“You are insatiable.” Rodney rumbled in his ear. Reaching between them, he took the Omega cock and stocked him. It didn't take long for John to come again. Just a few squeezes and strokes.

With a whimper John came for the final time. Panting he snuggled into his Alpha. Rodney wrapped him in his arms. Petting his back, hair, especially the hair. John nuzzled Rodney's neck burying his nose in the scent gland.

They both settled waiting for the Alpha knot to deflate.

Chapter Text

“Oh, I can't believe this. I should have known this would go horribly wrong,” Rodney whined from his cocoon prison. The organic, sticky material that bound him felt suffocating, and the dim greenish glow of the hive ship only made his impending doom seem more certain.

“Wouldn’t take a genius to see this coming,” Ronon quipped somewhere nearby, his voice strained. Rodney could hear him struggling, the sounds of muscle and force fighting against the sticky Wraith webbing.

“Oh yes, because that is SOOO HELPFUL in this situation,” Rodney snapped, exasperated. “Thank you, Ronon, for your invaluable insight. I feel so much better about my impending death.”

“Well, whining isn’t helping either,” Ronon grunted.

Rodney huffed, pausing for a moment before muttering, “Gonna miss their first steps.”

“What?”

“The babies,” Rodney clarified, his voice quieter now. “First steps. First words. I’d hoped at least one of them would be interested in science stuff.”

Ronon stopped struggling for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“What are you doing over there?” Rodney countered instead of answering. “You sound like you’re trying to fight your way out. You do realize we’re stuck in an alien bug ship, right? You’re not going to just—”

“I don’t plan on staying here,” Ronon interrupted, his voice full of effort.

“Oh, really?” Rodney scoffed. “And just how do you plan on getting out? Magic? Sheer force of will? Going to glare at the Wraith until they let us go?”

Ronon ignored him. “What do you mean, ‘first steps’?”

Rodney sighed. “We’re going to miss out on everything, Ronon. The babies’ first steps, their first words. I won’t get to teach them physics, or build little science projects with them. You’ll never get to teach them how to throw knives or—whatever else it is you do.”

Ronon let out a short laugh. “You think I’d teach toddlers how to use knives?”

“I don’t know! I just assumed!” Rodney snapped. “It’s what you do! And John—he’ll be alone. A single mom with three kids. That’s a lot for anyone, let alone someone who can barely take care of himself.”

“You talk too much,” Ronon muttered.

“Oh, excuse me for not wanting to spend my final moments in miserable silence,” Rodney shot back. “You know, we’ve never actually talked before.”

“Talk about what?” Ronon was still working at his bonds, the sounds of his struggles filling the space.

“Well… we share the babies. I guess we share John. Though ‘share’ is probably a bad term for it…”

“Yeah,” Ronon agreed. “It’s a bad term.”

Rodney frowned. “Well, what would you call it, then?”

“My people call it being in partnership.”

Rodney blinked. “Huh. Partnership. So, like… you and I are partners, or you and John are?”

“John and I would be mates,” Ronon clarified. “You and John would be mates. You and I are partners.”

Rodney considered that. “…Huh. Before the whole... babies situation... I had assumed we were friends...maybe...”

Silence stretched between them. Ronon was still working at his bonds, and Rodney found himself unexpectedly waiting for something.

“I trusted you,” Ronon admitted at last. “You got us out of bad situations before. Did it without as much bloodshed as I would. And when things were calm, you were fun to be around. If that’s what friendship means on your world, then yeah—we were friends.”

Rodney’s throat tightened. “Oh,” he said, softer than before. “Well. That’s… nice.”

Another beat of silence. Then Rodney cleared his throat. “We never talked about what we wanted for the kids. Like, how we wanted them to be raised. Are there any hard nos for you?”

“If they become Wraith worshipers, I’ll kill them myself,” Ronon said without hesitation.

Rodney snorted. “Well, that’s a given. Though, honestly, you’d have to get in line behind John, and I doubt he’d leave anything left. Anything else?”

Ronon grunted as he worked against his bindings. “Never really thought about it. John has a good head on his shoulders. I trust most of the people in Atlantis.”

Rodney caught that. “Most?”

Ronon grunted. “Kavanagh.”

Rodney groaned. “Oh, well, that’s a no-brainer.”

“How the hell did he even get the mission?” Ronon grumbled. “I’ve been learning more about your history, and I know how much screening you all went through to be allowed on Atlantis.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Honestly? I think it was nepotism. Or he just knew the right people. When I first met him back on Earth, I thought he was an intern. Then I thought he was Air Force, because he was just so dumb. But no—he was my scientist. I tried to get him kicked off, but apparently, someone really wanted him to go.”

“What’s nepotism?” Ronon asked.

“Oh, it’s when someone gets a job or a position because of family connections, even if they have no actual qualifications for it,” Rodney explained.

Ronon scoffed. “That’s stupid.”

“Thank you!” Rodney exclaimed. “Finally, someone who gets it!”

There was another pause before Rodney hesitated. “…Is there anything you really want the kids to know?”

Ronon actually stopped struggling at that. “I want them to learn about Sateda. There were stories—myths and lore—that were important to us. I know it won’t shape them the same way it did me, but they should still know where they come from.”

Rodney was quiet for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. That sounds important. You should talk to the anthropology department when we get back. They’d love to hear about it. Probably tie you down and interrogate you for details.”

Ronon smirked but didn’t respond.

Rodney sighed. “Anyway, not that it matters, since we’re going to die in here—”

“You’re assuming we’re going to die,” Ronon cut in.

“Well, yeah,” Rodney said. “Because we are.”

There was a heavy thud—the sound of a body hitting the floor—followed by the rustling of movement.

Then, suddenly, Ronon was standing right in front of him.

Rodney’s eyes widened. “WHAAA—HOW?!”

“Shut up,” Ronon snapped.

Rodney sputtered. “Well—are you gonna get me out?”

Ronon smirked, holding up the knife he’d somehow retrieved. “On one condition.”

Rodney nodded rapidly. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“No more dying talk. No more whining about missing first steps or first words or any of that.”

Rodney blinked. “You want me to be all glass-half-full? Sunny-side-up? Chipper?”

“No, that’s creepy,” Ronon said, grimacing. “Just stop assuming you’re gonna die every time things get rough.”

Rodney hesitated. “…Not sure I can promise that. It’s kind of ingrained.”

Ronon sighed. “Then how about you just keep your mouth shut?”

Rodney considered. “I can try.”

Ronon smirked. “Good enough.” He brought the knife down, slicing through Rodney’s bindings.

Rodney tumbled forward, groaning as he shook off the remains of the cocoon.

“…So, what now?” he asked.

Ronon grinned, twirling the knife. “Now? We get the hell out of here.”

And Rodney—against all odds—actually believed him.

Chapter Text

Burying his nose in Theodore’s soft curls, John tightened his arms around the little boy, inhaling the faint scent of baby shampoo and warm skin. It was late, and the comforting hum of domesticity settled over the room. Across from him, Rodney bounced Eleanor on his lap, murmuring something about the laws of physics while she babbled back at him with wide, fascinated eyes. Kael, as usual, was draped over Ronon’s broad shoulder, receiving rhythmic pats on the back. The boy adored being thrown over anyone’s shoulder and carried around like a sack of potatoes. John wasn’t sure if it was the movement, the weightless trust, or just the sheer joy of being manhandled by Ronon that made him love it so much.

In the corner of their living room, curled up in the single armchair, Serin sat reading aloud from one of the thick board books. Her voice carried the careful, deliberate cadence of someone learning a new language, her Athosian accent stretching around English words. The Athosians still called it “Earth Common,” and Serin had taken to practicing it using the children's books. She stumbled now and then, struggling against the chaos that was English pronunciation, but Rodney or John would gently correct her when needed. Those moments were becoming fewer, though—she was improving.

As she finished the book, closing it with a soft thump, John spoke up before she could reach for another.

“Hey, Serin.”

She looked up at him, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Why don’t you take tomorrow off? I know the last few days… or maybe it’s been a week… have been long.” He sighed, rubbing Theodore’s back absentmindedly. “We completely dumped the babies on you, and you didn’t even get your usual night off.”

Serin immediately shook her head. “Oh... well, you did warn me that could happen,” she said lightly.

John huffed. “I know it’s in the contract, but that doesn’t mean I can’t thank you and also let you recover.”

She hesitated, clearly unsure about stepping away from her duties. “Are you sure? Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“I’m very sure. I was planning on taking the day off, or at least doing my paperwork here.” He could see she still wasn’t convinced. “Honestly, I just want a day with my babies. Since I’ll be here to take care of them, you should take the day for yourself.”

Serin blinked at him, then her expression shifted, the light of understanding flickering in her eyes. “Oh… well… do you know if the market visit for my people is still happening tomorrow?”

John nodded. The Athosians had a standing arrangement—a weekly market run to the largest trading hub. The bustling open-air market was a sprawling space filled with vendors selling everything from preserved goods to freshly cooked meals, jewelry, clothing, and even weapons. It had become a regular occurrence, enough that Atlantis had worked it into their weekly schedule, with a jumper assigned for transportation. Some members of the expedition had even started tagging along, drawn in by the variety of goods and the vibrant atmosphere.

“Let me check.” John reached for his radio, which he’d dumped onto the side table earlier. He was required to keep it nearby at all times, but thankfully, he wasn’t obligated to wear it when he was off duty.

“Sheppard to Control.”

A second later, Chuck’s familiar voice crackled over the channel. “Chuck here.”

“Is the market run still on for tomorrow?”

“As far as I’m aware.”

“Good. Can you add Serin to the list?”

There was a brief pause, followed by the sound of typing. “Added, sir. They won’t leave without her.”

“Thanks. Good night.” John placed the radio back on the table, turning back to Serin. “You’re all set.”

Serin hesitated only a moment longer before a small, grateful smile curved her lips. “Thank you.”

John shrugged, shifting Theodore against his chest. “You’ve earned it.”

–

Cracking an egg into the bowl, John watched as the thick, golden yolk broke apart, swirling into the translucent whites. These eggs were from the turkey-like creatures that the Athosians had started raising for Atlantis—large, speckled things that dwarfed the average Earth chicken egg. Two of them, roughly the equivalent of six chicken eggs, were more than enough for him and the babies. He added a splash of milk, the liquid turning the mixture a pale yellow as he took up a whisk and beat it together until frothy.

The babies sat strapped into their high chairs, babbling and waving their chubby hands, their wide eyes fixed on him as he cooked. They were curious, watching his every move with the same intensity they gave to new toys. John was fully into the weaning process now, slowly transitioning them from relying entirely on him to eating more solid food. The more he offered, the more eager they seemed to be, their appetites growing at an alarming rate. Dr. Beckett had assured him that, eventually, solid food would provide better nutrition than his milk, so there was no point in fighting the natural transition. It still felt surreal sometimes.

Pouring the scrambled egg mixture into a hot pan, John set the dirty bowl in the sink, giving the eggs a moment to set before returning to stir them. The sizzle filled the small kitchen, and a rich, savory aroma spread through the air. He pushed the eggs around the pan, watching them firm up into fluffy curds. When they were just the right consistency—not too dry, not too runny—he scooped them into four small bowls that were already waiting on the counter.

Grabbing a handful of shredded cheese, he sprinkled it over the steaming eggs, letting the residual heat melt it into gooey pockets. It was simple, but it would do.

Turning to the babies, he placed a bowl in front of each of them, giving each a quick peck on the top of their heads. “Yummm, yummy,” he cooed, hoping to encourage them.

Settling himself in a chair near the dining table, he positioned his own bowl within reach but kept close enough to help the babies if needed. He exaggerated his movements, lifting a spoonful of eggs to his mouth with an overly dramatic “Nom nom,” making sure they saw him eating. The babies still needed guidance, and part of that meant miming the expected behavior.

Theodore, ever the enthusiastic eater, didn’t need to be told twice. Ignoring the spoon entirely, he grabbed a fistful of eggs and cheese, shoving the mixture into his mouth with uncoordinated glee. At least half of it made it in—John counted that as a win.

Eleanor, always quick to follow her brother’s lead, mimicked him immediately, also forsaking her spoon in favor of her fingers.

Kael, however, chose a different approach. Grabbing his entire bowl with both hands, he lifted it high—and promptly smashed it into his face. Scrambled eggs and melted cheese smeared across his cheeks and nose, chunks of food plopping onto his tray and the floor.

John couldn’t help it—he laughed, a full-bodied, genuine laugh. No matter how many times Kael did this, it never stopped being funny. It felt so much like Ronon, that wild, unapologetic approach to food. The apple wasn’t falling far from that tree.

Shaking his head, John reached for a napkin, still chuckling. “Well, that’s one way to eat,” he mused, carefully wiping bits of egg and cheese from Kael’s wild curls. The baby barely noticed, too focused on his self-imposed mission of mashing the entire bowl against his face with surprising determination. At least more of it was making it into his mouth than onto his tray. Small victories.

A deep rumble of a voice interrupted him. “What’s so funny?”

John glanced up to see Ronon stepping into the dining area, his presence as effortlessly commanding as ever. The man moved with the kind of casual grace that made it easy to forget just how lethal he could be. His dreads were still damp from a shower, and he was already eyeing the kitchen with the focused intensity of a man on a mission. A mission called breakfast.

“Oh, just how our son likes to eat,” John replied, gesturing toward Kael, who was, once again, using the bowl-to-face technique with unwavering dedication.

Ronon studied the scene, arms crossing over his broad chest. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Looks more efficient to me.”

John let out a long-suffering groan, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Ughhh… between you and Rodney, these kids are gonna turn into absolute savages—no utensils, no manners, just flinging food everywhere like tiny wildlings.”

Ronon actually laughed at that, a rare, deep chuckle that sent warmth through John’s chest. Unbothered by John’s complaint, the big man turned his attention to breakfast, stepping into the kitchen like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he kind of did.

John watched as Ronon pulled out the massive cast-iron griddle, a beast of a thing that spanned three of the stovetop burners. That thing was a workhorse, capable of cooking enough food to feed their entire growing family in one go.

Since John hadn’t put anything away yet, Ronon helped himself, cracking several of the large Pegasus turkey eggs into a bowl. Their rich golden yolks sat heavy in the mixture as he splashed in some milk, whisking with practiced efficiency. From the fridge, he grabbed a hunk of leftover Pegasus turkey—ripped it apart with his hands rather than bothering with a knife—and tossed the shredded meat straight into the eggs.

Next came the bread—thick slices of Athosian sourdough, dark-crusted and dense. It had a flavor unlike anything from Earth, rich with an old-world tang that made it oddly nostalgic. Radek had once claimed it tasted like the village bread from his childhood. Carson swore it was identical to the loaves his grandmother used to bake before World War II. What had once been a rare treat—something the Athosians made only for special occasions—had become a staple, thanks to Elizabeth’s determination to turn Atlantis into a self-sustaining colony. She’d brokered deals to trade for bulk grain shipments, ensuring that the city got a steady supply of this particular bread in exchange for other goods.

Ronon slathered the bread in a generous amount of Pegasus butter, the rich, creamy spread melting into the dense slices as he slapped them onto the hot griddle. The air filled with the scent of sizzling butter and toasting bread, warm and homey. When the bread reached the perfect level of crispness, he nudged it to the side of the griddle to keep warm while he dumped the egg mixture onto the still-hot surface, scrambling it into thick, fluffy curds.

John barely paid attention to Ronon’s cooking process, too absorbed in silently laughing at his children’s ongoing war with their food. Eleanor was determinedly stuffing her face with both hands, while Theodore had at least attempted to use his spoon before giving up entirely and going back to shoveling eggs in with his fingers. Kael had abandoned his bowl entirely, smearing egg and cheese across his tray like a pint-sized abstract artist.

It wasn’t until Ronon sat down across from him that John really noticed what was happening. The big guy had an absolute mountain of food in front of him—easily nine eggs’ worth of scrambled eggs, a tower of ten pieces of toast, and an assortment of toppings that made John raise an eyebrow.

Ronon moved with the casual certainty of a man who knew what he liked. One by one, he took each slice of toast and slathered a thick layer of soft cheese over it. The stuff was somewhere between cream cheese and chèvre—tangy, smooth, and rich. Once the cheese was on, he smeared a generous dollop of jam over the top, spreading it with deliberate, methodical strokes.

John could kind of get behind that—it was the next part that made him stare.

Without hesitation, Ronon grabbed a jar of salsa, popped the lid, and unceremoniously dumped a massive spoonful all over his eggs. The bright red mixture oozed over the golden curds, pooling at the edges of his plate.

John blinked. “...I feel like I should say something, but I honestly don’t even know where to start.”

Ronon simply grunted, completely unbothered by John's scrutiny. Taking a piece of toast, he methodically tore it into smaller chunks before reaching toward Kael. The little boy’s dark eyes immediately lit up at the sight of food, his face bursting with anticipation.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Kael squealed, smacking both hands against the tray of his high chair, his excitement making his curls bounce.

Ronon smirked as he popped a piece of toast into Kael’s open mouth. The boy immediately started chewing, his expression turning blissful as the rich, creamy cheese and sweet jam melted on his tongue.

A distressed whimper rose from across the table. John glanced over just in time to see Theodore and Eleanor staring at their brother with wide, betrayed eyes. Their little hands twitched toward Ronon, and when they realized they weren’t being fed, their protest escalated into impatient whines.

Ronon simply chuckled, already tearing off more pieces. “Here.” He handed a piece to Eleanor first, then Theodore, watching as they eagerly accepted the treat.

When Kael finished, he let out another loud “AHHH AHHH!” and banged on his tray even harder, demanding more.

John raised an eyebrow. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve given them that stuff before?”

Ronon didn’t answer—at least, not with words. Instead, he just smiled, that smug, knowing grin that meant he wasn’t about to incriminate himself.

Before John could press further, Rodney shuffled into the dining area, his hair a disheveled mess, eyes bleary behind his glasses. He scowled, looking vaguely annoyed at the noise. “What’s with all the yelling and banging? It’s too early for this.”

“Oh, just Ronon finding something that’s basically crack for the kids,” John said dryly, watching as Kael practically vibrated with excitement over the next piece of toast.

Rodney’s head snapped up. “WHAT!?” he sputtered, suddenly far more awake. His gaze darted to the toddlers and then to what Ronon was feeding them. His nose wrinkled. “Is that… toast?”

“Yes,” Ronon replied simply, handing another piece to a very enthusiastic Theodore.

Rodney squinted at the food suspiciously. “Okay… what’s on it?”

John smirked. “That’s the Pegasus version of soft cheese. Nobody can decide if it’s closer to cream cheese or chèvre. And some jam.”

Rodney frowned. “Huh.” He stared at the toast a second longer, then, with a reluctant grumble, muttered, “Okay, that actually sounds kinda good…”

Without another word, he turned and trudged toward the kitchen, presumably to make his own breakfast. A second later, his voice rang out in outrage. “HEY! YOU TOOK ALL THE BREAD!”

John just smirked. “There are eggs.”

Before Rodney could launch into a full-blown rant, John’s radio beeped. He picked it up and slid it into his ear. “Sheppard here.”

“John,” Elizabeth’s voice came through, her tone light but with an unmistakable note of amusement. “I got your email. You’re planning to work from your quarters today? A ‘light day,’ as you put it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” John said, keeping his answer short and vague, hoping she wouldn’t pry too much.

Elizabeth hummed thoughtfully. “You know… that actually sounds like a great idea. Now that I think about it, everyone’s been running themselves into the ground lately. We’ve all been on edge for the past week. I think I’m going to send out a base-wide announcement and tell everyone to do the same—finish only the paperwork needed to keep things from falling apart, but have it all wrapped up by lunchtime.”

John blinked. “Wait, really? You’re giving the whole base a day off?”

“Well, not the entire day,” she clarified with a small laugh. “But I think a deliberate slow-down would do everyone some good. I’ll even shut down the labs to stop any of our more stubborn scientists from sneaking in extra work.”

John chuckled, glancing toward Rodney, who was still muttering under his breath in the kitchen. “Yeah, you’re definitely gonna need to enforce that.”

Elizabeth laughed along with him. “Exactly. So, enjoy your morning, Colonel. Just focus on the paperwork that’s actually due instead of trying to tackle that never-ending backlog of yours.”

John grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Sounds like a plan.”

“Good. Well, enjoy your day.”

As the radio clicked off, John leaned back in his chair, glancing at his chaotic but oddly peaceful kitchen. Kael was still smacking his tray, demanding more toast. Ronon remained unfazed, patiently feeding the kids one by one. Rodney had finally accepted his fate and was making eggs.

Yeah… maybe today was going to be a good day after all.

--

When Rodney first found out he was going to be locked out of his lab for the day, he was furious. His initial plan had been to clean up the chaos left behind after their frantic efforts to aerosolize Dr. Beckett’s serum. The lab was a disaster zone—equipment out of place, notes scattered, and a general sense of barely controlled mayhem left in the wake of their high-speed research. Once he had the mess under control, he’d planned to indulge in some personal projects—something to unwind with, maybe tweak some of the subroutines on Atlantis’s environmental controls or finally figure out why one of the consoles in the botany lab kept flashing an error code despite working perfectly fine.

But now? Now he was being forcibly banned from his own domain. It was maddening.

Rodney had grumbled and whined, as expected, but seeing how happy it made John, knowing that he could take an actual day off without guilt, Rodney kept his complaints to a minimum. Oh, he still made a fuss about it, of course—moaning about all the perishables left sitting out, predicting a fungal apocalypse due to unchecked experiments. But then Radek, ever so smug, informed him that Miko had already scrubbed the labs while he was off-world.

Rodney shut up fast.

Everyone knew about Miko’s cleaning abilities. The woman could make a surgical suite look downright unsterile. And when she stress-cleaned? Forget about it. It was rumored that the last time she’d deep-cleaned the physics lab, Radek had been able to see his own reflection in the walls. Given that she’d been assigned to work on Wraith-related research—something she hated—Rodney had no doubt she had taken out her frustrations on the entire science wing.

Rodney made a note in his calendar to thank her the next time he was allowed back into his lab. He didn’t even need to inspect her work to know that the place was now well beyond his already high standards.

With the labs out of reach, Rodney had little choice but to follow John’s lead. Ronon took over baby duty while he and John settled in to finish the last of their paperwork. It was all the official reports detailing the disastrous Wraith-Atlantis alliance—something Rodney was more than happy to put behind them. Between the constant tension, the betrayals, and the stupidity of trusting Wraith in the first place, there was no part of that debacle he wanted to relive.

Surprisingly, with both of them working uninterrupted, they finished long before lunch.

John stretched, cracking his back, and leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I was thinking—why don’t we take a Jumper out to one of the beaches? Let the kids splash around in the tidal pools for a bit.”

Rodney made a face. “The beach?”

John nodded. “Yeah. I read the reports on a good spot, even did a flyover. The water’s shallow, the sand is soft, and there are plenty of little pools for the kids to play in. It’s safe, and it’ll be good for them.”

Rodney opened his mouth to argue, but Ronon—because of course Ronon had to chime in—just gave him a look. “You do realize we live on an ocean, right?” he pointed out. “If you’re trying to avoid water, you’re in the wrong city.”

Rodney scowled. “That’s different.”

Ronon arched a brow. “How?”

Rodney folded his arms. “Because I’m inside the city. I’m not standing on the shore where it can reach me.”

John rolled his eyes. “Rodney, come on. The kids have never left Atlantis. Ever. They’ve never even seen land.”

That made Rodney pause. He glanced over at the babies, currently babbling to each other in their high chairs.

They had never seen land. Not once in their entire lives.

Guilt settled in Rodney’s gut. He, Ronon and John had been so busy with missions, emergencies, and, well, saving the damn galaxy that they hadn’t even thought about it. The kids were born here—on a floating city, surrounded by nothing but endless blue water. They had never touched grass, never played in the dirt, never seen a tree that wasn’t inside a greenhouse.

Damn it.

Rodney sighed. “Fine,” he relented. “But if I get sand in any uncomfortable places, I’m blaming both of you.”

John grinned, triumphant. “You’ll survive.”

Rodney ignored him. “We should make a day of it. Maybe swing by the Athosians for dinner after.”

That suggestion delighted both John and Ronon.

John, ever the organizer, immediately tried to hail Teyla to see if she wanted to join them. When she finally responded, it was only to inform them that she had already taken the morning Jumper meant for the Athosian market run and was spending the day with her people. But she did inform them that they are most welcome to join for an evening meal.

“Guess it’s just us, then,” John said, unfazed.

Rodney sighed dramatically, but for once, he wasn’t actually that upset.

–

John settled the Jumper down smoothly next to the beach. No one questioned him anymore when he decided to take a Jumper out. He didn’t need permission, didn’t have to clear it with anyone—one of the perks of being the military commander of Atlantis.

It was a perfect day. The sky was bright and clear, the ocean stretched endlessly before them, shimmering under the sun, and the sand looked warm and inviting. The gentle crash of waves mixed with the occasional call of seabirds, making for a very different soundtrack than the usual hum of Atlantis’ corridors.

Turning around, he took in the sight of Ronon holding Kale and Theodore, while Rodney had Eleanor nestled against his chest. The image struck something in John—one of those odd moments where everything clicked into place.

“You know,” he mused, adjusting his hold on the bags, “maybe we need to figure out a way to have seats for the kids in the Jumper.”

“Like a car seat?” Rodney asked, bouncing Eleanor absently as he considered the idea. Then he frowned. “If you wanna protect them in a crash, they’d basically need to be in their own escape pod.”

Ronon, who had been quietly watching the conversation unfold, frowned. “What’s a car seat?”

John sighed, realizing they’d had this conversation before. “I told you about cars.” He waited for the nod of recognition before continuing. “We’ve got these special seats—extra secure, lots of padding—for babies and little kids. Cars are designed for adults, so all the safety features are for our size, which means kids aren’t really protected in a crash unless they’ve got their own setup.”

He stood up as the rear hatch of the Jumper hissed open at his mental command. The moment it did, the salty sea breeze rushed in, filling the cabin with the warm scent of sand and sun-heated water. John inhaled deeply, letting it settle in his chest. He loved this.

Ronon tilted his head. “Your cars—they don’t fly, right?”

“They’re not supposed to,” Rodney groused, adjusting his grip on Eleanor.

“I can see why it’d be easier to design safety stuff for ground crashes,” Ronon mused, shifting Kale to his other arm, “versus trying to survive a drop from orbit.”

John chuckled, grabbing some of their gear for the day. Theodore squirmed in Ronon’s grip, reaching for John, so he traded the baby for one of the duffel bags.

Rodney knelt down to set Eleanor on her feet before slinging a backpack over his shoulder, only to scoop her right back up the moment he was settled. “So, what—were you thinking about just strapping them into something so they don’t go flying, or were you more worried about them getting into stuff?”

John nodded. “A bit of both. They won’t have to sit on people’s laps the whole trip, and we won’t have to constantly be keeping them from crawling around and poking at things they shouldn’t.”

Rodney hummed thoughtfully, already shifting into problem-solving mode. “Mmm, yeah, that would be useful. I should check the database, see if the Ancients had something like that. There might be stuff we’ve ignored just because we didn’t know what it was.”

“That’d be good,” John agreed. “But later. Today is beach day.”

He led the way out of the Jumper, carrying Theodore and a small load of supplies. The other two followed, Ronon with Kale and more bags slung over his shoulder, and Rodney balancing Eleanor as they made their way toward the shore.

John let his shoulders relax, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. Today was about nothing but the ocean, the sand, and time with his family.

–

The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the beach as waves lapped gently against the shore. The salty breeze was warm, carrying the sounds of the ocean—rolling waves, the distant cries of seabirds, and the occasional shriek of laughter—mostly from Rodney, but only when something startled him. The scent of salt and sun-warmed sand filled the air, blending with the occasional whiff of seaweed carried in on the tide.

When they had arrived, Rodney had insisted that everyone lather the babies up in his homemade sunscreen. There had been many protests, most of them from John, who complained about how thick and sticky the stuff was, and Ronon, who simply did not see the point. But Rodney was adamant, practically waving the bottle in their faces as he ranted.

“You think you care about their future, but apparently, you don’t! Because if you did, you wouldn’t be so cavalier about letting them burn their fragile, untouched skin! Do you know how thin a baby’s epidermis is? Of course you don’t! I’ll tell you—”

“Rodney,” John groaned, already resigned.

“—incredibly thin! And you want to roast them alive just so you don’t have to—”

“Fine!”

Rodney had huffed and muttered something about being the only responsible parent in this team, but ultimately, everyone got sunscreened. Including John, Ronon, and Teyla, because once Rodney got started, there was no stopping him.

At least they’d had the foresight to dress the babies in their swimsuits before even leaving Atlantis. John had been a little worried about whether they’d fit, and had spent extra time adjusting the vests and float attachments in their quarters beforehand. The baby shower gifts had really come through—whoever had picked out the swimsuits had kept them gender-neutral, which made sense since no one had known the babies’ genders at the time.

The suits were adorable—reminiscent of 1920s Earth swimwear, with bold stripes and a vintage cut. Each was a full-body suit with short sleeves and shorts that covered a lot of skin—much to Rodney’s relief. The vests were another matter entirely. They were bulky in a way that would be cumbersome for an adult, but for babies—who had no idea how to coordinate their limbs anyway—they were fine. And more importantly, they would keep the babies afloat.

Each vest came with an inner tube attachment, which meant they could place a baby inside a circular float, buckle them in, and let them bob upright in the water. Without the float, the vests forced them to lie on their backs, which none of the babies seemed to appreciate when John tested it out in the shallows. Kale, in particular, had squawked in offense, kicking his feet in protest.

Seeing how in awe the babies were of the waves and the beach, it was unanimously decided that they’d put them in their floats and walk them out into waist-deep water.

John took Theodore, Rodney took Eleanor, and Ronon took Kale. At first, the babies wriggled, unsure of the sensation of floating. But then, the moment the floats actually lifted off the sand, the first delighted squeals erupted.

John grinned as Theodore’s eyes went huge, mouth dropping open in pure wonder. A moment later, he kicked his little feet in excitement, sending tiny ripples through the water. Kale, meanwhile, was already cackling, slapping the surface of the waves and sending droplets flying. Eleanor, never one to be left behind, squealed and reached out for the water with chubby fingers.

“Well, I guess that answers that,” John said, already nudging Theodore’s float gently toward Ronon.

Soon, they were waist-deep, pushing and bobbing the babies between them. It was less like swimming and more like an elaborate game of pass the baby, but the kids were loving it. Giggles and delighted shrieks filled the air as they rocked them in the waves, occasionally letting the swells lift them before gently guiding them back.

Rodney, of course, was the most cautious, constantly adjusting Eleanor’s float and muttering under his breath about undertows. “We don’t actually know the tide patterns of this planet,” he pointed out at one point. “For all we know, we could be standing right above some sort of alien riptide—”

“You worry too much,” Ronon said, easily catching Kale’s float as the baby drifted toward him.

“You don’t worry enough,” Rodney shot back, just before a small wave caught him off guard, sending water splashing over his chest.

John snickered. “Relax, McKay. We’re fine.”

“For now,” Rodney muttered, but when Eleanor let out a happy little screech, he sighed and gave her float a gentle push toward John.

For a while, they just played—laughing, splashing, rocking the babies back and forth in the water. It was good. Peaceful, even.

Soon, the babies seemed less engaged with their game, their splashes becoming slower, their giggles quieter as their excitement waned. Seeing this, John decided it was time to bring out his toy.

Getting everyone back onto the beach, he recruited Rodney and Ronon to corral the babies in the shallower tidal pools. Without their floating tubes but still secured in their vests, the little ones were left to explore the shallow water, their tiny hands slapping at the rippling surface as they tested the way it moved around them.

Meanwhile, John jogged over to their pile of belongings, kicking aside a stray towel before triumphantly pulling out his wakeboard. The waxed surface gleamed under the sun, promising fun. He grinned as he strode back to the tidal pools, scooping up Theodore along the way. His son, already damp from play, blinked curiously up at him, little fingers curling in the fabric of John's swim shirt.

Carrying Theodore toward the surf, John waded out to where the water was only a few inches deep. He bent down, setting the wakeboard into the water and steadying it with his foot to keep it from drifting away. With careful hands, he placed Theodore on top, keeping the board afloat as he crouched to grip its sides.

The moment he started pushing the board through the water, Theodore erupted into delighted squeals. The little boy clapped his hands, giggling wildly as the board skimmed over the gentle waves. John grinned, picking up the pace, sending small splashes up around the board’s edges. The sound of his son’s laughter was infectious, and he found himself chuckling as he maneuvered the wakeboard through the shallows.

Back on the beach, Eleanore sat wide-eyed, watching her brother with clear fascination. Her little fists clenched as she let out an insistent whine, kicking her chubby legs against the wet sand. It was obvious—she wanted a turn.

John smirked. “Alright, alright, princess. You’re next.”

Meanwhile, Kael was entirely uninterested in the wakeboarding spectacle. Instead, he had his attention fixed on something lurking in the tidal pool. The water was shallow but darkened in places where the sand shifted, and whatever had caught Kael’s eye moved with an unsettling smoothness.

For once, Rodney—who was assigned to keep an eye on Kael—was actually paying attention at the right moment. He saw the baby reaching out with chubby fingers, a look of pure curiosity on his tiny face.

“Oh no—no no no! Gahhh!” Rodney’s panicked yelp split the air as he lurched forward, sending up a splash. “Don’t touch that! Gross! That’s not a crab! That’s—that’s some kind of alien menace! It has way too many legs!”

Kael, undeterred, pointed excitedly at the creature as though trying to show it off.

John, hearing the commotion, glanced up—just in time to witness Rodney, in his frantic attempt to save Kael, accidentally push the baby away while failing to save himself.

The creature, a horrifying blend of too many legs, crab-like pincers, and—was that teeth?!—lunged at Rodney instead.

With a sickening snap, it latched onto Rodney’s fingers.

Rodney screamed.

“GAHHHH, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF—GET IT OFF!!!”

He flailed wildly, his entire body jerking as he tried to shake the alien creature loose. Instead, it clung on stubbornly, its grotesque pincers locked around his fingers like a vice. Rodney, now in full-blown hysteria, ran in circles, splashing water everywhere as he flapped his trapped hand like he was attempting to take flight.

The babies, who had been watching him with rapt attention, suddenly broke into shrieks of laughter. To them, this was hilarious. Daddy always yelled—this was just another one of his funny games!

John, trying very hard not to laugh, pushed himself up from the wakeboard, shaking his head. “For crying out loud, Rodney…”

Ronon, however, was far less merciful. Hands on his hips, he smirked. “Want me to shoot it?”

Rodney’s eyes went wide with horror. “NO, YOU ABSOLUTE NEANDERTHAL! Just—just—GET IT OFF!”

Ronon just grunted, scooping up Eleanore from the water and setting her on dry land before turning his attention back to Rodney. The scientist was still flailing, his soaked arms sending water droplets flying everywhere as he shrieked in terror. Ronon stalked up to him and, with a firm grip, grabbed the Alpha’s shoulders, forcibly stilling him.

“Stop wiggling. You’re making it worse,” Ronon grumbled.

Rodney froze as much as he could, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He held out his injured hand as far away from his body as possible, his face twisted in sheer disgust. The creature was still latched onto his fingers, its grotesque little pincers gripping like iron. Its many legs twitched, clinging stubbornly, its segmented body shifting slightly with each movement.

Ronon barely spared it a glance before reaching out and grabbing the thing from the back. With one decisive squeeze, there was a high-pitched squeal, then a sickening crunch. The creature spasmed once, then went completely limp.

Rodney yanked his hand away the moment it was free, cradling it to his chest. “OH GOD. That was DISGUSTING.” He inspected his fingers frantically, looking for bite marks, welts—anything that suggested he was now infected with some horrifying alien bacteria.

Ronon, meanwhile, examined the creature with mild interest. Turning it over in his hands, he nodded in approval. Then, without hesitation, he carried it back to their supplies and casually dropped it into the cooking pot they had brought.

Rodney watched in mounting horror. “YOU PLAN TO EAT THAT?!?” he shrieked.

“Don’t like wasting food,” Ronon grunted.

Rodney gagged, turning away with a look of pure revulsion.

John, shaking his head at the whole exchange, turned his attention back to the babies. Lifting Theodore off the wakeboard, he carried him over to Eleanore and traded. She practically vibrated with excitement as he placed her on the board, kicking her little legs in anticipation. Soon, all three had taken their turns, their delighted squeals filling the air.

By the time John was done running up and down the beach, his legs burned, and he was thoroughly exhausted. Deciding enough was enough, he herded the babies into a new tidal pool—one he meticulously inspected this time, making absolutely sure it was free of anything with too many legs, pincers, or horrifying mandibles.

With the babies safely contained, they handed them buckets, shovels, and various other water toys. Finally, the adults could sit and relax, watching the little ones entertain themselves.

John let out a content sigh as he stared at the waves rolling in, the perfect, curling crests forming and crashing in the distance. His fingers twitched as he imagined himself out there, catching one of those swells.

“Man, I wish I could convince Caldwell that a surfboard is necessary for Atlantis,” he mused aloud.

Ronon, stacking damp sand into a lopsided mound for Eleanore, gave him a confused look. “What’s a surfboard? Is it like your… wakeboard?” He tested the unfamiliar word as if it didn’t quite sit right in his mouth.

“Sort of,” John said, tilting his head. “Wakeboards are shorter, and you usually use them closer to shore. They’re supposed to be propelled by the rider, but, well… babies.” He gestured toward the trio happily splashing in their tidal pool.

“The surf board,” Rodney cut in before John could continue, his voice dripping with disdain, “is a thousand times more dangerous and has way more death attached to it than the wakeboard. It’s meant for crazy people who willingly hurl themselves into those.” He jabbed a finger at the powerful waves crashing beyond the shallows.

Ronon’s brow furrowed. “The waves?”

“Yes, the waves,” Rodney said impatiently.

John, ignoring Rodney’s dramatics, continued explaining. “It’s a lot of fun. You paddle out past the breakers, and when the right wave comes, you line up, stand up on your board, and ride it. Some people stay along the top.” He demonstrated with a sweeping motion of his hand. “Others like to ride under it.”

Rodney huffed. “And those people are idiots. That way has far more deaths than staying on top.”

Ronon, helping Eleanore fill her bucket, looked curious. “Why?”

John shot Rodney a warning look before answering. “When a wave closes—meaning it curls over itself—it can pull you under. If you don’t come up fast enough, you can drown. A lot of people get disoriented when they’re dragged down and don’t know which way is up, so they accidentally swim the wrong way.”

Ronon grunted. “So what’s the point of ‘riding’ the waves?”

John smiled wistfully. “It’s fun. It’s a thrill. When you catch the perfect wave, you feel totally connected with the ocean. Earth—like Lantea—is mostly water, so it makes you feel more in tune with the planet. It also kinda feels like flying.”

Ronon gave that some thought before asking, “So why do you need to convince Caldwell to get you a board? What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?” He helped Eleanore dump her bucket onto a toy water wheel, watching as it spun.

“That’s a wakeboard,” John corrected. “It’s shorter, has a different width, and is made from different materials. It won’t work the same way—or at all—for surfing.”

John had Kael on his lap now, guiding the toddler’s chubby hands as he showed him how to scoop up a pile of sand with his little shovel. As he worked, he sent a discreet glance toward Rodney and made a subtle pointing motion.

Kael, quick on the uptake, let out a delighted giggle. Then, with all the might his tiny arms could muster, he flung his shovel full of wet sand directly at Rodney’s face.

Rodney’s spluttered shriek was immediate. “GAHHHH!!!”

He spat out a mouthful of sand, his entire body jerking as he scrambled to his feet—far too quickly. His sudden movement sent a spray of sand flying in all directions, covering everyone in the blast radius.

The babies wailed in protest, the other adults shouted, and amidst the chaos, John leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

Mission accomplished.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the water and along the beach, the babies splashing in tidal pools and Rodney reluctantly wading back into the shallows when Eleanor made grabby hands at the waves.

“You stand on it and ride the waves?” Ronon asked after John explained the basics.

“Yeah. Takes balance, but it’s a lot of fun.”

Ronon’s eyes narrowed, like he was considering a new combat strategy. “I want to try it.”

John smirked. “Well, when we figure out how to get one to Atlantis, you’ll be the first person I teach.”

Ronon nodded, satisfied, while Rodney muttered something about suicidal death sports.

As the sun dipped lower, the air cooled, and the growling of stomachs—not just the babies’—signaled the end of their beach day. Packing up their things, they made their way to the Athosian settlement, where dinner was already being prepared.

By the time they made their way to the communal dining area, they had all taken the time to dry off and change into clean clothes. No one particularly wanted to endure an evening meal covered in damp fabric and itchy sand—especially not Rodney, who had grumbled the entire time about how sand got everywhere while aggressively toweling himself off. The babies, now dressed in fresh, dry outfits, were content and drowsy from their beach adventures, though still alert enough to eagerly eye the food being set out.

“You all seem well,” Teyla remarked, stepping gracefully toward their group. Her sharp eyes swept over them, noting the slight exhaustion in their postures and the lingering amusement in John's expression. “Though Rodney appears… somewhat worse for wear.”

Rodney scowled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he adjusted his cuffs. “Sand,” he muttered darkly, as if the very word was a curse. “Everywhere.” He shot a glare at John, who was still smirking from earlier antics.

Teyla merely chuckled, wisely choosing not to inquire further.

The communal meal was warm and lively, with the babies taking center stage as various Athosians cooed over them. Teyla, seated beside John, smiled as she watched Eleanor happily gnaw on a soft piece of fruit.

By the time dinner was served, the long day at the beach had left everyone hungry. The scent of spiced grilled meats, roasted root vegetables, and warm flatbreads filled the air, making even Rodney momentarily forget his irritation. Plates were set down before them, each one filled with an array of colorful, fragrant dishes. But when a particular covered plate was placed in front of Rodney with an air of ceremony, the scientist’s eyes lit up in greedy anticipation.

He ripped off the cloth with eager hands, expecting something special—perhaps an extravagant dessert or a delicacy made just for him. But the moment his brain processed what he was actually looking at, his excitement turned into sheer horror.

“WHO DID THIS?! WHY?!” Rodney shrieked, pushing back from the table as if the plate itself were about to attack him.

John leaned over, peering at the dish. The creature from earlier—the horrifying, too-many-legged alien menace—had been cooked and plated with an artful arrangement of greens and roasted tubers. It was unmistakable, right down to its crisped, curled appendages. The once-ferocious pincers now lay harmlessly on the side of the dish like an unfortunate garnish.

One of the cooks, a middle-aged Athosain woman with dark eyes and a knowing smile, stepped forward and explained with a proud nod, “Your Setidan friend said you had an incident with the creature and needed justice by eating it.”

John had been trying to suppress his laughter, but at that, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He choked on his drink, turning it into a strangled cough as he bent forward, clutching his stomach. Beside him, Ronon merely smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Rodney’s glare was murderous. He looked between Ronon and John, his nostrils flaring as if trying to decide which one of them he would kill first.

John lost it. He full-on collapsed against Ronon, laughing so hard his ribs ached. He could barely breathe as he clutched at the Satedan’s shoulder for support.

Ronon, steady as ever, merely raised a brow and rumbled, “Don’t waste food, McKay.”

Rodney groaned in despair. “I hate you all.”

But the babies, delighting in their daddy’s dramatics, squealed with giggles—making Rodney’s suffering complete.

After dinner, as the stars began to twinkle in the sky, they bundled the sleepy babies into the Jumper. Teyla climbed in beside them, letting out a soft sigh as she settled in for the ride.

As John guided the ship smoothly into the air, the warmth of the day still lingering in his skin, he couldn’t help but think—yeah, this had been a damn good day.

--

John slipped quietly out of the babies’ room, carefully pulling the door closed behind him. They’d settled in without a fuss—not that he’d expected one. They were already half-asleep by the time they got off the Jumper, worn out from their adventures at the beach.

Now, with the little ones down for the night, he was looking forward to some uninterrupted adult conversation—and if he played his cards right, maybe some cuddles. He stretched, rolling his shoulders as he made his way toward the couch where Rodney and Ronon were already sprawled out, deep in what looked like a debate over something on Rodney’s tablet.

Just as he reached the couch, the door slid open with a soft hiss.

Serin strode into their shared apartment, her arms stacked with bags—several in each hand, with even more slung over her shoulders. She barely fit through the doorway, and as she stepped aside, a group of Marines and Athosians followed her in, all just as heavily laden with packages, crates, and bundles. Some of them were carrying so much that they could barely see over their loads.

John stopped in the middle of the room, blinking in surprise.

“Ummm... hi guys…” he greeted, looking between the newcomers and the rapidly growing mountain of goods.

Rodney and Ronon turned on the couch to see what the commotion was about. Both of them looked equally surprised—Rodney’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline.

“Oh, uh—good evening, sir,” one of the Marines, a sergeant, supplied awkwardly. He shifted his grip on the towering stack of boxes in his arms, clearly struggling.

John crossed his arms, eyeing the sheer volume of stuff now cluttering their living space. “What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing toward the bags and bundles.

Serin smiled, all innocence—except it wasn’t the guilty, forced innocence of someone caught doing something wrong. No, she was entirely sincere, like she didn’t think anything about this situation was the least bit unusual.

“I took some of the chocolate you’ve been paying me with and picked up a few things,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Rodney made an incredulous sound from the couch. “Some things?” He gestured wildly at the pile. “It looks like you bought out the entire market!”

Serin flushed slightly. “Well… I mean… it’s just that we’ve never had something so valuable to trade before, and at such quantity.” She fidgeted with the strap of one of the bags. “I might have treated it like it would disappear soon.”

“You should see what she left in the Jumper for the camp, sir,” the Marine added, adjusting his grip again as one of the boxes threatened to slip.

John raised an eyebrow at Serin.

Her blush deepened. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a good trade for fabrics, metals, and tools we can’t make ourselves,” she admitted. “So I thought I’d help my people.”

John let out a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. It made sense. The Athosians were a small, self-sufficient community, but they couldn’t produce everything they needed. Trade was essential, and the things they couldn’t make themselves tended to be expensive. It was the nature of small-scale production.

Ronon nodded approvingly. “Makes sense.”

“Yes, we greatly appreciate the new tent material,” said one of the younger Athosian men, stepping forward with a grateful nod. “Some of ours were getting too patched to be useful anymore. And the new shoe leather—very needed.”

John caught the way Serin immediately turned pink and looked away from the young man.

He and Ronon exchanged a knowing smirk.

Rodney, as usual, was completely oblivious.

“Wait, hold on.” Rodney straightened up, waving a hand in confusion. “Why did you need to trade for that stuff? What about the hides I saw all over your camp? Why is there specific leather for shoes? And if you guys needed more supplies, why didn’t you just ask us? Maybe instead of constantly patching up your tents, we should be upgrading you guys to houses?”

The Athosians exchanged uncertain glances, clearly taken aback by the rapid-fire string of questions. They’d seen Rodney plenty of times, but most had never actually spoken to him. And they certainly hadn’t experienced his particular brand of conversation style before.

Ronon, used to translating Rodney-isms, answered first. “The hides you saw in the camp are thinner—not good for shoes.”

“And we did offer them permanent houses,” John added, leveling a look at Rodney. “They declined. Don’t insult our friends.”

Rodney blinked, then frowned. “I wasn’t—” He cut himself off, scowling, before crossing his arms. “Fine. Whatever. But if they do decide they want houses, I’ll be over here not saying ‘I told you so.’”

John rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure.” Looking at the assembled people and pile of goods. “Alright, let’s get this sorted. Why don’t you guys put everything down here and let Serin deal with it in the morning?”

The Marines and Athosians nodded gratefully, setting their burdens down in a somewhat organized pile near the entryway. One by one, they filed out, but not before the young Athosian man stole one last glance at Serin. She waved shyly, still blushing.

Serin, clearly flustered, busied herself sorting through the bags, muttering about checking the inventory.

John chuckled to himself as he took a seat beside Ronon, watching the chaos unfold. Tonight was turning out to be more interesting than he’d expected.

After seeing Serin yawn for the third time in less than a minute, John took pity on her and convinced her to head to bed. Once she disappeared into her room, he turned his attention back to the pile of goods.

“Hey, Rodney,” John mused, rubbing his chin. “Think we could grow chocolate here?”

Rodney barely looked up from his laptop. “Mmm, probably. If you want it in the city, we already have greenhouses that would suit its needs. If you’re thinking the mainland, there are definitely tropical areas that could support cacao trees.”

Ronon studied the pile as well. “How long till a plant can produce? And how many do we need to make that bag of chocolate?”

That got Rodney’s full attention. He looked up, then between the two men, following their line of sight to the trade goods. Realization dawned. “Ohhh. You want us to grow our own trade supplies.”

John grinned. “Yep. It’d be a huge advantage for us.”

Rodney frowned. “Don’t we already trade medicine?”

John leaned back against the couch. “We do, but we can’t produce it ourselves. We’re reliant on Earth, and the people who need it most often don’t have much to trade. It’s not like we’re going to demand a year’s worth of grain from a struggling village in exchange for antibiotics. But chocolate? That’s a luxury. If we can grow it ourselves, we control the supply and the price. That means we could start trading for things we actually need—better shoes, more clothing, high-quality tools.”

Ronon smirked. “Might even be able to trade for more weapons.”

John’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Wait—you mean we could get more of your blasters?”

Ronon just gave him a knowing grin.

John turned to Rodney. “So, that’s a yes? We can grow it?”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Oh sure, the second there’s a promise of weapons, suddenly you’re all in.”

“Oh, please. I brought this up before that even came up,” John retorted. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t enjoy more fresh produce. You liked those mango-lemon things even YOU could eat.”

Rodney hesitated. “…Okay, yeah, those were tasty.” He sighed dramatically. “Fine. If you get me some trees, I’ll have my botany team start working on it.”

John grinned triumphantly. “I’ll talk to Elizabeth.”

With the matter settled, he sank into the couch, snuggling up to his mates close. Tonight had started with a simple plan for relaxation, but somehow, they’d ended up with a trade empire in the making. Not bad for a lazy evening.

Chapter Text

The alarm blared from the bedside table, a shrill, unforgiving sound that shattered the quiet of the room. Rodney let out a startled yelp, flailing under the covers like a man caught in a net.

“Gahhh! Why!?” he groaned, his voice muffled by the pillow he tried to shove over his head.

Snickering, John rolled over and slapped the alarm off with practiced ease. “Rise and shine, McKay.” His voice was far too smug for someone awake at this ungodly hour.

Rodney groaned again, flopping dramatically onto his back and squinting at John through sleep-heavy eyes. His hair was sticking up in even more chaotic tufts than usual, and the deep frown on his face spoke of pure, unfiltered suffering.

“Jeeeez,” he drawled, voice thick with sleep, “you and Ronon get up way too early. And for what? To run!” He waved a hand vaguely in the air, as if trying to gesture at the sheer insanity of the concept. “To frikkin’ run!” His voice pitched higher in disbelief. “Why would anyone in their right mind voluntarily get up before the sun, just to run?”

John chuckled, sitting up and stretching, the muscles in his back flexing as he worked out the stiffness from sleep. “Because it keeps us in shape?” he offered, knowing full well that logic had no place in this argument.

Rodney scoffed, curling in on himself like a disgruntled cat, the blanket cocooning him from the harsh realities of the world—or, more accurately, from whatever fresh torment John was about to suggest. “Right, because we definitely don’t get enough exercise running for our lives on a weekly basis,” he grumbled. His voice was muffled by the thick fabric, but the sarcasm still rang loud and clear.

He peeked out just enough to glare at John, his face twisted in exaggerated agony. “Honestly, it’s like you people enjoy suffering. ‘Oh, let’s go on a hike, Rodney! Let’s do combat drills, Rodney! Let’s wrestle Wraith to the ground, Rodney!’ Have you ever considered, I don’t know, not courting death at every available opportunity?”

John smirked, unfazed. He reached over and yanked the blanket down just enough to expose Rodney’s scowling face, grinning at the dramatic way he squinted in protest. “Maybe,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “Or maybe we just like being able to outrun trouble when it shows up.”

Rodney groaned, louder this time, flopping onto his back in a show of exaggerated suffering. He clutched at the edge of the blanket in defiance, making it clear he was not about to be bullied into any sort of physical exertion beyond rolling over. “I hate you,” he declared, voice thick with petulance.

John just smirked wider. “Nah,” he countered, leaning in, his breath warm against Rodney’s cheek. “You love me.”

Before Rodney could fire back a response, John closed the gap, capturing his lips in a slow, teasing kiss. The protest Rodney had been about to make melted into a muffled sound of surprise, quickly followed by something that sounded a lot less like indignation and a lot more like surrender.

Rodney gave up his fight for the blankets in favor of wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders, fingers tangling in the brunet’s hair. He pulled his Omega closer, deepening the kiss as his body instinctively relaxed beneath John’s weight.

John let himself sink into the warmth of his mate, his body molding effortlessly against Rodney’s as he settled atop him. The blanket, long forgotten, pooled around them in a heap, but neither of them seemed to care anymore.

Soon they were rocking into each other. Both had already been half hard from sleep. It didn't take either long to be fully erect and interested. The smell of Omega slick filled the room. John could feel his sleep pants getting stuck to himself.

Not liking the feeling of sticky clothes and needing to get going John shoved his hand down Rodney's sleep pants.

Rodney pulled back from the kiss to groan when his Omega's hand wrapped around his cock. Stroking the Alpha's cock a few times to make sure he was ready, John stopped just as quickly as he started. Not being very graceful about it he shimmy out of his sticky sleep pants. There was no being graceful about taking off sticky clothing let along pants in general.

The Omega didn't even bother with undressing his Alpha all the way. He just grabbed the waist band and tugged it down and over the Alpha's cock, giving him access.

Straddling the Alpha's hips, he lowered himself down till he could rut directly on the Alpha cock. Leaning over John captured Rodney's lips again. Both moaned and gasp has John rubbed himself over his Alpha, the head of the Scientists cock kept catching on the lips of his vagina causing sparks of pleasure.

When he felt like he was sliding over the cock without friction John reached down to steady the hard member. Positioning the Alpha he pushed the cock into himself. John never liked the slow tease of someone taking their time to enter. So he kept pushing till he was fully seated on Rodney.

Taking a moment to catch his breath he stared down at his Alpha. Rodney looked so good, on his back, holding onto John's hips. John could see that Rodney's brain was completely shut off, the only thought going through his head was John and what John was doing. No thoughts of ZPMS, how to get more power, how to stretch their power, no thoughts about their shields, just John and this moment.

Seeing Rodney's still moist lips, he bent over and claimed them again. He didn't nee to explore the Alpha's mouth he already knew it. But he liked to do it anyways. Rocking his hips with the Alpha now inside him, they both moaned into the kiss.

Sitting up fully, the Omega sped up his thrusts. Using all the tricks he knew to make this faster. Squeezing the Alpha and rotating his hips. He knew his plan was working, the Alpha knot started catching at his opening.

Sensing that one more thrust would lock them together, John reached between them and grabbed the base of the Alpha cock, gripping the knot. Squeezing his inner walls in time to his fist, with a groan Rodney blew his knot and came inside his Omega. Feeling the hot liquid fill him made John come with Alpha.

Hunched over John caught his breath again. He kept massaging the knot. Looking up he saw the still blissed out look on his Alpha's face. Smirking he waited till Rodney was finished. The Alpha was still filling him, but without the knot to hold his semen inside he felt it dripping out onto his hand.

Feeling no more semen enter him, he gave the Alpha knot a few more squeezes to make sure. Lifting off the Alpha he leaned forward and gave Rodney a peck on the lips.

Swinging off the Scientists he looked over to see the man studying him.

“So.. worth it to get up early?” John smirked.

“Oh you brat!” Rodney yelled. “You planned this?!”

Leaning over to kiss his Alpha again. “I'm not hearing a no?”

“Uhhhh, your gonna kill me.” Rodney flopped back into his pillows.

John laughed as he walked half naked to the bathroom, he could feel the Alpha come drip down his legs. He had 10 min to get ready for his run with Ronon. “I'll swing b y your lab for lunch.” He called over his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Gasping, John slowed to a stop, hands braced on his knees as he sucked in deep breaths. Sweat slicked his skin, but beneath the exhaustion, he felt something else—triumph. He had finally managed to complete his usual loop with Ronon in his pre-baby time. His muscles burned, his lungs ached, but damn if he didn’t feel great.

Beside him, Ronon stood tall, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, but not gasping the way John had been. It was infuriating, in a way, how easily Ronon handled these runs, but also comforting—this was how things used to be, before the babies were inserted into their lives, before sleepless nights, late-night feedings, and the general chaos of tiny humans had completely reshaped their lives.

John reached for the railing, leaning against it as his breathing evened out. He could feel Ronon’s steady presence beside him, not speaking, just watching. Waiting.

When John was no longer gasping, Ronon wordlessly handed him a water bottle.

John rolled his eyes but took it anyway. “You really don’t have to do this, you know,” he muttered, unscrewing the cap and taking a deep drink. The water was still cold—because of course it was.

Ronon just gave him a look, the kind that said You should know better by now.

John arched a brow, “Don't you have a run to finish? I don't see any sweat or hear any gasps, your slacking”

“Maybe this was just the warm up and I'm waiting to start the real workout.” Ronon rummbled, turning to crowd into John's space.

Amusement flickering in his sweat-dampened eyes as he capped the water bottle. “Oh yeah?” he drawled, tilting his head up slightly to meet Ronon’s gaze. “And what exactly would that be?”

Ronon’s smirk widened, the kind that sent a shiver down John’s spine no matter how many times he saw it. “You know exactly what I mean,” he rumbled, stepping in closer, his chest nearly brushing against John’s.

John didn’t back away. Instead, he rolled his shoulders and gave Ronon a once-over, pretending to consider it. “I dunno,” he mused, voice deliberately casual. “I mean, if you’re trying to make me work harder, I’m not sure you’re going about it the right way.”

Ronon huffed out a quiet laugh, reaching up to brush his fingers along John’s jaw, trailing down to his throat. “You sure about that?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, filled with a heat that sent John’s pulse skittering.

John swallowed, pretending that didn’t affect him as much as it did. He set the half-empty water bottle aside, bracing his hands on the railing behind him, feigning nonchalance. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Ronon leaned in, the space between them vanishing as he pressed his body against John’s. The heat of him, the solid strength, was intoxicating. Grasping the back of John's head Ronon pulled him closer, bending down to close the distance and claim John's lips. The Omega melted into the kiss, wrapping his arms around the large man as he claimed John's mouth.

Ronon wrapped his arms around his mate, then quickly before the Colonel could protest he picked him, turned around then pressed him to the wall opposite of the railing. When John's back hit the wall he grunted.

Pinning his mate to the wall Ronon attacked his neck. Letting his head fall back against the wall to give his mate better access. John just held on.

Ronon nibbled and sucked at the scent gland. Rutting up into his mate, he rubbed their clothed erections together.

“Hurry.” John whined. “I have to be on duty in a hour.” He knew Ronon would draw this out if he could, but this time he couldn't indulge his mate.

Ronon growled, he knew John was right, but didn't mean he had to like it. Knowing their predicament, he put the Omega down but directed him back to the railing he had just carried him from. John figured out quickly Ronon's plan.

Undoing the ties to his sweats, he tugged them down with his boxers. Leaning against the railing and spreading his legs as far as they could go while still wearing pants. This earned him a possessive growl. The sound sent a delighted shiver down his back.

The Setidan was soon covering his back, letting his whole body drape over the smaller man. Rutting up against John's pussy, he did this a few times earning whines from the Omega. Ronon didn't tease long, soon he felt he was slicked up enough he guided himself inside the Omega.

John was still stretched from his wakeup call from Rodney, so it was an easy glide in for Ronon. John did squeeze himself to give his mate some friction. Getting fully seated inside the Omega both men groaned.

Using one hand to hold onto John's hip, Ronon reached around to wrap his hand around John's. John was holding onto the railing for dear life, it was the only thing holding up. John had started to notice that Ronon seemed to like to hold his hand during sex somehow. He noticed it a few sessions ago. Secretly he found it endearing.

Ronon was quick to get going. Setting a quick pace he knew would finish them both soon. Unfortunately John was already noisy and this just made him more so. Using the hand not being held by Ronon he covered his mouth.

Ronon had stopped sucking at John's scent glad, he knew it made John very loud and even though most people didn't go in this area, there was still people who did use these cat walks. But he still nuzzled it.

Still holding onto the Omega's hand, Ronon used the one on his hip to reach around and grip the Omega cock. Stroking and squeezing it in time to his thrusts.

Soon John was coming over the railing. While he climaxed his inner walls spasmed around the Setidan's cock making him join his mate, climaxing inside the Omega.

Both men leaned against the railing, Ronon looked like he was trying to wrap his whole body around his mate. It was quick and dirty but neither would complain.

John tried to stand up right so he pushed back into Ronon. “Come on buddy, need to go get cleaned up.”

Giving one more kiss to John's scent gland, Ronon stood up and away from his mate. John quickly snapped up his pants and underwear, hoping that the cloth would prevent Ronon's semen from leaking down his legs on his walk back to their quarters.

Turning around he saw Ronon had tucked himself away. With a smile, he leaned up and gave the bigger man a peck on the lips. Then started heading back to get cleaned for duty.

Chapter Text

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard swaggered into the science labs like he owned the place—which, technically, he didn’t, but he liked to act as if he did. “Hey, Rodney, you ready for lunch?”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me finish this weld,” Rodney muttered, barely acknowledging him. He didn’t even wave a hand in John’s direction, his full attention locked onto the ancient device he had meticulously torn apart. The thing was spread out across his workstation like a dissected frog, its delicate circuitry exposed, Earth wires clumsily spliced into the sleek Ancient components. The entire setup looked like it shouldn’t work, but knowing Rodney, it probably would.

John sauntered deeper into the lab, weaving around cluttered tables and half-dismantled Ancient tech. The room was packed with devices of all shapes and sizes—some half-buried under stacks of notes, others carefully arranged on shelves, waiting for their turn under Rodney’s scalpel.

He barely spared them a glance. His curiosity zeroed in on whatever new bit of weirdness Rodney had his hands on.

That was when it happened.

As soon as John stepped directly in front of one of the seemingly inactive devices, it powered on with a quiet whirr and a pulse of golden light.

John froze.

The beam of light shot out so fast he barely had time to think, let alone react. It expanded instantly, widening until it engulfed him from head to toe in a shimmering glow. Then, just as suddenly, it contracted, narrowing in width like a spotlight, sweeping up and down his body in slow, deliberate motions.

It reminded John of a scanner.

Then the beam stopped—right at his midsection.

The light tightened into a precise, narrow laser, lingering on his stomach for a long, unsettling moment. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the entire device powered down.

Like nothing had happened.

The lab was dead silent.

John stood frozen in place, his heart hammering in his chest. For some reason—some inexplicable reason—his military instincts had completely failed him. He hadn’t dodged. He hadn’t drawn his weapon. He hadn’t even moved. He’d just stood there, like a damn deer in headlights, while some unknown piece of Ancient technology did… something to him.

And that never boded well.

His body finally caught up to his brain, and he jumped backward, putting as much distance between himself and the device as possible.

“THE HELL WAS THAT!?”

Rodney’s head snapped up at the sound of the machine powering up, eyes widening as he took in John’s alarmed expression. Then his gaze darted to the now-dormant device and narrowed in instant suspicion.

“Radek!” Rodney barked, already moving toward John with a mix of concern and irritation. “I thought you said that thing had no power?”

Radek, who had been buried in his own work at the far end of the lab. “It didn’t! I checked it myself—”

“Yeah, well, it does now!” John snapped, still shaken.

Rodney was already scanning him up and down, his own unease creeping in. Usually, when Ancient devices started firing off unexpected beams of light, it meant bad things for John. Very bad things.

And this time? John had a really bad feeling.

“There is no power here.” Radek frowned at his scanner, standing off to the side of the Ancient device. The readings didn’t make sense.

“What? There has to be power! Where did the light come from?” Rodney snapped, barely sparing Radek a glance as he stepped forward to inspect the device himself. He had completely forgotten about John in his rush to investigate.

John, however, hadn’t moved. A sharp cramp twisted deep in his stomach, making him grimace. He pressed a hand against the most intense point of pain, his fingers digging in as if he could physically hold back whatever was happening inside him. But the pain was getting worse. Fast.

He tried to steady his breathing, but another wave hit, sharp and relentless. He sucked in a gasp and reached behind him, gripping the nearest shelf for support. His knees buckled slightly as his body protested against him.

Then the pain exploded.

A strangled cry ripped from his throat as he doubled over, clutching his midsection. His vision blurred with the intensity, and he barely managed to stay upright by sheer force of will and the shelf he clung to.

“John!”

“Colonel!”

Both Radek and Rodney spun at the sound, their expressions shifting from irritation to alarm as they took in John’s state.

Rodney was at his side in an instant. “John—what the hell—?” He grabbed at John's arm, trying to support him, but John was already on the verge of collapse. His whole body trembled, and he was moaning through gritted teeth, sharp little whimpers punctuating the sound.

Radek was already on his radio. “Medical emergency to McKay’s lab!”

Rodney’s grip tightened as John sagged against him. “John, John! Talk to me! What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

John couldn’t answer. He was beyond words, beyond rational thought—there was only pain, searing and absolute.

Radek was still speaking urgently into the radio. “I am not sure—an Ancient device activated, it scanned the Colonel, and now he is in extreme pain—”

A scream tore from John’s throat, raw and agonized. The sound sent ice through Rodney’s veins.

It was the kind of scream that made his stomach churn. He hadn’t heard anything like it since that goddamned Iratus bug had latched onto John’s neck. Rodney had seen John go through a lot—gunshot wounds, Wraith attacks, injuries that would leave most men crying for their mothers. But John never screamed.

Not like this.

Panic clawed at Rodney as he struggled to lower John to the ground. John was curling in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen, his whole body convulsing.

Rodney’s hands slid under John’s arms, trying to ease him down, but—

Something was wrong.

He hesitated, startled by the unexpected resistance. There was more mass than there should have been. His fingers pressed against something firm and unfamiliar beneath John’s shirt.

What the—?

His breath hitched as his eyes darted down. The fabric of John’s shirt was straining, stretching, the hem inching upward as a distinct bulge pushed outward from beneath it.

A sick feeling coiled in Rodney’s gut.

It wasn’t just a bulge. It was growing.

“Oh, hell—” His voice cracked as his hands hovered, unsure where to touch, what to do. “Radek—tell me you’re seeing this.”

Radek’s face had gone pale. “Ano…” His voice was barely above a whisper. His fingers twitched around his scanner, but he wasn’t even looking at it anymore.

The mass continued expanding, forcing the fabric higher until bare skin peeked out from beneath the hem. And the shape—

It wasn’t just a random swelling. It was round. Distinct.

Rodney’s stomach lurched.

It looked like a pregnant belly.

John’s screams abruptly cut off.

The silence was deafening.

Rodney barely had time to register it before John slumped bonelessly in his arms. His head lolled to the side, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Rodney’s pulse roared in his ears. “John?” His voice was thin, desperate. He shook him slightly, but there was no response.

Then—

A sharp burst of Czech filled the room. Radek was swearing, a string of words tumbling from his lips in rapid-fire succession. Nobody understood what he was saying, but the sheer force of it made the meaning clear.

Rodney swallowed hard. His throat was dry. “Yeah. I think you said it.” His voice wavered, barely more than a whisper.

His eyes flicked down to John’s abdomen. The growth had slowed, but it hadn’t stopped.

He had no way of knowing how much bigger it would get.

He wasn’t measuring.

He was just—watching.

Frozen.

The only sounds in the lab were their own panicked breaths and the low, constant hum of the Ancient machinery around them.

Then—

The doors hissed open.

Chaos exploded into the room.

A medical team rushed in, a gurney rolling behind them.

Carson Becket barely had to take in the scene before he was barking orders. “What happened, man?” His gaze snapped to Rodney, demanding an answer.

Rodney could barely find his voice. His mouth opened, but the only thing that came out was a choked, “I—I don’t—”

Carson’s eyes flicked to John’s unconscious form, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. The last time he’d seen Sheppard, the man had been his usual lean self—perhaps a bit pale from stress and overwork, but nothing like this. Now, John's abdomen was unmistakably distended, stretching his black t-shirt taut. The sight sent a cold wave of disbelief through Carson’s chest.

"Sweet Mary and Joseph!" he blurted, his voice a mix of shock and horror.

He forced himself to snap back into doctor mode. Whatever had happened, John was still his patient, and panicking wouldn't do anyone any good. Kneeling beside him, Carson reached out, pressing gentle but firm fingers against the swollen abdomen. The surface was taut, the kind of tightness he recognized from experience.

His breath hitched when something shifted beneath his palm. A kick.

No. No, that couldn't be right.

Steeling himself, he pulled out his stethoscope, sliding the diaphragm over the tight skin. The moment he caught the faint but unmistakable rhythm of a fetal heartbeat, his stomach plummeted.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

Rodney, who had been anxiously hovering beside him, clenched his fists. "What? What is it? Why do you look like someone just told you Zelenka is secretly a Goa'uld?"

Carson ignored him for a moment, swallowing hard as he listened again, shifting the stethoscope slightly. Not one, but two distinct heartbeats.

No. This was impossible.

But Atlantis had never cared about what was possible.

Carson took a steadying breath. "Alright, we need to get Colonel Sheppard to the infirmary, now." He forced himself to sound calm, but even he could hear the tightness in his voice. "I need him under the scanner immediately."

His medical team had already snapped into action, their faces impassive in a way that told Carson they were keeping their reactions tightly controlled. They'd seen a lot of strange things on Atlantis, but this was pushing the limits even for them.

Rodney stumbled back to make room, his face pale. "What the hell is going on?" His voice cracked slightly. "Carson, you—you're acting like—like—"

Carson didn't answer, instead directing the medics as they carefully lifted John onto the gurney. The Colonel remained limp, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.

One of the orderlies—Air Force, judging by his crisp movements—adjusted the incline of the gurney so that John was half-reclined. In a subtle, practiced motion, he tucked a medical bag strategically over John's midsection before draping a blanket over him, concealing the unnatural swell of his abdomen.

Carson gave the man a sharp nod of approval. Good thinking. The last thing they needed was the rumor mill running rampant.

Rodney seemed to snap out of his stunned silence, scrambling to follow as they wheeled John out of the lab. "You—you're not saying what I think you're saying, right?" His voice was nearly a squeak. "Because this is insane. This is—this is—"

"Rodney." Carson shot him a look, voice firm. "Not now."

Rodney swallowed whatever argument he'd been about to make.

They pushed through the corridors at a brisk pace, the rhythmic squeak of the gurney’s wheels against the floor the only sound for a long moment. John remained unconscious, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around him.

Carson exhaled, already dreading what the scanner was about to confirm. His gut told him this would be bad, but seeing it in front of him, was another thing entirely.

The image on the screen left no room for doubt. The device—the one that had "scanned" John—hadn’t just done something to him. It had made him pregnant. And not just barely pregnant. No, this was near full term.

Carson rubbed a hand down his face. "Bloody hell."

"Is that... that's... that's a baby?" Rodney’s voice cracked as he stared at the image projected from the Ancient scanner. His fingers were wrapped around John's limp hand, gripping it like an anchor. John still hadn't regained consciousness, and that fact alone made Rodney's stomach twist.

Carson sighed, shifting into his clinical tone, though the weight of what he was saying still sat heavy in his chest. "Aye, looks like it. But more accurately, it looks like twins."

"TWINS?!" Rodney’s voice shot up an octave, his panic echoing through the infirmary.

"Shhh! Keep it down, man!" Carson hissed, glaring at him. "Don’t disturb my other patients, or I swear I’ll throw you out!"

Rodney snapped his mouth shut but was still visibly vibrating in place, his eyes darting wildly between the scanner and John’s swollen abdomen, barely concealed beneath the medical blanket. He gestured wildly at the screen. "But—how? Okay, I mean, I know how babies are made, I have a PhD for crying out loud, but how is this—" he waved at John’s belly, "—this far along?! This isn't how biology works!"

Carson turned back to the scans, his frown deepening. "I don’t know, Rodney. It’s your lab, your device you found." He ran a hand over his face again before refocusing on the readings, meticulously checking every detail. The Ancient technology wasn’t just confirming a pregnancy—it was showing near-full-term fetal development. Everything about it looked normal, despite how utterly impossible it was.

Rodney swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around John’s hand. His voice was quieter this time, almost hesitant. "Is he… is he okay? Are they okay?"

Carson barely glanced up from his scans, his mind still racing through possibilities. "From what I can see, he and the babies are stable. Everything looks like it should after nine months of pregnancy. But it hasn’t been nine months, has it?" His voice was edged with frustration, mostly at the sheer impossibility of it all. "So, I can’t say anything for certain until I run more tests."

Rodney just swallowed, nodding absently as he turned his gaze back to John. He looked so small like this—so fragile—which was ridiculous because John Sheppard was the least fragile person Rodney knew. But hearing John scream like that, seeing him collapse so violently in the lab, had rattled Rodney in a way he couldn't even admit to himself.

And knowing, even remotely, that he was partly responsible for John's pain made his stomach churn.

The infirmary was packed. The few beds they had were already occupied, the low hum of medical monitors and the occasional murmur of voices creating a background buzz that made it clear—privacy was a luxury they didn’t have right now.

Thankfully, the orderlies had been quick, pulling mobile partitions around John’s bed to at least offer some level of seclusion. But it wasn’t enough.

The curtain shifted as Nurse Sharon stepped in, carrying a tray of additional supplies Carson had requested. Her movements were efficient, but her eyes flickered toward John's belly, widening slightly before she schooled her expression into neutrality.

Carson noticed.

"Ah, lass, I need a room for the Colonel," he said, still focused on the scans but his tone firm.

Sharon hesitated, shifting her weight. "There are currently none open, Doctor. I can see if I can rearrange anyone, but it’ll take time." She carefully set the instruments on the nearby tray, lining them up with practiced ease.

"Blast, that’s right," Carson muttered, rubbing at his temple. He knew they were stretched thin, but John couldn’t stay out here in the open. Not with the nature of his condition. Not with the rumors that would spread the second someone got a glimpse of what was under that blanket.

Carson sighed. "Do what you can, love." He spared Nurse Sharon a small, weary smile, though his mind was still racing. He needed time to think—to process how the hell this had happened—but time was a luxury he didn’t have. Not with John lying unconscious, not with the Ancient scanner confirming the impossible.

Rodney shifted restlessly beside the bed, his fingers still wrapped around John's hand. His expression flickered between deep concern and the kind of frantic thinking that usually preceded some sort of rant. Instead, he latched onto a different concern.

"Why are you full up?" he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

Sharon gave him a patient, if mildly exasperated, look as she continued organizing Carson's supplies.

"AR-3 got caught in a rockslide," Carson answered before she could. He didn’t look up from his scans, but his tone was clipped, strained. "They're all pretty banged up, nothing life-threatening, but enough broken bones to keep us busy. Then AR-5 brought back some kind of pox—we’ve got them in quarantine." He shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Poor sods look miserable. Someone else had a new food allergy, near went into anaphylactic shock in the mess hall. A couple of the fresh recruits didn't handle the training course too well—heat exhaustion, sprained ankles, usual nonsense." He exhaled through his nose. "And then there’s the standard everyday injuries and illnesses. You know how it is. The infirmary was never built to handle high-volume cases, and when we get multiple incidents at once, we fill up fast."

Rodney blinked, absorbing that. "...Oh."

For a second, his brain stalled. Then something clicked, and his stomach twisted.

"I remember John saying something about having a chunk of his military out of action," Rodney murmured. "He was struggling to staff everything, saying he’d have to take longer shifts to help cover gaps." His throat felt tight. "God, how many of his people are in here?"

Carson finally glanced at him, his eyes dark with exhaustion. "Quite a few."

That landed like a punch. Rodney looked down at John’s hand in his own, suddenly feeling too aware of how cold John’s fingers were against his own. He tightened his grip slightly, thumb brushing absently over the knuckles.

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

Carson continued his relentless scanning, checking, rechecking, probing, testing everything he could. It was his way of coping—of grounding himself in medicine when everything else felt like a fever dream.

Rodney, on the other hand, wasn’t coping so well. He just held John's hand, rubbing small circles into the back of it, before moving without thinking and carding his fingers gently through John’s hair. He really did love John’s hair, though he’d never actually admitted that out loud. It was stupid, really—how fond he was of the way it stuck up at odd angles, how soft it felt despite the perpetual mess. He found himself smoothing it down automatically.

Then—movement.

Both men immediately snapped to attention as John twitched.

Rodney held his breath.

John's eyes were moving behind his eyelids, flickering, his fingers twitching slightly against Rodney’s.

Rodney squeezed his hand in response, and to his overwhelming relief, he felt the barest ghost of a squeeze back.

"John—?"

A low groan escaped John's lips as his eyes fluttered, squeezing shut tightly before finally dragging open. His pupils were sluggish to focus, his breathing unsteady.

Rodney’s stomach clenched at how wrecked he looked.

Regaining consciousness was not easy. It was not painless.

The first thing John became aware of was pain. Deep, consuming, everywhere. A dull, aching throb settled over his entire body, but the sharpest, most gut-wrenching pain radiated from his abdomen.

His first sluggish thought was appendicitis. Hadn’t Lorne had that last month? Maybe he caught something? But no—his appendix had been removed years ago. That wasn’t it.

He groaned again, wincing. Everything hurt.

Then the voices filtered in.

Familiar. Concerned.

Rodney.

Carson.

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the dim glow of the infirmary lights.

Rodney was staring at him like he was afraid he might disappear if he blinked. His fingers were still wrapped around John's hand, warm and solid.

John’s sluggish brain tried to piece together what had happened. His memory was a blur—something about the lab, the scanner, pain—but nothing concrete.

Then he felt it.

A flutter.

A deep, internal shift, alive inside him.

His breath hitched. A kick.

The realization hit his body before it reached his mind, and he instinctively tried to curl inward, muscles tensing—

But he couldn’t.

His movement stopped short, his arms pressing against something solid, something that should not be there.

His stomach was huge.

A thick, panicked sound caught in his throat.

“Ehhhhh...” His voice was rough, groggy, his mouth dry. He swallowed hard, dazed fingers reaching for the unmistakable swell of his abdomen.

It was real.

"Is that—" His voice cracked, panic rising. "Am I—?"

Rodney looked sick. "John—"

Carson, ever the doctor, met his gaze levelly. "If you're asking if that's a bairn in there—yes." His voice was steady, but his eyes were soft. "You are pregnant. I’d say about full term."

John’s brain short-circuited.

He stared at Carson, heart hammering, his breath coming faster. "Wha—how?!" His voice was hoarse, alarmed.

And for once, Rodney had no answer. He stammered, eyes darting between John’s pale face and the grotesquely swollen curve of his stomach. “I—I don’t know… that thing beamed some light at you and then—bam—pregnant.”

“Oh yes, bam. Very eloquent, Rodney,” Carson snapped, rubbing his temple in frustration.

John barely heard their exchange. His mind reeled, his pulse pounded in his ears. Every nerve in his body was screaming, but nothing compared to the leaden weight pressing against his abdomen. Instinctively, he tried to shift, pushing himself up slightly on his elbows. A fresh wave of pain crashed over him, white-hot and unrelenting. He let out a strangled groan, muscles tensing in resistance.

Both Carson and Rodney reacted instantly, moving to support him before he could collapse back. They helped him into a slightly more upright position, but it didn’t make things better—it just didn’t make them worse. Rodney’s grip on John’s hand had slipped in the process, leaving John gripping the infirmary bedding in a white-knuckled vise. His breathing was shallow, each inhale shaky, punctuated by clenched-teeth groans.

Carson’s frown deepened as he watched the monitor at John’s bedside. His patient’s heart rate had spiked, blood pressure creeping dangerously high. This was not good.

The moment Sharron returned, she held up a tablet with the initial blood test results. “Dr. Beckett, I have—”

“Aye, love, set those down for now. Bring me 10 MG of morphine?” Carson asked

Sharron nodded and hurried off. “I’ve started looking for a better space for him,” she added over her shoulder. “Best I can do is a corner with some more privacy, but we’re packed.”

John barely reacted. His head tilted back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, his face an agonized mask. Every muscle in his body seemed locked, rigid. His fists twisted into the sheets as if anchoring himself. His breaths came in short pants, broken by low, involuntary groans.

Rodney swallowed hard. He hated feeling this helpless. Instead, he did the only thing he could do—he reached out and ran his fingers through John’s sweat-damp hair, a steady, rhythmic motion. “Hey, buddy… I got you,” he murmured. John didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. Rodney took that as a small victory.

Then, suddenly, the infirmary curtains were thrown open.

Ronon stood in the entryway like a man ready to tear someone apart. His wild dreadlocks framed his storm-dark expression, his massive shoulders squared like he expected a fight. His sharp gaze swept the room before landing on John—and for the first time either Rodney or Carson had ever seen, Ronon’s face registered pure, unguarded shock.

“The hell?!” Ronon barked. He stalked forward, letting the curtain drop closed behind him.

No one answered him.

Ronon’s gaze locked onto John’s stomach. His jaw tensed, his nostrils flared. “The hell happened?” he demanded, voice rougher now. “Last I checked, John wasn’t pregnant—now this?” He jabbed a finger toward John’s belly.

Everyone remained silent, assuming it was rhetorical. John, for his part, wasn’t acknowledging anything. His face had settled into a tight grimace, his hands still clutching the sheets.

Ronon’s gaze snapped to Rodney. “You do this?” he growled.

“ME?!” Rodney’s voice jumped an octave. His hands flailed in indignation. “Why is this suddenly my fault?! I didn’t do anything!”

Ronon’s expression darkened. The way he shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders, made it painfully clear that if he did think Rodney was responsible, things would get very unpleasant, very fast.

Carson intervened quickly. “From what we can tell, this wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he said firmly. “Well… maybe whoever invented that bloody machine.”

Ronon’s eyes narrowed. “Machine?”

Rodney was still half-hyperventilating but managed to stumble into an explanation. “There was—is—a device. We found it in one of the unexplored sections of the newest tower. I took it back to my lab, started cataloging it. John—he walked by it. Didn’t even touch it! And then—” Rodney waved both hands toward John in exasperation.

Ronon grunted, his sharp gaze flicking back to John, who still wasn’t speaking, still wasn’t engaging. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t like this—didn’t like how still John was, how he barely seemed present. Sheppard should be cracking jokes, making sarcastic remarks, something. But he was just lying there, tense, silent, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but in his own skin.

Before Ronon could press the issue, Sharron returned, carrying a kidney dish with a prepped syringe of pain medication. “Doctor.” She handed it over smoothly.

Carson accepted it with a nod, already moving to prepare the injection site. He pushed up John’s sleeve, revealing a forearm tight with strain, the muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. Dabbing an alcohol swab over John’s bicep, he noticed the minute flinch—whether from the cold or from sheer exhaustion, he wasn’t sure. But it was enough to pull John back to the moment.

“I thought pain meds were bad for fetal development,” John gritted out, his voice rough and strained.

“Usually, aye,” Carson admitted, carefully administering the injection. “But given the amount of pain you’re in—and the fact your heart rate and blood pressure are damn near critical—I’d say the risk is worth it.”

John didn’t argue, but his fingers clenched around the sheets again as he endured the brief sting of the needle. Carson disposed of the syringe in the nearby biohazard bin and settled in to watch. It didn’t take long for the medication to take effect.

John felt the pain ebb away in slow, rolling waves, receding like the tide. His shoulders, which had been locked in a permanent hunch, finally eased down. His hands loosened their death grip on the sheets. The tension in his jaw slackened, and he let out a slow breath as he sank deeper into the infirmary bed. The pain wasn’t gone—his abdomen still ached with a persistent throb—but at least now he could think.

Carson kept a close eye on the Ancient scanner monitoring John’s vitals. He watched as the Colonel’s heart rate steadily decreased, slipping back into a safer rhythm. His blood pressure followed suit, lowering by the minute. Just to be sure, he took John’s wrist, counting the pulse manually. Steady. Strong. Better.

Satisfied, Carson finally sat back, hands folded in his lap as he observed his patient. There wasn’t much else he could do for John at the moment. He’d run every test, performed every scan, but there were no immediate medical anomalies beyond the obvious—that John was somehow pregnant and apparently near full term without experiencing any of the preceding months.

So, Carson did what every good doctor was taught to do from day one: he observed.

The silence in the infirmary was thick. Even Rodney, who was usually incapable of keeping his mouth shut for more than five seconds, remained quiet. That alone was unsettling. He stood at John’s left, absently threading his fingers through the pilot’s sweat-damp hair in slow, repetitive motions. The touch seemed to anchor them both.

Ronon remained on the left as well, his large hands kneading at John’s ankle and calf through the fabric of his pants—a quiet, grounding presence. Carson had taken up the right side, the de facto medical guardian.

It was only when John’s breathing had fully evened out that Sharron reappeared, moving with her usual quiet efficiency. She held a glass in one hand, the liquid inside catching the infirmary lights with a golden sheen.

“Colonel?” she called softly.

John cracked his eyes open and lifted his head slightly, a questioning look in his still-fatigued gaze. Sharron extended the glass toward him.

“It’s juice,” she explained. “Your blood sugar was low.”

John regarded it for a beat, then reached out, fingers curling around the cool surface. He took it carefully. “Well, considering I’m currently missing lunch…” he joked, voice still rough but carrying a weak smirk.

The tension in the room lightened just a fraction. A few chuckles rippled through the group, albeit quiet ones.

No one commented when Rodney subtly shifted back a step, moving more behind John than beside him—putting a safe distance between himself and the orange juice. But he didn’t stop petting John’s hair, his fingers never still. At this point, it was hard to say whether he was offering comfort or seeking it for himself.

John sipped at the juice, finding its cool, citrusy tang oddly soothing despite everything. He knew he had been hungry before rushing off to get Rodney, but now the hunger had been buried under exhaustion, pain, and the sheer insanity of the situation. The drugs were working; the sharp, blinding agony had dulled into something more manageable, though it left him feeling oddly restless. And he hated the attention.

He glanced up at the gathered team, taking in their worried expressions, their expectant silence. He huffed out a breath, breaking the awkward quiet. “So… now what?”

The group looked between each other, startled by the question, clearly hoping someone else would have an answer.

“Well, uhh…” Carson finally spoke, rubbing the back of his neck. “First, we need to make sure yer pain is under control. That’s step one. Beyond that…” He sighed, glancing at the Ancient scanner’s readout. “We need to figure out when these bairns need to come out.”

John nodded slowly, half-expecting that vague answer. No one had a clue—not him, not Carson, not anyone. He took another sip of juice, letting the moment sit.

Then, without warning, a wave of pain slammed into him. His body seized, his breath hitched, and the juice he had just swallowed caught in his throat. He coughed, nearly choking as the cup slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor. A strangled cry tore from his lips as his hand shot to his stomach, fingers digging into the taut skin.

“JOHN!” Rodney’s panicked voice was right beside him, his hand still tangled in John’s hair. “Oh God, what’s wrong?”

Ronon’s grip tightened on John’s leg, steadying him. “Sheppard?”

Carson was already on his feet, rubbing soothing circles on John’s back. “That’s it, lad, just breathe for me. Can ye tell me—was that pain different from earlier?” His experienced hands pressed lightly against John’s belly, feeling for anything unusual.

John panted through the pain, his vision blurred. “It… it uhh… felt like… felt like a contraction…”

His words had barely left his lips when another wave struck. His body arched, a strangled cry escaping before he could stop it. The intensity was worse—sharper, deeper—like something was physically shifting inside him. The contraction gripped him so fiercely that his fingers spasmed, his muscles locking up.

The entire room stilled. The reality of the situation crashed over them like a tidal wave.

Carson didn’t hesitate. His hands pressed against John’s belly again, feeling the unmistakable tightening. “Right, lad, I need to check ye. It seems these bairns are comin’ now.”

John barely registered Carson moving, but suddenly, his boots were being pulled off, his belts unfastened, his pants loosened. He was distantly aware of Carson’s clinical efficiency, the practiced way he maneuvered to examine him.

It didn’t take long.

Carson’s breath hitched slightly, his hands freezing for a split second before he shot a sharp look up at John. “Right, lad—ye’re fully dilated. I can see a head.” His voice dropped into urgent, no-nonsense doctor mode. “These bairns are comin’ right here, right now.”

Rodney made a strangled noise.

“SHARRON!” Carson bellowed toward the infirmary. “Ronon, Rodney, help me get John to the end of the bed.”

John barely heard the rush of footsteps over the blood pounding in his ears.

“WHAT?!” Rodney’s voice cracked, his eyes wild. “No, no, no, people don’t just get pregnant and give birth in less than two hours! That’s not how this works! DO SOMETHING! STOP IT!”

Ronon ignored him completely, moving into Carson’s vacated space. Without hesitation, he hooked his arms under John’s and lifted, practically dragging him toward the edge of the bed. The movement made John groan in pain, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against Ronon’s forearm.

“Will you help, or are you gonna keep yapping like a fish?” Ronon snapped at Rodney.

Rodney flailed uselessly. “But—but—”

“It’s happening whether ye like it or not,” Carson cut in sharply. “Now either help or get the hell out.”

That got Rodney moving.

Between the two of them, they maneuvered John into position, shifting him forward until he was propped against them, his lower body angled at the edge of the bed.

Carson gave a quick nod, assessing the setup. “Right, lads. This bed wasn’t made for this—we don’t have stirrups, so I need ye both to hold him steady.” He directed them with crisp efficiency. “One hand under each knee, keep his legs up an’ supported. Use your other arm to hold his shoulders. He needs support to push.”

Ronon immediately followed instructions, shifting his grip, his strong arms steadying John’s leg and bracing his upper body. Rodney hesitated, looking utterly overwhelmed, but the sheer intensity of the moment forced him into action. He mimicked Ronon’s position, his grip trembling slightly as he wrapped an arm around John’s back.

John barely noticed. His entire body felt like it was being torn apart from the inside. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked as another contraction hit.

Carson was right.

The babies were coming now.

Chapter Text

Dr. Elizabeth Weir stood in the middle of Atlantis’ infirmary, her sharp gaze fixed on a section that was curtained off from the rest of the medical bay. Though she had been informed of how full the infirmary was, actually seeing every single bed occupied still managed to shock her. The sheer number of injured personnel only reinforced just how dangerous their missions was.

She could hear voices from behind the curtain—familiar ones. The unmistakable cadence of Rodney McKay’s voice carried, though she couldn’t make out the words. There was movement, shadows shifting behind the fabric, suggesting a flurry of activity.

“Ma’am.”

Elizabeth turned at the sound of the voice and saw Major Evan Lorne approaching her. His expression was tight, his posture tense but controlled, ever the soldier.

“Major,” she greeted him. “What brings you here?”

“I heard Colonel Sheppard had a bad reaction to an Ancient device. I wanted to see how bad it was.” Lorne’s gaze flickered toward the curtained-off area. “I assume you’re here for the same reason?”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yes... the same reason.”

Her attention was drawn back to the curtain as more movement occurred behind it, punctuated by the beeping of monitors and hurried footsteps.

“Do you have any idea what happened?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

“No, ma’am. From what I heard, the Colonel went to McKay’s lab for lunch, and somehow, he came in contact with a device. Zelenka claims the Colonel never even touched the machine—just walked past it. But everyone in or near the lab said they heard him scream.” Lorne’s voice was grave.

Hearing about John screaming made Elizabeth’s lips press into a thin line. He was not someone who displayed pain openly; for him to have cried out like that, something must have been terribly wrong.

Nearby, Head Nurse Sharron moved with brisk efficiency, bouncing from one patient to the next. If she weren’t so competent, she would have looked like a frantic mess. As soon as she finished tending to a marine, she made her way over to them.

“Doctor, Major,” she acknowledged. “I assume you’re here for an update on the Colonel?”

At their nods, she continued in a clipped tone, betraying just how overwhelmed she was. “There isn’t much I can tell you at the moment. Dr. Beckett is still running tests. I’ll have him update you as soon as he becomes available.”

“Things are really that bad?” Weir asked, but before Sharron could answer, a sudden cry came from behind the curtain.

It was a sharp, agonized sound that silenced the room.

The shadows behind the fabric became more frantic, people moving quickly.

Then another cry—louder, rawer. This time, the entire infirmary seemed to hold its breath.

“SHARRON!” Dr. Beckett’s voice bellowed from behind the curtain.

The head nurse reacted instantly. She darted to a cart against the wall and grabbed a crate filled with medical supplies, though its exact contents were unclear. Without missing a beat, she sprinted toward the curtained-off area. An orderly joined her, and another doctor came rushing in from down the hall.

Those left in the main area of the infirmary exchanged wide-eyed glances, their concern unspoken but palpable.

Lorne turned to a nearby bed, where a young lieutenant lay bandaged. “Lieutenant, did you see anything when the Colonel was brought in?”

The marine shook his head. “No, sir. When they brought him in, they had him covered. And the way they were walking with the gurney... they were clearly trying to hide something.”

Lorne and Weir shared a look. That did not sound good at all.

Another agonized cry tore through the infirmary, quickly escalating into a full-blown scream. It was raw and unrelenting, causing even the injured personnel to react. A tension settled over the room, thick with unspoken alarm.

John rarely showed pain, even under extreme circumstances. The last time anyone had heard him scream like that had been when the Iratus bug latched onto his neck.

The scream was punctuated by choked sobs, sending an eerie shiver down the spines of everyone present.

Then the air changed.

A wave of Alpha pheromones flooded the room, a protective instinct triggered by whatever was happening behind that curtain. Some of the injured and sick even started low, involuntary Alpha rumbles in response. The tension was now nearly unbearable.

The screams didn’t stop.

The agony in them made every Alpha in the room fight the urge to storm in and fix whatever was causing the pain. There was an Omega in pain, they needed to do something. It didn't help that for most of the Alpha's in Atlantis they viewed their Colonel as THEIR Omega. They didn't care he was their superior or the fact he was practically mated to 2 others.

Then, just as suddenly as they had started, the screams stopped.

For a brief moment, silence reigned.

Then a new sound broke through.

A baby’s cry.

The sound was so unexpected that several people in the infirmary had to visibly pick their jaws up off the floor.

Elizabeth’s eyes snapped to Lorne. “Major, where are John’s kids?”

Lorne blinked, thrown by the question. “Umm... I saw Ronon hand them over to Serin in the mess before he ran off.”

Nobody could look away from the curtain. It was as if, by sheer willpower alone, they could gain X-ray vision and see what was happening inside.

The baby’s cries continued, their pitch shifting as though being soothed.

Another scream came from behind the curtain, unmistakably an Omega in pain. The sound sent an instinctive shudder through the room, Alpha instincts rebelling at the idea of suffering left unchecked.

Everyone wanted to do something—to help, to act.

But deep down, they knew that the only ones who could do anything were already behind that curtain, doing everything in their power.

The patients lay in their beds, distressed but helpless.

The military personnel in the room stiffened, blank masks falling into place. Scientists, however, fidgeted and exchanged uneasy glances. Some even left, unable to handle the tension. Others paced restlessly, their anxiety manifesting physically.

Then another cry joined the first.

Two.

There were two babies.

Abruptly, the sounds of pain from behind the curtain ceased. The newborns’ cries, however, remained.

Sharron’s head popped out from between the curtain folds. She kept the fabric carefully arranged, ensuring no one could see inside. Her gaze locked onto the first nurse she saw.

“Barbra, bring me towels. Warm water. Blankets. Clamps. An empty crate. We’ll need—” she rattled off more medical supplies necessary for a birth.

As soon as the nurse nodded in acknowledgment, Sharron disappeared behind the curtain again, pulling it shut with such force that it nearly fluttered.

The infirmary snapped into action. Medical staff worked swiftly to gather the requested supplies, their movements now fueled by clarity of purpose.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly and turned to Lorne.

“Well, I think we got some answers.”

The Major let out a short, dry chuckle, his military composure never quite cracking. “Yeah. I think we got all we’re gonna get for now.”

She nodded. “Let’s leave them to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Together, they left the infirmary, the echoes of newborn cries following them out the door.

Chapter Text

Ronon and Rodney had just gotten John into position when Sharron arrived, moving with practiced urgency. She carried a crate brimming with additional supplies, her sharp eyes scanning the chaotic scene as she began laying out the items in a careful but rapid fashion—gauze, clamps, scissors, sterile towels, and a sealed package of sutures, all within easy reach. The tension in the room was thick, punctuated only by John's ragged breathing and the occasional pained whimper as another contraction gripped him.

Just as she was setting up, the orderly who had earlier assisted in transporting John back to the infirmary returned. His eyes took in Ronon and Rodney’s positions with the quick assessment of someone well-versed in emergency response. Without a word, he moved to the storage space beneath the exam table and pulled out the bed restraints.

Rodney's eyes bugged out. He was about the protest, who did this guy think he was to think of restraining his Omega and how would that help this situation. Before Rodney could say anything, he orderly looped one securely around the railing of the table before gently but firmly maneuvering Rodney aside. With a practiced efficiency, he guided John's foot into the looped end, adjusting it so that his leg was supported without strain. He had created a makeshift stirrup.

Rodney, who had been struggling to keep John in place, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His arms ached from the effort, his grip already slipping twice as John's body tensed and twisted against the pain. He was relieved when the orderly moved to Ronon’s side, repeating the process and allowing the Satedan to step back.

John, however, was beyond noticing any of it. The latest contraction hit like a hammer, worse than before, sending an agonizing wave of pain radiating through his entire body. His breath hitched, then caught in his throat before he let out a raw, choked-off scream. He barely registered the fact that he was now in a different position, his legs supported in makeshift stirrups. He didn't hear Carson’s urgent words as the doctor attempted to reassure him.

All he knew was the pain. It was relentless, unyielding, tearing through him like he was being split apart from the inside.

Ronon, now freed from his earlier task, immediately reached for John’s hand. The moment their fingers clasped, John squeezed so hard that Ronon felt the bones in his hand grind together. It hurt, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. His mate was in agony, and this—offering himself as an anchor, a tether—was the only thing he could do. His gut twisted at the sight of John like this, his face contorted in pain, his body fighting itself. The sounds he was making—hoarse, desperate cries—were hitting Ronon on a primal level, rattling something deep in his chest. This isn't right. He shouldn't be hurting like this. I should be able to stop this. But he couldn’t. For once, he was completely powerless.

Rodney, standing on John’s other side, was just as shaken. He wasn’t built for this kind of thing—hell, he barely handled medical situations well on a good day. Watching John scream, his body tensing with each wave of pain, was horrifying. His brain scrambled for something—anything—useful to do. That was when he noticed John’s free hand clawing at his own thigh, nails digging in hard enough to leave deep, red welts.

"No, no, no, none of that," Rodney muttered, quickly grabbing John’s wrist and prying his fingers away before he could do any real damage. He clasped John’s hand tightly, and began stroking his hair in an almost absentminded, soothing motion. This is what people do in movies, right? He wasn’t sure if it helped, but at least it was something.

John gasped for breath, his body trembling, the strain of each contraction stealing his focus from anything else. But as Rodney continued the steady, rhythmic motion over his sweat-damp hair, John’s breathing almost evened out. Not much, but enough.

Outside the curtain, the infirmary had gone eerily silent. The sounds of normal medical activity—murmured conversations, the beeping of monitors, even the distant hum of Atlantis itself—seemed dim, as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting.

John let out a wet, shuddering sob, his body wracked with exhaustion. His cries soon gave way to a new sound—high-pitched and piercing, the unmistakable wail of a newborn.

Ronon and Rodney’s heads snapped up simultaneously, their gazes locking onto the scene before them. Dr. Beckett was cradling a small, slippery, blood-covered baby, still wriggling and squirming in his hands. The newborn’s tiny limbs flailed as its cries echoed through the infirmary.

Beside Carson, the orderly was already prepared, crouched down with a clean towel draped over his arms. Without hesitation, Carson placed the newborn onto the waiting fabric, his hands lingering for only a second before he turned his attention back to John.

John was panting heavily, his breath wet and uneven, his face streaked with tears. His entire body trembled, muscles quivering from the strain. Rodney felt a sudden tap on his shoulder and turned his head to find Sharron standing beside him, holding out a lightly damp cloth.

Rodney blinked, confused, his expression clearly showing his lack of understanding.

Sharron mimed wiping her own face and brow.

Rodney’s brain finally caught up. Oh. A light bulb went off, and he nodded in thanks. He turned back to John, attempting to pry his hand free—but John’s grip was iron-tight.

Sharron stepped in, pressing another rolled-up towel into John’s clenched fingers. The moment John latched onto it, Rodney yanked his hand back and hissed in pain.

Blood dotted his palm where John’s nails had dug deep into his skin, small crescent-shaped wounds forming along the tender flesh. He hadn’t even noticed until now. On top of that, the welts from earlier—where John had accidentally splashed him with the orange juice—were now raised and itching. Fantastic. Orange juice, hives, and now being mauled. This is fine. This is all fine.

Rodney quickly redirected his focus, using the damp cloth to wipe John’s face, gently dabbing away the sweat and tears streaking his pale skin. John barely reacted, his whole body shivering with exertion.

The initial pain had subsided somewhat, but he still ached everywhere. His breathing was erratic, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. The moment the baby had come out, the contractions had stopped, but his body still felt torn apart.

“There y’go, lad. Just breathe,” Carson soothed, still kneeling in front of him, his voice a steady anchor amidst the chaos.

John tried. He really did. He focused on the slow inhale, the exhale. Tried to get control over his shaking limbs, his hammering heart.

But just as he felt like he could breathe again, another wave of pain crashed into him.

John screamed, his entire body seizing up as agony ripped through him all over again. It was as if time had rewound, dragging him back into the never-ending cycle of pain and pressure.

For him, it felt like an eternity.

And then, just as suddenly, his screams cut off.

His entire body went limp. His head lolled forward, and if not for Ronon and Rodney holding him upright, he would have fallen off the table on top of Carson.

For a brief, gut-wrenching moment, there was silence.

Then, a second cry rang out.

Another baby.

The newborn’s wail triggered the first, and within seconds, the infirmary was filled with the overlapping cries of two infants.

But Ronon and Rodney weren’t paying attention to that.

All their focus was on John.

He was utterly motionless, his face slack, his breathing shallow but present. Tears and snot still streaked his cheeks, his dark lashes wet and clumped together. But he was still. Too still.

Panic clawed at Ronon’s chest. He had never felt more helpless in his life. He’d fought Wraith, survived life-or-death situations, but this? Watching John in so much pain, unable to do anything to stop it—this was worse.

Rodney’s brain was running a mile a minute, flipping through every worst-case scenario. He passed out. Is he okay? He’s breathing, right? Oh god, what if—

A hand moved between them, cutting through their growing panic. The doctor who had joined them reached forward, pressing two fingers to the side of John’s neck, feeling for a pulse. A tense beat passed. Then another.

“He’s just lost consciousness,” the doctor declared.

Ronon and Rodney both exhaled in unison, the tight grip in their chests loosening slightly.

Carson let out a long, relieved sigh, though his hands remained full with the newest arrival. Still, he kept his gaze on John, concern etched deep into his features. Even knowing John had only passed out, the sight of him limp and unresponsive was unsettling.

Chapter Text

Dr. Beckett took his time. He ran every test he could think of—some standard, others far more obscure. When those turned up nothing, he entertained a few odd suggestions from his staff, anything to catch any unforeseen complications. But after what felt like hours of examination, scanning, and running diagnostics, the results remained unchanged.

John Sheppard was stable. The babies were healthy.

No anomalies. No lingering trauma beyond what was to be expected.

No serious medical reason for John to have collapsed beyond pain and sheer exhaustion.

It wasn’t enough to put Carson at ease, but it would have to do.

With a heavy sigh, he finally relented. “Alright, let’s get him settled.”

The infirmary, though quieter than before, still held a small audience. No one cheered. There were no exclamations of joy, no eager hands reaching for a peek at the newborns. The excitement that present for John's first birth was noticeably absent. Instead, the atmosphere hung thick with tension.

Those who had been present when he was rushed in—when his screams had echoed off the infirmary walls—remained, their faces drawn tight with concern. They stood in small clusters, whispering amongst themselves, casting furtive glances toward the medical staff, toward Carson, and most of all, toward John.

Nurse Sharron had worked swiftly to clear a more private space for him. The area had been sectioned off toward the back of the infirmary, away from prying eyes, offering a semblance of privacy in a place where secrets were hard to keep.

The sound of curtains being drawn back signaled the transition.

John’s unconscious form was carefully moved from the exam table onto a proper hospital bed. The stark white patient scrubs had replaced his sweat-drenched clothing, no visible sign of what had transpired.

To anyone just walking in, he might have looked like any other patient.

A little pale, perhaps. But no different from the countless soldiers who had been wheeled into the infirmary after missions gone wrong.

If not for the knowledge that just an hour ago, he had given birth.

Again. Not even 5 months after he had already given birth.

The medical team maneuvered the bed into place, the quiet hum of equipment the only sound filling the space. The collective attention of the infirmary followed his slow journey across the room, eyes tracking him with an unspoken mixture of curiosity, concern, and uncertainty.

Rodney and Ronon stayed close, silent sentinels at John’s side.

Each cradled a newborn in their arms.

After every possible test had been run on the infants—after every vital had been checked and double-checked—they had been passed into the waiting hands of their fathers.

Ronon held his baby with an ease that was almost unsettling, his large hands supporting the tiny body with practiced confidence. The infant had long since stopped crying, nestled securely against his broad chest, small fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

Rodney, on the other hand, looked like he was holding a live grenade.

His baby squirmed slightly, making a soft, breathy noise, and Rodney immediately tensed, his arms locking in place. His eyes darted between the infant and Carson as if expecting something to go catastrophically wrong at any second.

“Relax, McKay,” Ronon muttered, his voice low.

Rodney scowled but said nothing, adjusting his grip with exaggerated caution.

The weight of it all—of the moment, of what had just happened—was starting to sink in.

They were standing there, each holding a newborn. John was unconscious in a hospital bed. The infirmary was filled with silent onlookers who had no idea what to say, let alone how to process any of this.

And for the first time since the ordeal had begun, the reality of it hit Rodney square in the chest.

This is real.

They had 2 new babies.

And John…

John had nearly torn himself apart to bring these babies into the world.

Rodney swallowed hard, his grip tightening just slightly as he looked down at the tiny life in his arms.

Ronon, still watching John’s motionless form, exhaled slowly. His free hand rested on the bed’s railing, fingers curling around the metal. His gaze flickered to Carson, silently asking the question neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Carson, still standing at John’s bedside, answered it before the words could be spoken.

“He’ll wake up,” he assured them. “He just needs time.”

But even as he said it, his fingers hovered near John’s wrist, feeling for the steady pulse beneath his skin.

And in the quiet of the infirmary, with two newborns now in the arms of their fathers, the wait for John to wake up began.

--

The first thing John became aware of was pain. A deep, all-encompassing ache that settled into every inch of his body. His limbs felt like lead, his joints stiff, muscles sore in ways he didn’t even know were possible. Even his scalp hurt.

His scalp.

What the hell happened to his scalp?

Before he could make sense of that particular mystery, other sensations began filtering in—the steady beeping of a heart monitor somewhere nearby, the soft hum of medical equipment, and the sharp, sterile scent of cleaning chemicals. Infirmary, his sluggish brain supplied. He was in the infirmary.

And then, like a floodgate opening, why he was here hit him.

The babies.

Panic spiked through the haze of exhaustion, and he tried to force his eyes open. They refused to cooperate, feeling glued shut. He let out a low, frustrated sound, and that was all it took.

Someone immediately grabbed his hand, gripping it so tightly it almost hurt.

Then came Rodney’s unmistakable voice—loud, urgent, and entirely too close.

“John?! John?! Are you awake?! Can you hear me?”

John barely had time to register the frantic edge in Rodney’s voice before he felt fingers tapping—no, smacking—at his face, each insistent pat sending fresh waves of irritation through his already aching skull.

“John, are you awake?! Wake up!”

I’m trying, McKay, for god’s sake...

With monumental effort, he finally managed to crack his eyes open. The blurry world around him slowly swam into focus, and the first thing he saw was Rodney’s face—mere inches from his own. Wide-eyed, flushed with worry, and looking one minor inconvenience away from a full-blown meltdown.

“I am now…” John croaked, his voice hoarse, barely more than a rasp. If he hadn’t already been waking up, Rodney’s yelling in his ear and the less-than-gentle face tapping would have definitely done the trick.

“Oh thank god, John,” Rodney exhaled, his grip on John’s hand tightening before he suddenly started talking a mile a minute. “I was so worried. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? You’ve been out for hours. We were starting to worry. Are you cold? I can get you a blanket. Are you hungry? It’s been all day since you ate. Do you need water? I can—”

John’s already pounding head throbbed harder with every rapid-fire question, but before he could muster the strength to answer even one of them, another voice cut in.

“Jeeze, man, let the lad get his bearings,” Carson’s voice came from somewhere to the side, exasperated but laced with relief.

Rodney immediately snapped his mouth shut—though his grip on John’s hand didn’t loosen in the slightest.

As the world around him sharpened into focus, John became aware of the familiar cool air of the infirmary against his skin. The stark white lights above, the quiet hum of machinery, the sterile scent of antiseptics—he recognized it all, but his body still felt disconnected, heavy with exhaustion.

The stiffness beneath him told him he was on one of the hospital beds. Instinctively, he searched for the bed controls to sit up, but Carson, ever the attentive doctor, beat him to it. The bed whirred softly as it adjusted, tilting him upward. The shift in position sent a fresh wave of discomfort radiating through his body, particularly across his abdomen and lower down. He winced, sucking in a sharp breath.

Carson caught the reaction immediately, his brows knitting together in concern. Rodney, standing just beside him, managed to look even more worried—an impressive feat, considering he already looked on the verge of a full-blown freak-out.

“I ken guess yer answer, but it’s still a standard question,” Carson said, his voice turning a shade more serious as he studied John’s face. “How’re you feeling, son?”

John licked his dry lips, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Like I got run over,” he muttered.

Carson huffed in wry amusement. “Aye, well, not surprising, given what you’ve just been through. You gave us all quite the scare.”

John barely heard him, his gaze already drifting past the doctor to something else. Sitting on a nearby table was one of the plastic storage crates that Atlantis used for practically everything. It had been repurposed, heavily padded with blankets and pillows, and placed within arm’s reach. The sight of it pulled at something deep inside him—something half-formed, something urgent.

Carson followed his line of sight. “Ahh, yes.”

John’s throat felt suddenly dry. “How… are they? It was several?” His voice came out hesitant, like he was still trying to convince himself this was real.

Carson nodded. “Aye, twins. Two healthy, strong little ones. I ran every test I could think of—some of them twice, just to be sure. They’re doing just fine.” He paused, watching John closely. “Do ye want to see them?”

John didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded.

Carson unlocked the table’s wheels and maneuvered it closer, revealing it to be one of the infirmary’s rolling bedside tables. Someone had already adjusted it so John could comfortably see inside the crate without straining.

And there, nestled among the pillows and blankets, were two impossibly tiny newborns.

They were swaddled so snugly in soft blankets that they looked almost unreal, like delicate little dolls. One of them stirred slightly, a tiny fist breaking free of the fabric to stretch lazily before settling again. The other remained still, their tiny chest rising and falling in deep, rhythmic breaths.

John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“We need to get a better crib for the infirmary,” he deadpanned.

Carson and Rodney groaned in unison, both sighing in exasperation. But beneath their reactions was a quiet sense of relief—if John was joking, he was still John.

“Yes, well, no one expected there to be more babies in Atlantis quite so soon,” Carson quipped, arms crossing as he gave John a pointed look. “I pray ye aren’t planning on making this a habit every four months.”

John started to laugh—but then Carson’s words hit.

His expression froze. His mind reeled.

“I have five kids,” he whispered. The horror settled into his bones. “I have five kids who are all under five months old…”

The weight of that realization slammed into him like a tidal wave.

“Ye do,” Carson confirmed gently. “But ye also have two wonderful fathers here who want to help.”

John’s breathing grew shallow. His fingers twitched as a fresh surge of panic gripped him. “I have five kids I have to breastfeed,” he choked out.

Carson, recognizing the impending spiral, placed a steadying hand on John’s shoulder. “Yer oldest are already bein’ weaned,” he reminded him, voice calm and grounding. “Ye won’t be doing this all alone.”

Rodney, seeing how badly John was unraveling, squeezed the hand he was still holding. Without hesitation, he lifted it to his lips, pressing a firm kiss against John’s knuckles. “We’ll get through this,” he said, voice low but steady. “We’ve gotten through way worse.”

John snapped his head toward him, eyes wide and incredulous. “WORSE?! WORSE!? What the hell have we been through that’s worse than this!?”

Rodney opened his mouth. Paused. Thought. Really thought. His brain should have been able to come up with something. And yet—

“…Well…” He floundered. “I mean… They’re not going to try to suck our life force through their hands?”

John stared at him.

Carson sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “McKay, ye aren’t helping.”

Rodney frowned, squeezing John’s hand a little tighter. “Oh, come on, John. We’ve faced Wraith, Replicators, Michael, actual life-sucking aliens. This? This is survivable.” He gestured vaguely toward the two newborns nestled in the crate. “They’re tiny. Manageable.”

John stared at Rodney like he’d grown another head. “Manageable?! Rodney, I already have three! Now I have five—five tiny humans that all need feeding and changing and me! How is that manageable?”

Carson kept his hand steady on John’s shoulder. “Deep breaths, lad. I ken this is a lot all at once, but yer not alone in this.”

John inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. The horror of realization still sat heavy in his stomach, but Carson’s steady tone and Rodney’s presence helped keep the panic from completely consuming him.

The babies, blissfully unaware of John’s crisis, squirmed slightly, their tiny faces peeking out from the layers of blankets. One let out a sleepy sigh, a tiny fist twitching near their cheek.

John exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. They were so small. So small.

“They really okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with exhaustion and something softer—hesitation, maybe.

Carson gave him a reassuring nod. “Aye. Strong, healthy, and already proving they’ve got a set of lungs on them.” He smirked slightly.

John reached into the crate and brushed his fingertips over the soft, round cheek of one of the babies. The tiny face twitched slightly in response, lips parting in sleep, but otherwise, there was no reaction. This was the first time he had touched them. His babies. The thought felt foreign, unreal.

Carson watched closely, his sharp doctor's gaze missing nothing. John’s hand was trembling. There were a lot of possible reasons for it—fatigue, stress, pain—but one of them, at least, Carson could fix.

“John,” Carson asked gently, his voice softer than usual. “Do ye think ye could eat something?”

John blinked as if Carson had spoken in an entirely different language. “Oh… umm… not sure…” he mumbled.

“It’s been hours since ye last ate,” Carson pressed, his concern evident. “Ye really need to try, especially since, as ye pointed out, ye’re feeding five bairns.”

John made a face at that reminder, but he didn’t argue. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Carson’s voice had the same firm doctor tone that brooked no disagreement. He wasn’t even asking—he expected John to eat.

But John barely registered it. His focus drifted back to the crate in front of him, to the tiny, fragile beings inside. He should feel something more, shouldn’t he? When his first set of babies had been born, he had ached to hold them, had felt physically unable to part from them. Every touch had grounded him, made the surreal reality of parenthood settle deep into his bones.

But this time… it wasn’t the same. It felt off. Like something wasn’t clicking into place the way it should. He let his fingers ghost over the delicate skin of one of the newborns, but it wasn’t the same urgent need to cling to them that he remembered from before. Instead, he felt like if he picked them up, they might break. Like he might break.

His chest tightened. Why didn’t they feel like his?

Looking away, he scanned the room, realizing for the first time where he had been placed—shoved into the far corner of the infirmary. He was still in the main area, but it was crowded. There were other patients—some sick, some injured, all trying very hard not to stare at him.

They weren’t very good at being discreet.

John swallowed and turned to Rodney. “Wasn’t Ronon here?” His voice was rough, tired, but there was something else there too—sadness. “I didn’t imagine him, did I?”

Rodney straightened at that, shaking his head quickly. “No, no, you didn’t imagine him,” he reassured. “He was here. He stayed as long as he could, but Carson pointed out there wasn’t much he could do—and the kids needed him. It’s his night with them.”

John nodded slowly, but the answer didn’t really settle anything inside him. He did know how Ronon got when he felt useless, but that wasn’t the problem.

He looked down again at the crate, at the impossibly tiny babies wrapped in blankets. His babies.

Why didn’t it feel like it?

Everything felt wrong. Not just the sharp ache of his body, not just the exhaustion dragging him down like a lead weight—but something deeper. Something he couldn’t put into words.

“Do you wanna hold them? Do you need help?”

Rodney’s voice was softer than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge. He was watching John closely, his expression a mix of concern and uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure how to handle this version of his mate. John, who had once snatched their first litter from the doctors the moment they were put of him. John, who had growled at even Ronon and Rodney when they tried to take the babies from him too soon.

But now?

Now John couldn’t even bring himself to touch them.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, eyes fixed on the crate as if staring long enough would force some kind of connection to click into place.

“Huh… uh… umm… no… I’m good…”

The words felt sluggish coming out, his voice rougher than usual. He didn’t look at Rodney when he said it, couldn’t stand to see whatever emotions were flickering across the Alpha’s face.

Rodney didn’t press, but the silence that followed was heavy.

Rodney had already held them. Had cradled their small, fragile bodies in his hands while John had been unconscious. Had bonded with them, spoken to them, felt something for them. John could see it in the way he hovered, in the way his eyes kept flicking between him and the babies like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that wasn’t fitting together the way it should.

Rodney had expected John to reach for them immediately. To demand them. To press them against his chest and breathe them in like he had the last time.

But instead, John sat there, unmoving.

Rodney’s brow furrowed, his mouth opening like he was going to say something—but before he could, Dr. Beckett returned, his arrival breaking the uncomfortable stillness.

Carson’s presence gave John an excuse to look away from the babies, his eyes snapping to the doctor as he stepped into the room, arms full of supplies. The weight of Rodney’s stare lingered, but at least for now, John could pretend he didn’t notice.

Carson set his load down on the bedside table, giving John a knowing look. “I brought ye something to help with the pain.”

John glanced at the supplies, recognizing the tube of numbing gel immediately. There was also a heating pad, and what was very clearly a hot water bottle, sloshing faintly as it was set down.

Carson handed him the tube with the ease of someone who’d done this before. “I’m sure ye remember how this works?”

John flushed, his ears burning as he took the tube from Carson’s outstretched hand. He didn’t even bother with a snarky reply—his energy was too low for that.

Before he could say anything, Carson turned and grabbed the edge of a curtain, pulling it closed to give him some privacy.

John exhaled slowly, leaning back against the pillows. Lifting the blanket, he reached inside the loose scrub pants to apply the gel. The coldness of it was a shock at first, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his sore muscles, but the relief was almost immediate. His body relaxed, just a fraction, as the pain dulled slightly.

He wiped his hands on the damp cloth Carson had brought, then accepted the hot water bottle next.

“Put that between yer legs,” Carson instructed, his voice matter-of-fact.

John obeyed without argument, adjusting the weight of it until it settled comfortably.

Carson moved next to the heating pad, already plugged in and warm. He gently tucked it around John’s torso, securing it against his aching muscles.

John let out a slow breath as the warmth from the heating pad seeped into his sore muscles. The combination of the numbing gel and the heat worked, dulling the sharp edge of discomfort that had been gnawing at him since he’d woken up. It helped, but it didn’t fix the deeper problem—the hollowness in his chest, the strange detachment from the tiny bundles nestled in the crate beside him.

His fingers flexed against the blanket, itching to do something—reach out, hold them, stroke a tiny cheek, anything—but the weight in his arms felt unbearable. So instead, he clenched his hands into loose fists and exhaled slowly, willing the warmth to do more than just ease his aching muscles.

A disembodied voice called from the other side of the curtain, hesitant but clear.

“Umm… I have food.”

John barely reacted, but Carson perked up immediately.

“Ahh, good,” the doctor exclaimed, his accent thick with approval. He moved to the curtain and pulled it aside, revealing one of the kitchen staff balancing a tray covered with a domed lid.

John blinked sluggishly at the sight, barely registering it beyond the fact that someone had brought him food—an uncommon luxury. Only the sick, injured, or those confined to quarters ever got personal meal deliveries. The kitchen was too short-staffed for exceptions. Hell, even he didn’t get special treatment.

The enlisted aide hesitated for a moment, scanning the room for a place to set the tray. The usual bedside table was occupied—John’s babies lay in the crate atop it, their impossibly small forms wrapped tightly in blankets.

“Here, lad.” Carson took the initiative, reaching for an unused rolling table from the next bed over. He nudged the crate gently toward the foot of the bed before glancing at Rodney. “Rodney, take yer bairns.”

Rodney, who had been watching John with a growing frown, snapped to attention. He muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue, stepping forward and carefully lifting the newborns from the crate. One at a time, he cradled them against his chest, murmuring quiet reassurances as he settled them securely in his arms.

The aide moved past the crate, clearly intending to get in and out quickly, but as he did, he faltered—his eyes flicked back, widening slightly in surprise. His gaze darted between the newborns in Rodney’s arms and the crate, and John could see the moment he realized these weren’t the same babies as before.

The recognition was instant. These infants were too small, their skin still flushed red and slightly wrinkled. They weren’t the original three—those are older, stronger. These… these were new.

The man’s lips parted like he might say something, but he caught himself. Instead, he schooled his expression into something neutral and set the tray down on the newly positioned table with quiet efficiency. He nodded stiffly toward John, acknowledging him with the same deference he always did.

John, not wanting to encourage any conversation, simply nodded back. “Thanks.”

The aide took the hint and stepped back, but as he turned to leave, he couldn’t help stealing another glance at the babies. This time, he got a better look.

The rumors had been true, then.

For once, the Atlantis gossip mill had actually been right.

Chapter Text

John groaned as he rolled onto his side, the deep ache in his body making itself known with the movement. He barely had time to process the discomfort before the sharp wails right next to his head fully dragged him from sleep. His sluggish brain struggled to catch up as he blinked blearily at the crate beside him, the tiny bundles inside wriggling and crying, their tiny fists flailing as they protested something John couldn’t yet comprehend.

It took several long moments of staring, his mind struggling through the fog of exhaustion, before it all came crashing back—the birth, the quiet detachment that still hadn’t faded.

With another groan, John fumbled for the bed’s controls and pressed the button, wincing as the mattress whirred softly, tilting him upright. His body protested, stiff and sore, but he forced himself to move, rubbing his face in an attempt to clear his head. The crying wasn’t stopping, and his instincts—though dulled and disoriented—pushed him into action.

He reached for the crate, dragging it closer with careful hands. The babies' cries grew more frantic as he unwrapped them from their tight little bundles of blankets, their impossibly small bodies trembling with need. Pulling up the scrub shirt he was wearing, he tried to get them to latch, shifting them against his chest with movements that should have been second nature.

But these weren’t the babies he was used to.

The last litter had known the drill—born eager, and ready. They had latched without hesitation, instinct driving them even before John had fully settled them. But these two were different. Their mouths gaped blindly, searching without knowing what to do. Their cries only grew louder, more desperate, their tiny fingers scrabbling uselessly against his skin.

John felt his own frustration creeping up, his chest tightening as exhaustion and helplessness crashed over him. He wasn’t even sure if it was the lack of sleep, the lingering pain, or something deeper—but the growing wails made his own throat tighten.

A movement at the edge of his vision made him glance up. The other patients in the infirmary were stirring, their sleep disrupted by the relentless crying. Some just turned over, grumbling as they tried to ignore it, while others peered at him with varying degrees of sympathy and curiosity.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to fight off the burning behind his eyes. His arms shook slightly as he tried again, adjusting one of the babies, willing them to latch, to just eat already.

Before he completely lost his grip on his fraying patience, a soft voice broke through the chaos.

“Let me help.”

John jerked his head up, meeting the tired but calm gaze of the night doctor—Dr. Patel.

John let out a shaky breath as the babies finally quieted, their tiny mouths latched securely. Relief washed over him, but it was fleeting, chased away by the persistent ache deep in his muscles. Carson's earlier treatment had dulled the worst of it, but now the pain was creeping back, sharp and relentless. It wasn’t the same sharpness he'd felt after the first litter—this was deeper, a bone-deep throb that gnawed at him, dragging him down like an anchor.

He shifted slightly, wincing at the burn that flared across his abdomen. His mind was cloudy, like he was half a step behind everything happening around him. Even eating had been a struggle earlier—he couldn’t focus, couldn’t keep track of his fork or the conversation Rodney had been trying to have with him. He'd drift off, only to snap back and find Rodney giving him that worried, frustrated look that made John's chest tighten.

The babies squirmed against him, soft and warm, but John couldn’t feel that connection he knew he was supposed to have. He’d felt it before—with the first litter, he'd been overwhelmed by love the moment he laid eyes on them. He couldn’t keep his hands off them, couldn’t bear to let anyone else hold them longer than a minute. But these two... these tiny, helpless babies... they just didn’t feel real to him. He knew they were his, knew they needed him, but the bond wasn’t there. All he could feel was the dull weight of exhaustion and the growing pit of guilt in his stomach.

–

The sounds of movement and quiet conversations woke John. The infirmary had shifted to day mode—staff bustling, trays being delivered, and a faint hint of coffee lingering in the air. Blinking gritty eyes, John groaned as he shifted. Pain lanced up his spine, curling sharp and tight in his stomach.

Reaching for the bed controls, he winced as he adjusted it to sit upright. The motion dragged a strangled sound from his throat, loud enough to turn the head of a nearby Marine. The soldier shot John a concerned look, but John ignored him in favor of curling in on himself, arms tight over his middle.

“What’s your pain level?” Carson's voice was sharp, cutting through John's haze before he'd even noticed the doctor approaching.

"I'm..."

"If ye're about to tell me ye're 'fine,' I'll put ye on a soft food diet for your entire stay here," Carson snapped, stepping closer with that stubborn look John knew too well.

Through clenched teeth, John muttered, "Six."

"Figured." Carson stepped away briefly, rummaging through the nurses' cart. He returned with a syringe and a vial, swabbing the inside of John’s elbow before withdrawing the medication.

"Will that stuff hurt them?" John asked, voice rough as he gestured toward the tiny sleeping bundles in the crate.

"Nah, lad. This goes straight into your blood. Won't get near ye'r milk," Carson said, his tone softening.

The sting of the injection barely registered through the ache already wracking John’s body. But within minutes, the pain dulled to something manageable, enough for him to finally breathe without feeling like his ribs were being twisted inside out.

Just as the tension started to drain from his shoulders, a tray appeared at his bedside, carried by one of the kitchen staff. John barely glanced at it before forcing himself to reach for the fork. The eggs looked fine, but the smell was stronger than it should've been—sharp and greasy. His stomach twisted unpleasantly.

"You should eat," Carson encouraged, not bothering to hide his watchful gaze.

"Yeah, yeah," John muttered. His hand shook faintly as he lifted the fork. The first bite stuck in his throat, dry and almost metallic. Swallowing felt like a chore, but he forced himself to take another bite. The room kept drifting in and out of focus, like his brain couldn’t decide what was worth paying attention to.

"You alright, lad?" Carson asked, his voice quieter now.

"Just... tired," John muttered, but Carson's hand was already on his wrist, fingers pressing against his pulse. The doctor didn’t comment, but the crease in his brow deepened.

John glanced at the crate. The babies lay swaddled in blankets, impossibly small. His chest tightened again—not with pain this time, but something colder. Guilt. They deserved better than this... better than him, right now. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was failing them somehow, that something about this whole situation was wrong in ways he couldn't quite grasp.

His mind wandered to the machine, to that flicker of light and the low hum before the sharp, twisting pain had knocked him to his knees. What had that thing even been? Another Ancient invention that barely worked? Some discarded experiment? Had he triggered it by accident... or had someone turned it on?

Had Atlantis herself done this to him? Had she reached out again, deciding he needed to carry this burden? Or was it another Ancient, some lingering presence still playing games with their leftover tech?

He wanted to ask Rodney about it... but just thinking about stringing those questions together felt exhausting. For now, all he could do was force down another mouthful of food and try not to think too hard about how badly his body ached or why everything felt so terribly off.

–

Eating about half of his breakfast, John just couldn’t eat anymore. His appetite was gone, but another need made itself known. Carefully pushing up from the bed, he shifted to sit at the edge. Just that much effort left him winded, and he had to pause, pressing his hands against the mattress while he tried to steady his breathing.

Once the room stopped spinning, he gingerly stood. His legs shook as he straightened, and he had to grip the side of the bed until the worst of the dizziness passed. Each step toward the communal bathroom felt heavier than the last. His muscles ached fiercely, and he felt like a puppet barely held together with fraying strings.

“Colonel?” The orderly from yesterday stepped forward, concern plain on his face.

“Nahh,” John forced out. “Just need the head.” He waved the man off with a weak flick of his fingers. The orderly frowned but stood aside, his eyes never leaving John as he shuffled forward.

No one else tried to stop him. The soldiers in the room — all the ones injured and stuck in their own beds — held back, torn between respect for their commanding officer and the obvious knowledge that something was wrong. The handful of scientists, always a little unsure of their place when it came to military matters, kept their heads down but kept glancing up uneasily. The only nurse in the room was new, still too green to muster the courage to tell Colonel Sheppard to sit back down where he belonged.

The trek to the bathroom felt endless, and by the time John reached the door, his breath was coming in shallow gasps. The cool metal of the doorframe felt blessedly solid beneath his fingertips as he steadied himself before pushing inside.

Even after he finished his task, John remained seated, head tipped back. He needed a minute — just one minute — to gather his strength. The world tilted dangerously when he moved, and his limbs felt too heavy to lift. The red cord for the emergency call button dangled within arm's reach, taunting him. He considered pulling it, but pride won out. No way was he dragging the Calvary in here to haul him off the toilet.

Eventually, he forced himself upright, not even bothering to wash his hands. He shuffled out, barely lifting his feet. The faces in the room turned toward him, soldiers leaning forward like they were ready to spring. The scientists stared anxiously, clearly hoping someone else would step in.

John knew he should call for help. Knew he wasn’t going to make it. But his pride wouldn't let him stop. He pushed forward until his legs gave out.

He hit the floor hard. His knees buckled first, then his shoulder struck with enough force to leave him stunned. The sharp impact of his head meeting the floor sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him.

Before he could fully process the pain, chaos erupted. Voices shouted from all corners of the infirmary.

“DOC!” “NURSE!” “SHIT, SOMEONE GET HIM!” “COLONEL!”

John barely registered the blur of movement before Carson's familiar brogue roared through the noise.

“Bloody fool! What were ye thinkin’? Stumblin' about like a half-wit sheep that's wandered too far from the flock! Ye've got less sense than a bagpipe in a thunderstorm! If ye’d just asked for help instead o' pullin' this proud, stubborn nonsense...”

Carson’s rant continued as he knelt beside John, one hand cupping the back of John's head to steady him.

“Look at the right mess ye've gotten yerself into,” Carson muttered. “Let’s get ye somewhere more comfortable than the bloody floor, aye?”

John barely registered the awkward lift as Carson and one of the orderlies maneuvered him back to bed. The pain meds must've still been lingering in his system, because the world tilted and blurred as they moved him.

The moment he was settled, Carson rounded on the rest of the room. Several soldiers were hovering at the edges of their beds, and a few scientists had edged closer during the commotion.

“What are ye lot gawkin' at?” Carson barked. “Back in yer beds before I make ye regret it!”

Chastened, the crowd quickly dispersed, though a few kept casting glances toward John. Carson gave a satisfied grunt before turning back to his patient.

“Ye stubborn idiot,” Carson muttered, quieter now, his frustration giving way to concern. He fussed with the blankets, tucking them around John more securely than necessary.

“I had it,” John slurred, though his eyelids were already drooping.

“Aye, ye had it,” Carson said dryly. “Right up until ye didn’t.”

John didn’t have the energy to argue. As consciousness slipped away, he barely registered the feeling of Carson's hand lingering at his wrist, fingers pressed gently to his pulse — steady and strong, for now.

–

When lunch rolled around, John was on his third dose of pain meds. Ronon and Rodney had joined him for the meal, their presence grounding him despite the haze muddling his thoughts. He wasn’t sure if the fog was from the drugs or from whatever the hell had happened to him. Either way, the world felt distant and muffled, like he was underwater.

He poked at his food, forcing himself to take small bites even though each one felt like chewing sawdust. Across from him, Rodney was talking—rapid, constant words that John let wash over him without really registering. Ronon sat silently beside him, cradling one of the babies with surprising gentleness, the infant nestled securely in his massive arms.

John had only held the twins while feeding them. The idea of touching them more than necessary felt... off. Wrong, somehow. Like there was a barrier between him and them, one he couldn’t quite name.

He stabbed a piece of potato with his fork, still not lifting it to his mouth, when movement caught his eye. Blinking sluggishly, he looked up to see Dr. Radek Zelenka approaching his bed. The Czech scientist looked nervous, fiddling with the hem of his shirt before pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Ahh... umm... Colonel," Zelenka said, his voice tight.

"Zelenka," John greeted him, his voice rough from disuse.

The scientist hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other like he wasn’t sure if he should even be here. "Well... I had been searching the database," he began, "trying to find out what that machine was—what it was meant to do—and... well..." He trailed off, suddenly finding his shoes fascinating.

"Spit it out," John said, his patience thin.

Pushing his glasses back into place again, Zelenka took a deep breath. "It turns out, when the Ancients were at war with the Wraith, one problem they faced was dwindling numbers. They realized they were losing people faster than they could replace them—not just soldiers, but generals, key strategists, leaders. When a person got pregnant, they were out of commission for too long. Even after they modified biology to allow men to carry children, they still struggled to maintain their population. So..." He grimaced. "They thought that maybe if they could make pregnancy faster—condense the entire process into just a few hours—they could fix that."

John’s stomach churned. "And?"

"And... it didn’t work," Zelenka said grimly. "They didn’t fully understand how the body adjusts to pregnancy—how the hormones need time, how organs shift to make room, how blood vessels expand. They rushed everything, and their subjects couldn’t keep up." He swallowed hard. "Out of the thousand participants they tested, 80% died."

Rodney’s fork clattered against his plate. Ronon’s arms tightened instinctively around the baby in his lap, his jaw clenching.

John forced himself to ask, "The rest?"

Zelenka’s face twisted like he was delivering a death sentence. "The survivors didn’t do well afterward. Massive bleeds. Organ failure. Lasting complications. Many died weeks or months later."

Silence fell over them like a weighted blanket, thick and suffocating. The infirmary, once filled with the distant beeping of monitors and quiet conversation, now felt eerily still.

John felt cold. The kind of cold that settled in his bones. His gaze flickered to Ronon, who was still holding one of the babies, then to the second twin resting in the crate beside his bed. A stone lodged itself in his chest, heavy and unmovable.

"So... what, exactly, are you saying?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse.

"I don’t know," Zelenka admitted. "I don’t know how you’ve made it this far. Maybe they improved the design before they abandoned it... or maybe you were just lucky." He hesitated, then added, "But if anything starts to feel wrong—anything—you need to tell Carson immediately."

John nodded stiffly, though the warning sent a shiver down his spine.

Ronon, simmering with barely contained fury, growled low in his throat. "How did it even turn on?" His grip on the baby tightened slightly, his protective instincts screaming for someone to blame. "Who activated it?"

Zelenka shifted uncomfortably. "Well... umm..." He cleared his throat. "From what I can gather, it was never off. It was always running—just dormant, unnoticed. For some reason, it didn’t register as using power."

Rodney frowned. "Then why the hell didn’t it turn on when you were near it? Or any of the other scientists who helped move it? There were at least, what, five of you with uteruses who could theoretically get pregnant? So why are you not suddenly a mother?"

Zelenka’s eyes narrowed. "Because," he said sharply, "it also required recent copulation to activate. The system needed sperm already present before it could fertilize an egg and accelerate implantation."

Silence.

John’s entire body tensed. His face burned as Ronon and Rodney both studiously avoided looking at him.

Zelenka didn’t need confirmation—John’s reaction was answer enough. With an exasperated sigh, he muttered, "So that’s how it worked. You had sex, the machine detected viable sperm in your system, and it accelerated everything from implantation to birth in hours."

No one said a word.

John swallowed hard. He didn’t know how to process that information. He barely had a handle on the fact that he had given birth—now there was this new layer to it.

Finally, he broke the silence. "How... how were the babies born?"

Zelenka shrugged uncomfortably. "I didn’t dig too deep into that. But from what I saw, they were all healthy and thrived."

John exhaled slowly. At least his babies were safe.

When no one said anything else, Zelenka took the cue and quietly excused himself, leaving John, Rodney, and Ronon sitting in heavy silence.

Chapter Text

The babies' fussing turned into cries, but John didn’t stir to check on them. His roommates glanced at him uneasily. He looked asleep sitting up, but he wasn’t twitching like he normally did when the babies cried.

Sergeant Daniel Kerrigan, the orderly who had been quietly watching over his commanding officer since they’d pulled him from the science labs, frowned and moved closer to check on him.

“Colonel?” He tapped John’s hand, but there was no response.

Frowning deeper, Kerrigan reached for John's neck, pressing his fingers against the side to check his pulse. His skin was cold — far too cold. The pulse he found was faint and slow. Alarmed, Kerrigan shifted his grip to John’s shoulder and shook him gently but firmly.

“Colonel?!” Kerrigan barked, his voice sharp with urgency.

John let out a weak groan, his head rolling loosely to one side as his body slumped further against the pillows. As he shifted, the blanket slid down slightly — and that’s when Kerrigan saw it.

The spreading stain, dark and wet, seeping through the thin blanket. His eyes widened, dread curling in his gut. Bracing himself, Kerrigan lifted the blanket further — and what he saw turned his stomach. Blood. Too much blood. The bed was soaked, and the source seemed to be from John's groin area.

“Shit,” Kerrigan swore under his breath, slamming his hand on the emergency call button. The sharp alarm rang out as he hurried to lower the bed so John’s head was below his heart.

The response was immediate. The medical staff ran in like a Wraith was on their heels. Two nurses wheeled in a crash cart. Carson pushed his way to the head of the bed, eyes wide as he locked eyes with Kerrigan.

“He’s bleeding out, Doc,” Kerrigan said grimly. He lifted the blanket just enough to let Carson see while still sparing the rest of the infirmary the grim sight.

“Bloody hell!” Carson swore, his accent thick with panic as he leapt into action.

“Get those curtains pulled!” he barked, and a nurse hurried to drag the privacy screens around the bed. Another nurse swiftly rolled the babies' crate further away, out of the immediate chaos.

“Get me saline, AB negative blood, and clamps!” Carson barked, already tugging on gloves.

Carson shot back. “I’ll need two units now and another two on standby!”

Lifting John’s blanket, Carson grimaced at the sheer amount of blood. It wasn’t just surface bleeding — this was deeper. Carson hesitated, knowing internal bleeding meant pressure alone wouldn’t be enough.

“Where’s it coming from?” one of the nurses asked.

“I’ll find it,” Carson muttered grimly. “Scissors!”

One of the nurses handed him a pair, and Carson began cutting away the layers of soaked fabric. With the area cleared, Carson grimaced — there was no clear external wound. "I need an internal exam," he said tightly. "Speculum and gauze — now." Once the tools were handed to him, Carson carefully examined John, his face growing grim. "There — there's a deep internal tear along the uterine wall," he said, voice grim. "Most likely caused by the strain of the rapid pregnancy. Get me more gauze and suction!” Carson ordered.

Working with practiced precision, Carson packed the wound to slow the bleeding while suction cleared the excess blood. It wasn’t enough. Blood was still seeping out faster than it should have.

“Damn it,” Carson muttered.

“I need those blood units now!” Carson snapped, and the nurse hurried forward, already hooking the first bag to John’s IV.

Carson kept pressure on the wound, his hand firm and steady even as his breathing hitched. “C’mon, lad,” he muttered. “Stay with me.”

Finally, the bleeding slowed enough that Carson felt confident. He stepped back, stripping off his gloves with a sharp snap. “I’ll need to get him to surgery,” he muttered, already reaching for the radio.

–

Waking was a struggle. The first thing John noticed was pain — sharp, dull, burning — it seemed to radiate from everywhere. His body felt heavy, limbs unresponsive, and his head swam in a fog thick enough to drown in. Distant, muffled voices floated in and out of his awareness, just out of reach.

He must have made some noise, some indication that he was fighting to wake up, because suddenly there was a gentle tapping on his cheek and Carson’s soft voice, firm yet coaxing.

"Come on, lad," Carson’s accent wrapped around him like an anchor. "Can ye open yer eyes for me? I need ye to open yer eyes."

John fought through the haze, prying his eyelids open just enough to stop the persistent tapping. Everything was blurry — distorted shadows and flickers of movement. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus until Carson’s face swam into view, hovering close with a strained smile.

"There ye are, lad." Carson’s smile widened, but his eyes were still tight with worry.

John tried to speak, but his throat was dry and scratchy. Instead of words, a rough cough tore out of him. Swallowing, he found his mouth was parched, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

A straw suddenly nudged his lips. "Small sips, lad," Carson urged.

John managed a few tiny sips, enough to ease the worst of the dryness. The cup and straw disappeared once he gave a weak shake of his head.

"I’m gonna sit ye up now," Carson warned.

The bed’s motor whirred softly as John’s upper body was raised. He ended up more upright, not quite sitting, but at least high enough to meet people’s eyes instead of staring at the ceiling. He blinked sluggishly, forcing his vision to clear again. The room looked different — too many worried faces, too much tension.

His gaze finally landed on the IV bag hanging beside him. His sluggish mind worked to piece things together — that was blood. Alarm bells rang faintly in his head.

"Why..." His voice rasped out, barely more than a whisper. "Why...blood?"

Carson was watching him closely. "Ye tried tae bleed out on us," he said quietly.

John’s sluggish mind struggled to grasp the words. "Whaa..."

Carson’s expression hardened, worry giving way to something heavier. "It looks like with the rapid pregnancy, things stretched — more like a balloon," he explained grimly. "Ye know how if ye blow one up too far, it pops? Well, that’s pretty much what happened to ye. Your uterine walls stretched far too thin, lad — way too thin."

John’s breath caught. His face paled as Carson continued. "Blood vessels got stretched too. Being so thin, they tore. Ye had a large tear — nearly bled out before we could get it under control."

John’s usual mask of calm was nowhere to be found. His horror must have been plain on his face because even Rodney, who never knew when to keep quiet, was silent. Ronon stood at his side, stone-faced and solid as ever, while Rodney sat at the foot of the bed, cradling one of the babies awkwardly. The silence stretched too long, filling the room with dread.

John swallowed again, forcing his voice past the tightness in his throat. "Is...is there a fix?"

Carson exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping briefly. "Not in the way ye’re thinkin’. Maybe — in time — ye can recover, but right now... there’s nothin’ we can do. Ye need rest — complete bed rest." Carson’s expression darkened. "I don’t want ye out of bed for anything, ye hear me? Not even for the loo. Ye’re on 100% bed rest."

John could only gape at the man. Carson always had a theory, always had some plan to fix things. Seeing him like this — resigned — was far more alarming than the words themselves.

"I’ve been goin’ over the data on that blasted machine Radek sent over," Carson continued. "It’s not good, John. Even the Ancients couldn’t fix these issues. Ye’re lucky ye even survived the birth. So many tore open and bled to death before the babies could even get out."

"There’s nothing you can do?" Ronon’s deep voice finally broke the silence.

Carson’s mouth pressed into a thin line. "If the bleeding doesn’t let up... there’s one thing I can try." His hesitation was enough to make everyone uneasy.

"Might as well tell us," John muttered, voice hoarse. "Or it’ll eat us all alive."

Carson sighed heavily. "A hysterectomy."

The room went still. The air seemed colder. Ronon frowned in confusion. "What’s that?"

"I’d have to remove the uterus, Fallopian tubes, and ovaries," Carson explained flatly. "It’s an extreme solution, and not one I’d jump to right away. It’d cause a severe hormone shift — might even change your personality. Worse still..." Carson’s voice dropped. "Things are so bungled up in there, I’m not sure it’d even fix the problem. Might only make ye miserable." His gaze locked on John’s. "I’ll fight like hell to keep ye from that, lad, but I need ye to follow orders. No pushin’ yerself. No tryin’ to prove how stubborn ye are. Just... rest."

For once, John didn’t have a snarky comeback or a defiant remark. He just nodded faintly, swallowing hard against the lump rising in his throat.

"Aye," Carson said softly, like it was more to himself than anyone else. "We’ll get through this... one step at a time."

–

“It's time for the babies to go to bed,” Ronon said, his voice low but firm from his end of the couch.

“Mmhmm,” Rodney murmured without looking up. He didn’t move other than to nuzzle at the sleeping babies in his lap. It was the first litter, the newest were still staying in the infirmary with their mother. It was his night with the kids, but he didn’t seem interested in actually getting them to bed. He just held them, one arm curled protectively around their small forms, while his other hand idly scrolled through his tablet.

“They really need to go to bed,” Ronon repeated, his annoyance creeping into his tone.

“They’re fine,” Rodney shot back.

“Do you want me to do it?”

“No, I’m good. They’re good. They’re already asleep — they can sleep here for a bit longer,” Rodney snapped, a bit too sharply.

Ronon narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think there’s something wrong?” Rodney mumbled, hunching further over the babies, pressing his cheek to the top of one tiny head.

“You’re acting like John when he’s spooked or hurting,” Ronon said bluntly. “Clinging to the babies, staring at the same screen for over an hour — and you’re quiet.” He paused. “So, what’s up?”

Rodney exhaled a long, shaky breath. “John...” he started, but faltered. “I... it never occurred to me that we could lose him like this.” His voice broke on the last word. He swallowed hard, his hand moving restlessly over one of the baby’s backs. “Sure, yeah, Wraith attack, flying a jumper with a nuke in it, crashing into something — somehow sacrificing himself to save us all. I always figured it’d be something big. Heroic.” His voice wavered. “Not this... not bleeding out from a botched science experiment.” He gave a bitter laugh that held no humor. “It’s just... such a waste. Almost an insult to him.”

Ronon stood, moving across the room with the quiet ease that always seemed at odds with his size. He settled down next to Rodney, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched. “He’s not dead yet,” Ronon said firmly. “Life always has hope. And you — you and your people? You’ve always managed to pull something off last minute. In the face of no odds, you always find some.”

Rodney gave a hollow chuckle. “Yeah, that’s me — miracle worker.”

“You are,” Ronon said simply. “You’ve saved his life before. Don’t forget that.”

For a long moment, Rodney just sat there, silent, still cradling the babies like they were his anchor. Finally, he whispered, “I just don’t know what to do this time.”

Ronon leaned in slightly, his voice quieter now. “Then just be there — for him, for them.” He nodded toward the sleeping babies. “That’s enough.”

Kael started to fuss, shifting uncomfortably in his sleep. Clearly, resting on Rodney’s lap wasn’t as cozy as being tucked into bed. With a sigh, Rodney started to move to get up.

"Guess that’s my cue," he muttered.

"Here," Ronon said, rising to help. Between the two of them, they managed to juggle three sleepy babies without waking them. Truth be told, Ronon wanted some time with the little ones, but he wouldn’t take them away from Rodney — not tonight.

Once the babies were settled in their crib, Rodney stood by the side for a moment longer than needed, just watching them sleep. Ronon noticed but said nothing. He knew Rodney’s silence wasn’t idle — something was brewing in his mind.

When they returned to the communal area, Rodney seemed hesitant. He shifted from foot to foot, mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t find the right words. Ronon waited patiently. He knew better than to push. When Rodney struggled this much, whatever was on his mind was big.

"I wanna show you something," Rodney finally said, his voice quieter than usual. "Give me a minute."

Rodney disappeared into his room. Ronon moved to the couch to wait, arms crossed loosely. Rodney didn’t leave him waiting long. When he returned, he was clutching a small black box. Rodney was fidgeting with it, turning it over and over in his hands like he wasn’t sure if he should even open it.

Finally, Rodney sat down beside Ronon and, without a word, thrust the box into his hands. Ronon raised an eyebrow but took it. The box was small, covered in soft, velvet-like fabric. He turned it in his hands, noting the tiny hinge on one side and the small clasp on the other.

"So, I... uh... I..." Rodney floundered, gesturing weakly at the box. Ronon popped it open.

Inside was a tag — shaped like the dog tags John wore but sleeker, shinier. The edges were trimmed in gold, and the engraving on the metal was far more intricate than the simple block letters on John’s standard-issue tags. Ronon recognized John’s name, Rodney’s, and even his own. There were also unfamiliar words that Ronon didn’t understand.

"I was going to propose," Rodney said in a rush. "To John. I, uh... thought about rings at first — traditional ones — but I knew John wouldn’t wear one. He’s not... he’s not a jewelry guy, and rings can get in the way. I figured he’d end up putting it on a chain anyway, and that’s when I remembered the baby’s tracking tags."

Rodney’s fingers twitched like he wanted to snatch the box back. "He’s been wearing his all the time. So I thought... a wedding tag. Something he’d wear naturally. I had our names put on it, and there’s a blank space for... for the date, you know, when we... when we could’ve gotten married."

Ronon lifted the tag and turned it over. On the back, three interlocked rings were etched into the surface — simple yet striking.

"That’s the symbol for a triad," Rodney added quietly. "When you’ve got an Alpha, Beta, and Omega together."

His voice was shaky, and Ronon could see too many emotions warring on Rodney’s face — fear, sadness, doubt... and something painfully hopeful.

"I know I should’ve talked to you first," Rodney blurted. "I just... I kinda figured you’d be okay with it. And I wanted to see if the idea even worked... if it was nice enough. This is actually the second version."

Ronon closed the box carefully, then turned his full attention to Rodney. "I don’t know much about wedding rings," Ronon admitted, "but this... this feels like John. Even the gold and the fancy writing — it’s nice, but not too much." He gave a rare smile. "You should ask him. I was wondering when we’d make things official."

"Yeah, well..." Rodney ran a hand down his face. "Now I’m not sure if I’m too late. I mean... I can’t ask him when he’s hopped up on drugs and bleeding out. That’s... that’s practically entrapment."

"He’s not dead yet," Ronon reminded him firmly. "And you know John — he always finds a way to pull through. And if he doesn’t..." Ronon paused, struggling for the right words. "If he doesn’t, he still deserves to know. Don’t let your fear make you wait too long."

Rodney swallowed hard, gripping the box tightly like it was the only thing anchoring him. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Yeah... I’ll think about it."

Chapter Text

Eating his breakfast, John could see he was back on the high-iron diet again. There was a generous helping of hearty stew made with organ meats — rich in iron and nutrients — paired with scrambled eggs cooked with plenty of butter. A bowl of sliced citrus fruits sat beside it, packed with high-vitamin C options to help his body absorb the iron. The meal was clearly chosen with recovery in mind

If he thought he’d been weak before bleeding out, it was nothing compared to now. His hands trembled as he struggled to scoop the stew onto his spoon, the muscles in his arm shaking from the effort. Each bite took more focus than it should have, and halfway through, he was just too tired to keep going. The cold didn’t help — he was freezing. Even with the extra blanket they’d given him last night when his shivering had set off the heart monitor, the chill clung to his bones.

The IV in his arm was equally irritating, tugging at his skin whenever he moved. It felt like a constant reminder.

Attempting another bite, John was relieved when Dr. Carson Beckett appeared at his bedside — finally, a break from the frustrating meal.

"How are ye feeling, lad?" Carson asked, his voice softer than usual. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "And the truth — none of that 'I'm fine' malarky."

John opened his mouth to answer automatically, then caught himself. Carson wasn’t going to let him off the hook. "I'm... I'm tired," he admitted, voice thin and scratchy.

"Aye," Carson nodded, clearly expecting that. "Any pain?"

"Sore," John answered honestly. "But... been too tired to try doing much."

"That’s to be expected," Carson said, his face lined with concern as he started his routine checks. He took John's wrist in his hand, counting his pulse and watching the sluggish rise and fall of his chest. When he reached for the IV line, John spoke up.

"Any chance I could lose that?" he asked hopefully, nodding toward the offending tube. He really hated that thing — if he was going to be stuck in the infirmary, he at least wanted some comfort.

"Sorry, lad," Carson said with a sympathetic grimace. "I'm hoping if I can get as much nutrients into ye as possible, it'll help ye heal faster. Your body’s been through too much." He jotted a few notes on his tablet.

"Figures," John muttered, leaning back into the pillows. The brief conversation had worn him out more than it should have. His eyelids drooped, and his muscles felt heavy.

"Not so fast," Carson said, giving John’s arm a light squeeze. "I know you're tired, but try to finish a bit more of your breakfast first, aye?"

"I'm not hungry," John mumbled, already half-lost in the haze of exhaustion.

"I know," Carson said, his tone gentle but firm. "But you'll feel worse later if you don’t. Half of it, at least — then you can sleep all ye like."

John cracked one eye open, giving Carson a tired, unamused look. "You're bargaining with a half-dead guy."

"Aye," Carson said with a small smile. "And I'll win, too. So go on."

With a sigh that felt like more effort than it was worth, John reached for the spoon again. Carson stayed close, watching quietly but not hovering. After a few slow bites, John’s hand faltered again, too shaky to keep going.

"That’s good enough," Carson said softly, setting the spoon aside. "Get some rest now."

"Was planning on it," John muttered, already sinking into the pillows. The last thing he felt was Carson tucking the blankets closer around him before the warmth finally chased away the cold.

–

Sensing someone next to him, then hearing the babies making noise, John opened his eyes to see who was there. Seeing Teyla cooing at the new babies, he smiled.

Seeing his head move and his smile, Teyla looked up and smiled back. “John, it's good to see you awake.”

“Nice to be awake,” he teased, shifting to sit up more comfortably. Teyla caught his wince and observed him until he settled down.

"They are beautiful, John," Teyla said, her gaze returning to the infants. "You do seem to make adorable babies." She smiled warmly.

John just smirked back at her. He knew she wasn't being malicious; her culture had different views. When it was a miracle to last till 40, any new life was a beautiful blessing no matter what brought that life into the world.

"Be nice if I could be the one making the decision to make the babies for once," he teased.

Teyla looked like he had scolded her. "Oh yes, I'm sorry, John. I know it has been hard on you emotionally for how your first were created. I am grateful you seem to be recovering from the birth of these. I was informed it was very hard on you and there were complications."

With a sigh, John knew he should tell her; she was his friend. "There weren't complications... there are complications. And 'complications' makes it sound not as bad."

Looking at John with worried eyes, she waited for him to explain more.

"This pregnancy did a lot of damage," John admitted. "With how fast everything progressed... I already tore and almost bled out, and the likelihood of that happening again is pretty high. From looking at the data from the Ancients, I guess everyone who was part of the experiment died."

Teyla's eyes widened in shock. "John... I'm so sorry."

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice low and tired. "Carson's doing everything he can to manage things, but... it's not exactly a great outlook."

"You are strong, John," Teyla said firmly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "And you have people here who care about you — more than you know. We will get through this."

John gave her a tired smile. "Yeah... I know."

Teyla glanced back at the sleeping babies and smiled softly. "And they will know how strong their mother is."

For a moment, John allowed himself to believe that might be true.

John just watched Teyla interact with the new babies. Her soft murmurs and gentle smiles seemed to calm them, and he found himself relaxing just by watching her. The warmth in the room felt grounding, a small comfort after everything he'd been through.

Soon they were joined by Carson. The doctor carried a tall plastic cup — one of the ones used in the mess hall — and handed it to John.

Taking the cup gingerly, John looked inside and found a thick brown substance swirling lazily inside.

Wrinkling his nose at it, he asked, "What is this?"

"It's a protein shake," Carson explained, his tone light but insistent. "Ye didn't eat much of yer breakfast."

"Don't ye make that face," Carson added, wagging a finger at him. "I made sure it was extra chocolate, and I even added some of that honey the Athosians gave us."

Swirling it around in the cup, John sniffed it. It did smell like chocolate, and there was a sweet, floral aroma beneath it — likely the honey Carson mentioned. Finally giving in, he took a sip. It wasn't half bad.

"You know," John said, smirking at the doctor, "if you let this get almost frozen, you could just call it a milkshake."

Carson mock-glared at him. "And have ye spreadin' rumors that I'm giving my patients milkshakes? I'd have patients stacked up to my eyeballs. No way."

"Aw, come on," John teased. "Think of the morale boost."

"Aye, and a riot in the infirmary," Carson shot back dryly. "Ye better not tell anyone I'm handing out milkshakes."

John laughed as he drank the rest. It was much easier than breakfast.

–

John just stared blankly, watching the bustle of the infirmary play out around him like some distant, low-energy documentary. He didn’t have the strength to do much more than exist right now. He had already slept too much, yet couldn’t seem to summon the energy for anything else. He sat slumped in the hospital bed, bundled under what felt like every blanket in the city. And still, he shivered.

The infirmary staff did their best — they brought fresh, heated blankets regularly, tucked in hot water bottles by his sides — but nothing truly chased the chill from his bones. It wasn’t just the physical cold. It was deeper, more stubborn. Something he wasn’t sure a med team could fix.

Movement near the infirmary doors caught his eye. He blinked sluggishly as a small figure entered, nearly swallowed under a precariously balanced pile of fabric. There was a familiarity to the gait — the purposeful stride, the balance of quiet strength and grace — and then he spotted the telltale fall of dark hair peeking out over the top.

Teyla.

As she neared, John’s sluggish mind finally registered something else — the top blanket in the stack. That was his. The one from his bed. Not the standard-issue Atlantis linens, but the thick, beautifully woven Athosian one. Earth-toned and handmade, with subtle embroidered patterns. Teyla had given it to him not long after the babies were born. She never said anything directly to him. It showed up after his breakdown and Ronon and Rodney cleaning up his place.

It had become his favorite blanket.

The bundle of cloth stopped beside him, and Teyla began to gently peel off layers. She said nothing at first, simply placing the heavier blanket — the one from his bed — across his lap and legs. The weight of it was grounding. Familiar. Safe. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

“What’cha got there?” he rasped, his voice rough and uneven.

Teyla met his tired eyes with a soft expression. “I saw how cold you were when I was here earlier,” she said gently. “I spoke to Carson. He said you’ve been having trouble keeping warm, even with everything they’ve tried. So I went to your quarters to see if there was anything of yours that might help.”

As she spoke, she unfolded the second blanket — the smaller Athosian one that usually lived folded on the back of his couch. The “cuddle blanket,” Rodney once teasingly called it. It had become the unofficial cuddle blanket, the one they used during rare quiet evenings with the triplets, just enjoying time together as a family. Teyla wrapped it around John’s shoulders, careful not to disturb the other layers.

The moment it touched him, something deep inside unclenched. It was warmer than any medical blanket, sure — but more than that, it was his. His scent still faintly clung to it, along with hints of his home, his babies. His pack.

He sighed, his body almost instinctively leaning into the warmth and familiarity. “Thanks,” he murmured, and he meant it.

Teyla offered a quiet smile, then held out one more item — his favorite set of sweatpants and hoodie, soft from wear.

"Here," she said, placing the neatly folded clothes on the bed beside him. "I'll turn my back if you need to change."

John unburied his hands and reached for the bundle, then paused, eyeing his hospital gown and the maze of blankets around him. The idea of changing himself seemed like an Olympic event right now.

But fortunately, he was being closely observed. Every one of the medical staff got a group lecture and a one-on-one lecture about making sure Lt. Colonel John Sheppard stayed IN BED and also rested — no vigorous activities.

Sergeant Kerrigan appeared, seemingly summoned by sixth sense.

“I’ll help you, Colonel,” Kerrigan said matter-of-factly, already moving to draw the privacy curtain. It wasn’t a question.

Teyla stepped back, moving to the opposite side of the curtain to give John privacy.

Kerrigan worked quickly and efficiently, somehow managing to help John change without disturbing his cocoon of warmth. He even managed to slide the hoodie on over John’s head with minimal effort. Socks too. The sergeant gave a crisp nod and disappeared as quietly as he’d arrived.

Teyla returned, settling into the visitor's chair where she could comfortably interact with both John and the new babies. She knew John was too tired to carry a full conversation, so she kept her words light, picking topics that didn’t require much response from him.

She spoke about the Athosians' recent harvest, how the crops were thriving, and how the planting was ahead of schedule this year. She described the successful hunts her people had completed and even went into detail about Serin's latest trading trip, listing the thoughtful items Serin had purchased for her people.

When the topic shifted to the young Athosian boy who'd been making Serin blush, John couldn’t resist chiming in.

“Wait... was that the boy who had her turning red like crazy?” he asked, his voice rough but amused.

Teyla chuckled softly. “Yes, I believe there is some mutual attraction there.”

“So... it's mutual?” John smirked, a tired glint of humor sparking in his eyes.

Teyla’s smile turned knowing. “I believe so. Joran has said he is going on his Dravik hunt,” she added as if that alone explained everything.

John blinked. “The what hunt?”

“Oh...” Teyla’s eyes brightened with fondness at the tradition. “It is a hunt my people undertake when they wish to court someone. The intended kill is meant to be a gift for the one they are hoping to court. The last I heard, Joran was preparing for one. Since he has not shown or spoken interest in anyone else... we can only assume it is meant for Serin.”

John grinned. “Well, sounds like you’ll need a new nanny soon,” he teased, just about to make another joke when the sharp cries from the infirmary entrance cut him off.

The sound was unmistakable — those were his babies. John’s head snapped toward the door. Ronon and Rodney were hurrying inside, each carrying one of John’s oldest triplets. Both men looked frazzled, Rodney's face red and flustered while Ronon wore a rare expression of apology.

The cries were loud, frantic.

John’s eyes locked onto Theodor just as the toddler's wide, tear-streaked face found him. “MAMA!!” Theodor shrieked, his little arms flailing wildly as he tried to lunge out of Ronon’s grasp.

The room stilled.

John’s breath caught in his throat. The babies hadn't spoken their first words yet — and hearing it shouted across the infirmary hit him like a punch to the chest. Before he could process it, the other two joined in, their cries blending into an urgent chorus.

"MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!"

All three wriggled and squirmed, their panicked cries rising.

John shoved aside his blankets with weak, clumsy movements, reaching his arms out even before Ronon and Rodney reached the bedside. His vision blurred with tears.

“Come here,” John whispered, voice breaking.

In seconds, his arms were filled with squirming, sobbing toddlers. They latched onto him tightly, their small hands gripping his gown, his hair, anything they could hold. The strength in their grip was startling — like they were afraid he'd disappear if they let go.

John held them close, feeling their warmth seep into him. He pressed his face against their hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of baby shampoo, warm skin, and something distinctly them overwhelmed his senses. His chest hitched as he rubbed his cheek against their hair, scenting them instinctively.

“I’m here,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m here... Mama’s here.”

The shaking that had plagued him all day slowed. The cold that had burrowed deep into his bones started to ebb away as he cradled his children close, feeling their frantic little hearts pounding against his chest.

Behind him, Teyla watched quietly, her face soft with understanding. Ronon shifted uncomfortably, pretending to inspect the wall, while Rodney cleared his throat, still looking flustered but relieved.

When everyone calmed down some, Ronon decided to explain themselves. “They started being very fussy this morning. Last night it was also difficult to get them settled. Then right after Teyla left, they just wouldn't stop crying and screaming. When they started going to your room, banging on the door, we realized what they wanted.”

“I called Carson to see if it would be okay to bring them,” Rodney jumped in. “He said it would probably be good for you as well as them.”

“Well, clearly it is what they wanted,” Teyla pointed to how the older babies nestled down into John's lap, their tiny hands gripping his shirt tightly.

Once the older ones seemed calmed down some, Ronon and Rodney exchanged glances before Ronon scooped up the newborns and knelt down beside John's bed. Carefully cradling the swaddled infants in his large arms, Ronon gently introduced them to their older siblings.

“This is your brother,” Ronon said, carefully adjusting the blanket swaddling the infant.

John blinked in surprise. He realized he hadn't even asked. In all the chaos — the birth, the recovery, and now the exhaustion — he'd never once asked about the gender of his new babies. He hadn't even known if they were boys or girls. Somehow, hearing Ronon casually say "your brother" felt strange. He had spent hours holding these babies, feeding them, soothing them, yet he hadn't even known.

“And this...” Ronon continued, revealing the next bundle, “this is your new sister.”

John swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down to the newborns nestled in Ronon's arms. A son... and a daughter. Somehow knowing that made everything feel a little more real — and yet distant at the same time. He felt like he should feel something stronger, but instead there was just a strange hollowness. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, but the overwhelming love he expected... it just wasn’t there. Not yet.

Theodore's face scrunched in confusion as he stared at the tiny bundle. The little boy's brow furrowed, and after a moment, he turned back around and buried his face in John's shoulder with a distressed cry. “Mama!” he whimpered, clinging tightly.

John instinctively leaned his head down, pressing his cheek to Theodor's hair, whispering soft reassurances as he rubbed his back. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m right here,” John murmured, his voice low and soothing. He shifted carefully, trying to balance the weight of all three children in his arms. His muscles were trembling from the strain, but he wasn’t about to let go. He just kept nuzzling his little Omega, scent-marking and soothing him as best he could.

Looking up at Ronon and Rodney, John realized something. “Soo... any ideas of names?” he asked.

The two men exchanged a wide-eyed look, as if the thought had only just occurred to them.

“Ummm...” Ronon began, scratching the back of his neck.

Rodney shrugged helplessly. “Not really,” he admitted with an apologetic grimace.

John huffed a breathless chuckle, still cradling his kids. “Figures,” he muttered fondly, his gaze drifting down to the peaceful faces of the newest arrivals. “Looks like I’ll have to come up with something then.”

“Oh come on, it's not like we had months to think about it. Heck, we've barely had a chance to think about the fact we got two more,” Rodney whined.

John just observed the two new additions. Holding his oldest, Kael and Eleanor were staring at the babies with wide, curious eyes. Theodore, however, seemed content to bury his face against John's shoulder, clearly wanting nothing to do with the new arrivals.

“So... no one told me what they were,” John said carefully. The words felt awkward — he knew it was bad that he hadn't even known his babies' sex or gender, but he was going to fix that now.

“Ye got a little Beta boy and another Alpha girl,” Carson supplied as he joined the makeshift family. He’d heard the commotion and decided to check in. Seeing John surrounded by his children — even if still exhausted — seemed to lift his spirits. Carson knew it was important to ensure John wasn’t being worn out, but for now, the sight of him bonding with his children seemed more healing than anything Carson could prescribe.

The Omega just looked at his new babies, their tiny faces scrunched in sleep. He really couldn't think of anything. His mind felt sluggish, weighed down by fatigue and the lingering sense of distance he couldn’t seem to shake.

“Well, I can't think of anything either,” he admitted, feeling almost guilty about it.

“It won't do them any harm,” Carson soothed. “It's better to wait for a good name than to rush into a bad one. Names should feel right.”

“We'll figure something out,” Ronon added in his steady, grounding way, trying to reassure John.

Seeing that his patient seemed calm — albeit still weary — Carson quietly slipped away, knowing rest would do more good than anything else at this point.

Everyone lingered a while longer, quietly chatting and keeping John company. He kept trying to stay involved, but the weight of exhaustion dragged at him. Eventually, he began to nod off mid-conversation, his head dipping forward before jerking back up.

“I believe we should leave you to rest,” Teyla said softly, rising from her seat. Ronon and Rodney reluctantly agreed.

It took some effort to pry the older babies away. Theodore clung tightly to John's shirt, whimpering when Ronon tried to lift him. Eleanor, already starting to fuss, twisted and flailed as Rodney tried to gather her up.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Rodney coaxed as Eleanor tried once again to wiggle free. Finally, with a determined squirm, he managed to scoop her up, earning a frustrated whimper from her.

Before they left, Rodney paused beside John's bed. His face shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting to the floor before back to John. “I love you,” he said, the words a little rushed, almost stumbling out. This was the second time he'd said it where John could clearly hear — but the first time he'd said it with witnesses.

John smiled, warmth flickering behind his tired eyes.

Rodney quickly leaned down, pressing a peck to John's lips before stepping back — startled when Eleanor immediately twisted in his arms, straining to reach her mother again.

Ronon, already holding Theodore and Kael securely, stepped in to fill Rodney’s place. Without hesitation, he leaned down as well, murmuring “I love you too,” against John's lips in his low, gravelly voice.

John didn’t even have time to respond before a large yawn overtook him, his mouth stretching wide as his body sagged deeper into the bed.

The three adults shared a soft smile, knowing John desperately needed rest. With whispered goodbyes, they finally left, taking the older children with them and leaving John alone with the newborns nestled safely at his side.

–

Hearing a far-off voice calling his name, John became aware of someone gently shaking him, their persistence pulling him from sleep. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Nurse Sharon standing above him, her expression warm but firm. Seeing him awake, she smiled.

"There you are, Colonel. It's lunchtime. Beckett really wanted you to eat, so we can't let you sleep through it this time," she explained as she adjusted the bed so John was sitting up. Before he could protest, she efficiently set up his bedside table over his lap and placed a covered tray on it.

She didn’t give him much time to catch up before pulling the cover off the tray and bustling off. John rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking at the meal in front of him. Spotting a glass, he took a few sips, grateful for the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. It was juice—Carson’s way of ensuring he replenished his strength. With a sigh, he glanced at his meal. It was clear Beckett was determined to help him recover from the blood loss.

Despite his usual aversion to hospital food, he found himself hungry for what felt like the first time in a long while. Picking up his fork, he dug in, eating at a steady pace. He actually managed to get through half his meal without feeling like he was forcing himself. It was progress.

As he set his fork down for a brief pause, he caught sight of Elizabeth Weir approaching. The smirk came naturally.

"Elizabeth, what could possibly drag you out of your office and all the way here?" he teased.

She rolled her eyes but smirked back. "Well, when my head of military and second-in-command lands in the infirmary, I can’t exactly ignore it. I see you’re doing well enough to be making your usual jokes."

John just shrugged. "Ehh."

Elizabeth took in the sight before her. John was wrapped in several layers of blankets—ones she recognized as Athosian-made. He still had one wrapped around his shoulders, and it was clear he hadn’t let go of them since they’d been placed on him. He looked pale, his skin lacking its usual color, with dark circles under his eyes betraying his exhaustion. Even his usual smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes, which seemed dimmer than usual. He barely moved, and when he did, it was slow and deliberate, like every motion was carefully calculated to avoid pain.

A soft noise to her left drew her attention. Glancing over, she was met with the sight of a storage crate placed on one of the bedside tables. It was stuffed with yet another set of blankets, and nestled inside were two tiny, bundled-up babies. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, but she kept to their usual conversational style.

"Do we really not have a bed or crib for babies in the infirmary?" she asked dryly.

John let out a laugh—quieter and weaker than usual, but a real laugh nonetheless. "Yeah, apparently Carson thought I would be giving about a nine-month notice of new babies coming."

Elizabeth’s smirk faded slightly as the humor of the moment gave way to the heavier reality. She exhaled softly before speaking. "Yes, that pregnancy device has anyone capable of bearing children very alarmed. Many are now refusing to touch any new Ancient equipment."

"Hey, just to let you know—I NEVER touched it. It just turned on, on it's OWN," John countered, raising a tired eyebrow at her.

"I'm not telling anyone that. If they hear it activates without touch, they’ll refuse to leave their rooms, and quite frankly, I might join them," Elizabeth replied, folding her arms with a wry expression.

John huffed a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, lesson learned. Don't trust Ancient tech."

Elizabeth softened, taking a seat beside his bed. "How are you really doing, John?"

He glanced down at the newborns, then at his half-eaten meal. His fingers brushed over the thick Athosian blanket draped around his shoulders, as if grounding himself in its warmth. The scent of home, of safety, clung to it, mingling with the faint, comforting traces of his older children. He exhaled, slow and measured. "Still catching up," he admitted quietly. "It's... a lot."

Elizabeth didn't respond right away. She just observed him for a long moment, watching how his fingers absently curled around the fabric, how his gaze flickered between the newborns and his tray, never settling for long. He was exhausted. Not just physically, but in a way that seeped into his very being.

The Alpha woman shifted slightly, her expression softening as she turned her attention back to the babies. This time, she really looked at them—tiny, fragile bundles nestled in the makeshift cradle of blankets and storage crates. She hesitated for only a moment before reaching out, brushing her fingertips across the velvety softness of a cheek. The infant stirred slightly but didn’t wake. “They’re just as cute as your first,” she murmured. Then, glancing back at John, her expression turned more serious. “Carson didn’t give me many details, but they’re healthy? Nothing amiss from their... rapid arrival?”

John let out a slow breath. “Carson keeps checking them, but he hasn’t found anything yet. No abnormalities, no issues we can see—so far, at least.” He shrugged slightly, though the motion was stiff, cautious. “So hopefully, they at least came out unscathed.”

Elizabeth nodded, though she didn’t look entirely reassured. “And you?” she pressed, finally meeting his eyes. “In all seriousness, how are you doing? Carson only told me that there were... complications.”

John huffed out a quiet laugh, though there was no real humor in it. “Complications is a nice way to put it,” he admitted. He shifted slightly in the bed, suppressing a wince at the lingering ache deep in his core. He wouldn’t lie to her—not about this. “With their—what did you call it? Rapid arrival?—my body never got a chance to adjust properly. Carson described it like a balloon filling up too fast and too much.” He glanced at her, his mouth twitching in something that might’ve been a smirk if he weren’t so damn tired. “Turns out, that’s not exactly great for long-term durability.”

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together in a thin line, her concern evident. She didn’t like that answer. Not one bit.

“I know Zelenka is helping Carson go through the database, looking for anything useful,” she said at last. “But you know how much is in there. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack.”

John nodded. He wanted to hope. He wanted to believe there was some miraculous Ancient fix hidden away in the vast archives of Atlantis, waiting to be discovered. But his gut told him otherwise. He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years, and right now, they were whispering that no last-minute salvation was coming. He didn’t voice that thought. No point in making people worry more than they already were.

Silence stretched between them. Elizabeth shifted again, her usual confidence faltering slightly as she stood there, clearly unsure of what else to say. She had never been the best at bedside manner, and she knew it.

After a beat, she cleared her throat. “I guess I should let you finish your lunch,” she said, a touch awkwardly.

John nodded again, feeling the weight of her concern even as she tried to mask it.

Elizabeth lingered for just a second longer before offering a small smile. “Rest and heal up, John,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I can’t run this place without you.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving John alone once more with his thoughts, his exhaustion, and the two tiny lives curled up beside him.

Chapter Text

Teyla had been kind enough to bring his portable PSP, and for that, John was endlessly grateful. There was only so much sleeping a person could do, and watching the steady flow of people in and out of the infirmary had long since lost its entertainment value. Even though he was exhausted, rest didn’t come easily. His body was still adjusting—or trying to, at least—to everything it had been through, and the quiet hum of the PSP in his hands was a welcome distraction.

He shifted slightly, trying to ease the tension building in his lower back from sitting still too long. The movement pulled at sore muscles, and a dull ache radiated through his lower body, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. There was something else—something that felt… wrong.

A slow, creeping sensation of wetness spread between his thighs. At first, he thought maybe he was sweating, but no—this was different. The warmth, the slickness—his body knew what it was before his brain caught up.

A strange, heavy feeling settled in his gut as he hesitantly reached beneath the layers of blankets, fingers ghosting over his inner thighs, where the sensation was strongest. His heart stuttered when his fingertips met undeniable dampness. A sick kind of dread curled in his stomach.

The moment he pulled his hand away and saw the deep crimson staining his fingers, time seemed to slow.

Blood.

A lot of it.

For a moment, he could only stare, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing. It didn’t seem real—couldn’t be real. But the warmth seeping into the blankets beneath him told a different story. The scent of iron filled his senses, sharp and unmistakable.

His grip on the PSP slackened, and the device tumbled into his lap, forgotten. His free hand, the one not coated in blood, fumbled clumsily for the emergency call button. His fingers felt sluggish, the world around him growing distant, as if he were watching it from outside his own body.

Too much blood.

Too fast.

He was cold again.

A shrill alarm pierced the infirmary, and suddenly the room exploded into frantic motion. Footsteps pounded against the floor, and voices—urgent, sharp—called out orders, but it all seemed muffled, as if he were underwater.

A nurse appeared at his bedside, her face blurring at the edges as she leaned in. He couldn’t recall her name, but he could see the moment she registered what was happening. Her eyes widened, and her mouth moved—words spilling out, but John couldn’t make sense of them.

He held out his bloody hand. That, at least, needed no explanation.

The nurse reacted instantly, pressing the emergency controls on the bed to lower him into a more stable position. The shift made him dizzy, and his head lolled to the side slightly.

More figures surrounded him—hands lifting the blankets, sharp intakes of breath, voices swearing in Gaelic.

That was bad.

Something was very, very wrong.

The world around him wavered. Colors dulled. His body felt weightless, untethered.

–

John finally managed to pry his eyes open, only to be greeted by a hazy, unfocused world. The room around him was blurred at the edges, colors and shapes blending together in an indistinct mess. Blinking sluggishly, he tried to lift a hand to rub at his eyes, to clear the fog, but something stopped him.

His arms wouldn’t move.

A sharp intake of breath rattled through his lungs as he instinctively struggled, his muscles tensing against whatever was holding him down. Panic flared in his chest, his breath coming in short, unsteady bursts. He wasn’t fully awake yet, and for a disorienting moment, he had no idea where he was—only that he was trapped.

His pulse pounded in his ears, and just as his breathing started to escalate, he felt it—a presence beside him. A weight, warm and grounding, settled over his hand.

“Shhh, it's okay, John. Ye're in the infirmary.”

The voice was familiar, thick with a Scottish brogue, and the warmth of a calloused hand gently wrapped around his own, squeezing just enough to anchor him. A blurry figure leaned closer, their features distorted by his foggy vision.

"It's okay, son. Can ye breathe for me?"

John forced himself to focus, to slow the erratic rise and fall of his chest. Carson. It was Carson. His mind caught up to the present moment—he wasn’t restrained, he was just bundled under a ridiculous amount of blankets, his body too weak to move properly.

"Here, lad, close ye’re eyes for me."

John obeyed without question, squeezing his eyelids shut as he felt something cool press against his face—a damp cloth wiping gently over his skin, lingering around his eyes. It was refreshing, soothing. His face felt sticky, feverish, and the cloth helped ground him, pushing back the overwhelming fog clinging to his mind.

"There ye go," Carson murmured, his voice softer now.

When John opened his eyes again, the world wasn’t quite so fuzzy. It still felt like he was looking through a dirty window, but at least now he could make out proper shapes. Carson was leaning over him, his face filled with undisguised concern. The doctor’s usual professional mask was nowhere to be seen—this was just Carson, worried and hovering like a mother hen.

John’s gaze drifted downward, finally taking in his own state. He was buried beneath several layers of thick blankets, a heavy weight pressing down on him. He felt warm—almost too warm—but at the same time, a bone-deep chill still clung to his limbs. Heat packs were nestled around him, adding to the overwhelming cocoon he was trapped in.

His eyes trailed to his arm, where new IV lines snaked into his skin. He had several more than what he last remembered. One, he immediately recognized as a blood transfusion. That explained the thick, sluggish feeling in his veins, the dull ache in his limbs.

Carson must have noticed the shift in his attention because he sighed. “Aye, lad. Ye needed more blood.” His voice was steady, but there was something deeper there—reluctance.

John frowned slightly, the weight of exhaustion making it hard to think clearly. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, and immediately grimaced as something unnatural caught at the movement. There was a foreign sensation, an obstruction lodged in his throat, and his stomach twisted with realization.

A feeding tube and a nasal cannula

A flash of discomfort flickered across his face as he reached a sluggish hand toward it, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated.

Carson caught his wrist before he could make contact.

“Ach, none of that, lad,” Carson scolded gently but firmly. “Ye leave that be. Ye need it right now.”

John furrowed his brow, frowning at him. He hated the idea of it. Hated the helplessness it represented. But the way Carson looked at him, the exhaustion and worry in the man’s expression, made it clear this wasn’t just a precaution.

John had been bad off.

John swallowed again, this time more carefully, wincing at the raw ache in his throat. It felt like sandpaper, dry and sore, as if he hadn’t spoken or drank anything in days. How much time had passed? He wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come. His tongue felt thick, his body sluggish, like he was moving through water.

Before he could even attempt to work up the strength to ask, a warm presence settled beside him again. A mug appeared near his lips, a straw gently pressing against them.

“Go on, lad, take a sip,” Carson coaxed, his voice a steady, grounding force in the haze.

John obeyed, wrapping his lips around the straw and drawing in a mouthful. The warmth of the liquid startled him, the expected coolness replaced by a gentle heat that seeped down his throat, soothing the rawness but also catching him off guard. His brows furrowed slightly, a questioning look flickering in his tired eyes.

Carson, ever perceptive, answered before John could even attempt to form the thought into words.

“Ye’re so cold, even ye’re skin is cold to the touch,” Carson explained, his voice tinged with lingering concern. “I don’t want ye consumin’ anything cold at the moment. I even have the IVs warmed.”

John gave a slow, tired blink, taking in that information. He knew he had been cold before, but the fact that Carson was going so far as to warm his fluids made him realize just how bad things must have gotten. His body wasn’t regulating heat properly—probably due to blood loss and exhaustion.

He couldn’t summon the energy to argue, so instead, he took a few more slow sips, just enough to ease the dryness in his throat. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, swallowing around the tube that was still lodged down the back of his throat, but at least it wasn’t as unbearable as before.

As he shifted slightly, trying to take stock of his condition, he noticed something different. His fingers brushed over fabric—soft, textured, but not quite right. His brows furrowed as he ran his fingertips along the weave. This wasn’t his blanket.

That realization pulled him further from the haze of exhaustion. His blanket—the one Teyla had given him before—had been darker, with a distinct embroidered edge. He remembered its comforting weight, the faint scent of herbs woven into the fibers. This one was still Athosian, but it wasn’t his.

Frowning, he forced his sluggish arm to move, trying to get a better grip on the unfamiliar fabric. Before he could put together the energy to ask, Carson caught the confusion in his expression and sighed.

“Ye’re blanket got blood on it,” the doctor explained, voice gentle but firm. “Teyla sent this one over to replace it till ye’re’s is washed.”

John blinked at that, his stomach twisting slightly at the thought. He had liked his blanket. It had been a tether—one of the few things that made him feel less like a patient trapped in the infirmary. Now it was stained, evidence of just how bad things had gotten.

Still, he exhaled slowly through his nose, nodding slightly. It was just a blanket. He could get it back later.

Carson must have seen the questions lingering in his eyes, because he sighed, squeezing John’s hand once more in reassurance.

“Ye gave us quite the scare, son.” His voice was softer now, but there was no mistaking the edge of lingering worry. “Just rest for now, aye? We’ll talk when ye’re up for it.”

John wanted to argue, wanted to demand answers—but his body had other plans. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the warmth of the blankets and the steady beeping of the monitors around him lulling him back into the darkness.

The last thing he felt was Carson’s reassuring grip on his hand, anchoring him as he drifted away once more.

–

Waking again was slightly easier and, thankfully, less panic-inducing. His body still felt sluggish, heavy, and weak, but at least this time, his brain caught up to reality a little faster.

The first thing he noticed was the dryness in his mouth. It felt like he had tried to chew and swallow an entire bag of cotton balls. His throat was raw, and swallowing yielded absolutely nothing but discomfort. He worked his tongue around his mouth, grimacing at how parched he felt.

His eyes tracked around the room, still a little hazy but clearer than before. He caught sight of a mug on the bedside table just within reach. His fingers twitched in the blankets, and he sluggishly worked to free his arm, fumbling slightly until he found the bed controls. Pressing it, he waited as the bed slowly began to adjust, raising him up inch by inch.

It was a good thing the process was slow. Even with the gradual incline, a wave of dizziness hit him like a truck. His vision blurred at the edges, and for a moment, his stomach turned uncomfortably. He really had lost a lot of blood. That much was obvious.

As the room stopped spinning, he glanced down and noticed the IV still running into his arm. Blood. He was still getting a transfusion. That wasn’t great. That meant he either hadn’t been asleep long enough for them to stop, or he’d lost more than he initially thought.

With a shaking hand, he reached for the mug. Someone with a brain had put a lid on the thing with a straw sticking out. Small blessings. His fingers trembled as he grasped it, his grip weak and unsteady. He brought it to his lips and took slow sips of the warm water. It felt good, soothing in a way he hadn’t expected, but it also reminded him of how utterly drained he was.

No one came rushing to check on him, which meant the medical staff had likely determined he was stable enough to manage on his own for now. Still, he could tell they were keeping an eye on him. His movements hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Looking around the infirmary, he noticed something had changed. The beds had been rearranged, clustered together more tightly than before. They’d made room—three of Atlantis’ coveted, more comfortable chairs had been set up near the center of the room. Someone had even added footrests, allowing their occupants to recline slightly.

John’s gaze settled on those occupying the seats. The first was Major Evan Lorne, currently engaged in a quiet conversation with a nurse. From the way she was holding a clipboard and gesturing, John recognized the standard post-medical procedure rundown.

The second chair held Sergeant Wittle. He had arrived with Colonel Everett during the siege and later requested to stay. John had learned after the fact that the Alpha had been impressed with how he led, particularly with his willingness to sacrifice himself for his people. The man had respected a front-line leader. When John took command as a lieutenant colonel, he’d soon given Wittle his own gate team. The man was loyal to a fault.

John's eyes then landed on the third chair, where a scientist was currently being prepped. He recognized the face but not the name—one of the newer recruits from the last supply run. They hadn’t been around long enough for him to properly meet them, especially with how chaotic things had been.

Realization settled in as he took in the IVs attached to their arms. They were donating blood. And from the looks of it, not casually—this was organized. John frowned, his sluggish brain piecing things together.

A movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention, and he glanced over at his much-closer-than-before neighbor. Staff Sergeant McGreggor was sitting on a nearby bed, casually scrolling through his tablet, but his posture was far too relaxed to be uninvolved.

“Staff,” John croaked, his voice hoarse. He winced and coughed, trying to clear his throat. That was a mistake. It felt like scraping sandpaper against an open wound.

Still, it did the job. McGreggor looked up immediately, his expression shifting from neutral to attentive. “Sir?”

John took a moment to gather himself before nodding toward the makeshift blood donation setup. “What’s going on over there?” His voice was rough, but at least it was understandable now.

McGreggor smirked. “They’re running a blood drive—well, sort of. Calling it a ‘drive’ implies it’s voluntary.”

John’s brow furrowed at that. “It’s not voluntary?”

“Well… technically, it is,” McGreggor said, shifting slightly. “But considering the email Dr. Weir sent to all personnel, it didn’t feel voluntary.”

John gave him a wary look. “There were threats?”

McGreggor blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “How did you know there were threats?”

John smirked, leaning his head back against the pillows. “I’ve been on the receiving end of some of Elizabeth’s ‘strongly worded emails.’”

That earned him a short laugh. "Yeah, well, turns out those work wonders when paired with some… ‘incentives.’ People are practically lining up to donate. You probably have the email in your inbox, too—she CC’ed everyone."

John exhaled sharply, somewhere between a huff of amusement and disbelief. “We ran that low?”

McGreggor hesitated, his expression growing more serious. "Yeah… things got bad, sir." He met John’s gaze head-on, military training keeping him from looking away. "You used up all of your type, and then… then we had to dip into the universal supply. A lot of it."

John’s stomach twisted slightly. That wasn’t good. O-negative was their universal donor supply, the safety net for when specific types weren’t available. They always tried to keep a full fridge of it—enough to handle multiple emergencies or at least a few major surgeries. If they had gone through that much…

His mind did the grim math automatically. There were only three people on Atlantis with AB+, including himself. They usually kept five units of it on hand, enough to cover a severe injury or two. If they had run through all of his type and then dipped heavily into the O-negative stockpile, that meant he had lost… a lot. More than he wanted to consider.

McGreggor swallowed before continuing, voice quieter now. “Doc said they had to start using blood supplements on you. Said they barely had enough left for emergencies or surgeries. That’s why this whole thing is happening.”

John felt his mouth go dry again, and this time, it had nothing to do with dehydration. He had known he’d lost a lot of blood, but hearing just how much put things into stark perspective. They had run out of his type completely and nearly bled their reserves dry trying to keep him alive.

His mind flashed back to Carson’s extra precautions—the warmed IVs, the hot drinks, the feeding tube. Even now, he recognized one of the bags hanging beside him as a banana bag—full of electrolytes and vitamins meant to help replenish what he had lost.

“Damn,” John muttered under his breath, still processing everything. He couldn’t stop his brain from going over the numbers again, calculating just how much blood he’d lost, how dangerously low their stores had gotten, and how close he’d come to things going south permanently.

McGreggor shifted beside him, clearly waiting for some kind of response. Maybe an order, maybe reassurance—John wasn’t sure what the man expected, but the tension in the air was thick. He exhaled slowly, nodding in acknowledgment. He wasn’t about to dwell on it any longer; the damage was done, and nothing was going to change that now. They were working on fixing it, and that was what mattered.

Still, the weight of it sat heavy on his chest. He needed a distraction.

Wanting to steer the conversation into less dire territory, John cleared his throat. “So, what are the bribes?” he asked, raising a brow.

That did the trick. McGreggor’s lips twitched into a grin, his posture relaxing as he leaned back against the bed. “Oh, you’re gonna love this, sir,” he said, clearly pleased. “First off, those cakes from the Athosians—you know, the ones we only ever see on holidays or at the baby shower? Teyla pulled some massive favor and got a bunch of the ladies from the mainland to come over and make a whole batch. I think they’re still going at it, too. They keep bringing in fresh ones, like some kind of never-ending cake supply.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. That was impressive. Those cakes were practically legendary on Atlantis. Soft, sweet, with that spiced honey glaze that melted on your tongue. People would fight over the last piece at gatherings.

McGreggor continued, clearly enjoying his role as the bearer of good news. “Then there’s the off-world mission incentive—anyone who donates gets to pick one of their next assignments. Including the coveted ones, like the places that feed us like kings. You know, the markets with the best food or the trade deals where we come back with way too much stuff.”

John let out a low whistle. That was definitely a bribe. People fought tooth and nail to get on those missions.

“Oh, and speaking of market runs,” McGreggor added, his grin widening, “those who donate get a spending allowance for the next one. Not out of their own pocket, either—officially sanctioned shopping money.”

John’s mouth actually fell open a little at that. “Okay, that’s… wow.”

“Oh, it gets better,” McGreggor said, holding up a finger. “Weir promised everyone who donates a whole box of chocolate with the next supply run.”

John frowned slightly, unimpressed. “That’s it?”

McGreggor barked a laugh. “Not just any box, sir. Costco-sized boxes. Whatever flavor they want.”

John actually groaned. “That’s not fair. I’d donate for that.”

McGreggor’s grin turned smug. “Oh, and let’s not forget the massive snack table they’ve set up. Everything you can think of. Unfortunately, they’re being real stingy about it—only those who donate get access, and only those who are medically cleared to donate are allowed in.”

At that, the sergeant’s grin dimmed a bit, and he made an exaggerated pouty face. “Means I’m out,” he added, gesturing to himself.

John had already known about McGreggor’s injuries—he made a point of keeping tabs on his people, especially when things went sideways. The training mission with the new recruits had been a mess from the start. A miscalculated route, unstable terrain, and a rockslide that had left several people injured, McGreggor among them. John had read the reports, but seeing the man in front of him, still favoring one side and sporting fading bruises, drove it home.

“You got the short end of that rock slide, huh?” John said knowingly, eyeing the other man.

McGreggor let out a dramatic sigh. “Yep. And now I get to miss out on all the good stuff.” He gestured vaguely, obviously referring to the cakes and snacks, his expression morphing into an exaggerated pout. “Guess I should’ve dodged faster.”

John was floored. That was some serious bribery. “So they’re really not sharing any cakes?” he asked, his tone bordering on a childish whine. He loved those cakes.

McGreggor snorted. “Dr. Beckett assured everyone who’s a patient here that they’ll get one with dinner.”

“Oh, so I didn’t miss dinner?” John asked, hopeful.

McGreggor suddenly looked uncomfortable. He hesitated, shifting on his feet. “Well… you kinda did.”

John’s stomach twisted.

The sergeant rubbed the back of his neck. “You, uh… also missed breakfast. And lunch.” He glanced away, clearly uneasy. “It’s been nearly a whole day since you bled out the second time, sir.”

John felt the air leave his lungs. He had known he’d been out for a while, had felt the weight of lost time, but hearing it confirmed still sent a cold shiver through him.

Before he could fully process that, a sound caught his attention—small, fussy noises, unmistakably from a baby.

His head snapped to where the cribs had been earlier, but the spot was empty. His breath hitched, and his heart rate spiked enough that he heard the change in the monitor.

Panic flared, overriding every bit of exhaustion as he tried to sit up more, his eyes darting around the room. Where were they? He could still hear the fussing, but he couldn’t see them.

McGreggor immediately raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Whoa, whoa, sir—easy. They’re fine.”

John barely heard him, still searching, still listening for his children.

“They moved the new ones to Beckett’s office,” McGreggor explained quickly. “You were in no condition to care for them, and with how busy things are in here, they needed them closer to the main medical staff.”

John’s pulse slowed slightly at that, but the panic didn’t fully subside. It was reasonable, sure, but the realization that he hadn’t even noticed his children were missing until now made his stomach churn.

He should have woken up knowing something was off. With his first, the second he was awake, he would immediately register if the baby wasn’t nearby. Now? He had been conscious for several minutes before even thinking about them.

His eyes snapped toward Carson’s office just as the doctor himself emerged, pushing the table with the crate that had served as the babies’ bassinet. As if sensing their father’s presence, the fussy noises grew louder.

Carson steered the makeshift crib toward John’s bed, his expression warm but firm. “Figured since ye’re awake now, ye’d want to hold ye’re bairns.”

John swallowed thickly, nodding, his body already leaning forward instinctively.

Carson parked the crate beside the bed as one of the nurses joined him. Together, they worked to adjust John’s position, sitting him up straighter and propping him with extra pillows. He was too weak to properly hold the babies on his own, but they arranged things so he could at least cradle them securely.

One of the nurses placed bottles in his hands—small, pre-warmed, ready for feeding. As soon as the first bottle touched little lips, the fussing quieted, replaced by the soft sounds of sucking.

John exhaled, shifting uncomfortably as the babies settled against him. He knew he was supposed to feel something more—some deep, instinctive connection—but instead, there was just an overwhelming sense of pressure. Of expectation. They were so small, so fragile, and they relied entirely on him. And yet, holding them didn’t bring the rush of warmth he thought it should.

His grip on the bottles tightened slightly, and he forced himself to focus on feeding them, on the way their tiny hands twitched, the soft suckling sounds they made. Maybe if he just kept at it, the connection would come.

He barely noticed Carson at first, but the familiar weight of the doctor’s hands checking his pulse and adjusting his IV pulled him out of his thoughts. John flicked his gaze up briefly, catching the assessing look in Carson’s eyes.

“You’re still pale, but your numbers are holding steady,” Carson murmured, his voice gentle but watchful. “How are ye feelin’, lad?”

John swallowed, unsure how to answer that. Physically? Like death warmed over. Emotionally? He wasn’t sure he wanted to get into that.

“Tired,” he settled on. It wasn’t a lie.

Carson didn’t push, just hummed thoughtfully before continuing his check-up, his hands careful but thorough. John could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the concern in the way the doctor’s movements lingered longer than necessary.

After a long pause, Carson exhaled and gave him a look that immediately put John on edge. It was the kind of look that meant bad news was coming, the kind doctors gave before they told you something you wouldn’t want to hear.

“John… we need to talk about what happened to ye,” Carson said, voice soft but firm.

John stiffened slightly. He hadn’t really let himself think too hard about it. He’d woken up weak, in pain, still hooked up to an IV—that had told him plenty. But he hadn’t asked for details. Maybe because some part of him didn’t want to know.

Still, he nodded, bracing himself.

Carson sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before continuing. “Elizabeth’s got a task force combing through the Ancient database, tryin’ to find anything that might help ye. Meanwhile, our top scientists are in the labs, coming up with solutions. The truth is, lad, we’re runnin’ out of ideas fast.”

John swallowed hard. That was never something you wanted to hear from your doctor. “How bad?” he asked, voice rough.

Carson hesitated, but only for a moment. “Bad, son.” His expression darkened. “Ye tore—badly. Worse than last time. So much so that I couldn’t even stitch ye this time. Every time I tried, the sutures just caused more tearing.” His voice dropped lower, thick with worry. “It’s all internal.”

John felt a cold weight settle in his gut. His hands tightened slightly where they rested against the blankets. That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

“I had to use glue,” Carson continued, his brogue thickening slightly as it often did when he was troubled. “It was the only way to close the wounds without making things worse. But even with the glue, I wasn’t sure how long it would hold without additional support, so I needed to pack your uterus. I used a poultice.”

“A what?” John was getting more alarmed now, his sluggish brain catching up to what Carson was actually saying.

“A poultice,” Carson repeated, his voice steady but gentle, aware of how unnerving this all must sound. “It’s a combination of herbs made into a paste, applied like a plaster or wrapped in cloth and pressed over a wound to promote healing. I ken our medicine has largely moved away from herbal treatments, but there’s still a great deal of wisdom in them that shouldn’t be dismissed. I’ve spent time studying what the Athosians use, comparing it to what we know from Earth. The herbs I used were a mix of both—Earth-based knowledge blended with Athosian healing traditions.”

John just blinked at the doctor, his throat suddenly dry. Swallowing thickly, he tried to process the information. “So… has there been any new ideas?”

Carson exhaled heavily, his worry deepening. “No, lad. We are exactly where we started when Zelenka gave us the information.”

John had feared this, but it wasn’t a shock. His instincts had been screaming at him that there wasn’t going to be some last-minute eureka moment, no brilliant Ancient breakthrough to save him. He nodded slowly and looked back down at his babies, taking in their tiny faces, their small, peaceful expressions as they fed. He couldn’t help but think that maybe the reason he was struggling to bond with them was because some part of him knew he wouldn’t be around long enough to truly be their parent. Maybe it was better this way. Better for them not to have their Omega mother’s bond form, only to be broken so soon in their lives.

Carson grew alarmed as he watched John. The lack of reaction, the eerie calm—it was wrong. John wasn’t reacting like a man ready to fight. He was resigned.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Carson said, squeezing John’s shoulder firmly, as if trying to anchor him. “We always come up with a last-minute fix.”

John looked up and smiled. But it wasn’t his usual smirk, or even his softer, more genuine smile. No, this was something entirely different. Carson had never seen this smile from him before. No one on Atlantis had. It wasn’t a warrior’s bravado or a leader’s reassurance. It was polished, practiced, and hollow.

It was the kind of smile meant to hide pain so deep it had become second nature to bury it.

Carson’s stomach twisted. He had no idea what he was seeing, but he did not like it. There was something unsettling about it, something that made his skin crawl. He had known John was a private man, but this… this was something else. Something drilled into him long before Atlantis.

“Could I get a tablet, please?” John asked suddenly. His voice was polite. Too polite. Not his usual casual drawl or his sharp-edged sarcasm, but a perfectly measured tone of refined civility.

Carson’s unease deepened. He didn’t know why, but something about this was wrong.

“Why do ye need a tablet?” Carson asked, trying to steer the conversation, to ground John. “I hope ye don’t plan on doing any work?”

“No,” John said, still wearing that too-perfect smile. “I have some movies and books saved to my drive.”

That, at least, made sense. Not long after arriving in Atlantis, it had been decided that everyone would have their own personal drive accessible from any computer or tablet. As long as they could connect to the database, they could retrieve whatever they had uploaded. It was a simple way to maintain personal libraries, entertainment, and logs.

“Ahh, well then,” Carson said, picking up his own abandoned tablet from where he had set it down near John’s legs. He tapped a few keys, then placed it back. “I’ll grab one of the extras from the nurses.” He gave John’s shoulder one more squeeze. “Call if ye need help putting the bairns to bed.”

With that, Carson walked off, but the unease lingered in his chest. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he knew one thing—John Sheppard was not okay. And that scared him more than anything else.

–

John tapped away on the tablet, his fingers moving steadily over the screen. He had told Carson he wouldn’t be working, and technically, that was true—this wasn’t Atlantis work. But he was working. He had things to sort. Arrangements to make.

His gaze flickered up, shifting to the man beside him. Staff Sergeant Atticus McGreggor, his neighbor in the infirmary, had offered to help him settle the babies into their crate for the night. John was too weak to lift them on his own, and he had reluctantly accepted the help. But it quickly became clear that Atticus had another reason for offering—he just wanted to hold them.

At first, John had watched with mild amusement, then with something warmer, something close to gratitude. The big Marine, usually so steady and gruff, had melted the moment he had one of the babies in his arms. His hardened demeanor softened as he cooed at the tiny infant, his fingers impossibly gentle as he adjusted the blanket.

John had made a quiet observation then. “You don’t have to pretend, you know. If you just want to hold them, you can.”

Atticus had looked a little sheepish but didn’t deny it. “They’re pretty great, sir.” he muttered, shifting the baby slightly so their tiny hand curled around his pinky.

John had only nodded, watching the scene unfold with something close to awe. It made him profoundly happy to see how many people had accepted these children—not just as his, but as part of Atlantis. His team. His family.

His mind wandered back to the conversation they’d had just minutes ago, when he had learned something about the Staff Sergeant that shook him.

Atticus had almost been a father himself.

It had come out casually enough at first, in the kind of quiet, reflective way men sometimes shared personal things when they thought no one would judge them for it. He’d had a girl, back home. Someone he had loved. And when they found out she was pregnant, he had been over the moon. He had dreamed of it—of holding his baby for the first time, of watching them grow. He had wanted to be there, to be a father.

But then he had been deployed.

At first, things had seemed fine. The letters and calls continued, but as the months passed and the due date grew closer, he noticed a change. The letters got shorter, the calls less frequent. And then—nothing. Silence.

The due date came and went.

Then months passed.

And finally, one day, he received a letter. A real, hand-written letter, not an email or a voicemail.

It was from her.

She had written to tell him that she had made a decision—a decision that would change everything. A month after he had deployed, she had realized she couldn’t do it alone. She didn’t want to be a single mother, waiting for a man who might never come home, who would disappear for months or even years at a time.

She had ended the pregnancy.

And she was also ending them.

The letter was blunt, detached in a way that made Atticus wonder if she had ever really loved him at all. She had packed up all his things, put them into storage, and mailed him the key.

And that was it.

John had listened to all of it in silence, feeling a deep, painful ache settle in his chest. He had been through a lot in his life—seen a lot of heartbreak, suffered his own share of losses—but something about this hit differently.

He couldn’t fathom it.

Even with his own two unplanned pregnancies—even in the beginning, when the very idea of being a mother had made him recoil—he had never once considered ending them just because it was inconvenient. The thought made him feel sick. Even when he had been at his lowest, denying everything, struggling to accept the reality of his situation, he had never truly thought about not having them.

If he hadn’t been able to care for them, he would have found them a home. A loving home. He would have done everything in his power to ensure they were safe and wanted.

But to just… end it?

He swallowed hard, pushing the thought away. This wasn’t about him.

Instead, he looked back at Atticus, who was still holding the babies, his expression unreadable. The pain was there, buried deep, but so was something else. Something softer. Something that told John that despite everything, Atticus still had love to give.

John turned back to the tablet. Finishing putting the final arraignments together he pulled up his emails and sent off a quick request.

With a yawn he turned off the tablet and reclined the bed some and closed his eyes to rest.

Chapter Text

“John.”

A voice called to him, distant at first, then sharper. “John.”

Blinking sluggishly, John fought his way back to consciousness. His body felt heavy, leaden, as if the weight of exhaustion had settled into his bones and refused to leave. He forced his eyes open, struggling against the haze clouding his mind.

Dr. Elizabeth Weir stood beside his bed, her posture tense, her expression carefully neutral. Oh, right.

He had emailed her earlier.

“You asked to see me,” she said, her voice even, void of any emotion.

John recognized that tone immediately. It was the one she used when she was holding herself together, when she was deliberately locking away emotions that might otherwise crush her. She had been briefed on his condition, no doubt. She could also see it for herself.

The sight he presented was grim.

His skin, once sun-kissed from long off-world missions, had lost all warmth, now deathly pale, nearly Wraith-like in its waxy pallor. Deep, bruised circles marred the skin beneath his eyes, stark against the gauntness of his face. Tubes and wires trailed from his body, a feeding tube taped at his nose along with the nasal canula, multiple IVs snaking from his arms—including a central line, a sign of how precarious his situation had become. The heart monitor beeped softly in the background, punctuated by the automatic hiss and release of the blood pressure cuff that squeezed his arm at regular intervals.

She had seen John injured before. Badly. But never like this.

Never this close to the edge.

John exhaled, searching for the tablet he had set down earlier. It had slipped from his lap and now rested near the edge of the bed, just within reach. His fingers felt clumsy as he grabbed it, turning it back on and navigating to the file he had prepared.

“I was wondering if you would be my witness and sign this?” he said, holding the tablet out to her.

Elizabeth frowned, taking it from him. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she scanned the first few lines—then suddenly stopped.

Her breath hitched.

Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing into something sharper, more intense. “John!”

Her voice cracked, her carefully constructed control slipping for just a moment. She looked up at him, her expression shifting into something between outrage and heartbreak.

“This better not be what I think it is,” she snapped.

John held her gaze, his expression impassive. “If you think it’s my last will and testament, then yes. That’s exactly what it is.” His voice was flat, void of the usual snark, the familiar teasing deflections.

Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath, her grip tightening on the tablet as she fought to keep her composure.

He had done this before.

She had been there for the first update, back when he had started truly seeing his team as more than just colleagues. That had been the first time in years he had revised his will, finally putting something down.

Then he had updated it again after his first pregnancy, thinking of his children's future, ensuring they would be cared for if something happened to him.

She had witnessed it each time.

And now, here they were again. But this time…

This time, it felt final.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She wanted to yell at him, to demand he stop talking like this, but she knew John. Knew that once his mind was set, there was no convincing him otherwise.

So instead, she forced herself to breathe, blinking back the sting of tears as she kept reading.

At the end, she exhaled shakily. “So you just updated it to include the new ones?”

John nodded, shifting slightly against the pillows.

Elizabeth hesitated, then asked, “Have you thought of names?”

“I have some ideas written down in another document,” John admitted. “I wanted to discuss them with their fathers first… but I also wanted it written down. Just in case.”

His voice wavered slightly on the last words.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply, then pulled the stylus from the side of the tablet. With a heavy heart, she signed. The soft beep confirming her authorization felt far too loud in the quiet infirmary.

She didn’t move to hand it back. Instead, she looked up, her eyes suspiciously bright. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes.” John’s voice remained steady. He gestured weakly to the screen. “Go back to the folder.”

She did, navigating to the next document. The moment she read the title, her stomach twisted.

His burial instructions.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, forcing herself to keep reading.

“I don’t want to go back to Earth,” John said, his voice softer now. “I have nothing there. No one.” His fingers curled slightly into the blanket. “So either a sea burial here, or somewhere on the mainland. I haven’t decided which.”

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “I always preferred being in the air, but unless you’re planning on throwing my body out of a jumper in high orbit, I guess that’s not an option.”

The attempt at morbid humor fell flat.

Elizabeth didn’t smile.

She signed the document.

She didn’t linger, moving quickly to the next file. She already knew what it would be.

Guardianship.

Her breath caught as she read his words, the depth of thought and love woven into them.

“I don’t want them sent back to Earth. They have nothing there,” John murmured, watching her reaction carefully. “They were made here. Born here. One of their fathers is from here. And if what Atlantis has told me about them is true… they won’t belong anywhere else.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I'll do everything in my power to make sure they stay. I'm sure others in our colony will as well. Everyone loves those babies.”

He shifted slightly, his fingers twitching against the sheets. “I want Ronon and Rodney to raise them. All of them.” His voice firmed. “They won’t be separated. They will not be broken up.”

Elizabeth nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

“And I don’t want them being forced into gender-specific roles just because of their biology,” John added, his tone gaining an edge of steel. “Theodore shouldn’t be pushed into Omega traditions just because of what he is. None of them should. They should be free to be who they want to be.”

His voice faltered slightly, but he pressed on.

“I want them to have choices. To be happy.”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment before signing her name again.

She took a shaky breath before glancing back up at John. He looked… tired. Not just physically, but in a way that went deeper, past flesh and bone, into something harder to heal.

She had seen more documents. “Leadership?” She questioned.

“Yes, you will need to promote Lorn quickly. You know some bean counter or power hungry person will try and get their guy in here. They didn't like the idea of me being a Major in charge they wont like him. But whoever they try to parachute into my spot will probably not be welcomed. Noone likes outsider appointments. I think it would be better long term for what you now call a colony.” John Explained. “I have some other ideas for how to rearrange the military side of things when I'm not here.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, nodding. John was right. The SGC had always been political, and Atlantis was a prize, an opportunity for advancement in the eyes of too many. Earth didn’t fully understand Atlantis, not the way those who lived here did. Any outsider appointed to command would face resentment and pushback from the military and civilians alike. And with how Atlantis had evolved. The people of Atlantis needed one of their own leading them.

She didn't need to sign it, but now she knew it was there. She went to the next one. She realized it was a folder labeled with one of the babies names. She saw there were 5 total, 2 were left as the babies gender and sex. “Files labeled with your children's names?”

“I wrote them letters, they are labeled with the ages I would like them to get them.”

Elizabeth nodded and read on. The next was labeled trusts. “Trusts?”

“Yes, I have some money. I wrote how I wanted it broken up between them, and when they should have access to how much. Plus they will get my life insurance. I signed up for that policy that the SGC offered anyone going to Atlantis.”

“You mean the $10 million payout plus all expenses for dependents taken care of through college and if they choose to go Air force or Marines a fast tract?”

“Ya that one.”

Nodding Elizabeth continued to read make sure the numbers where right. Then her eyes bugged out again when she saw the finally tallies. “John.... Umm.... you said you have SOME money.... that is more than SOME...” She looked at John her glare was back. She shook her head in disbelief, still staring at him. “This is more than enough for your children to live off of for their entire lives. They’d never need to work.”

John shrugged, but there was a certain weight behind his words. “That’s not the point.” His voice softened slightly. “I don’t want them to need it. I want them to have it, if they want it. But I also want them to live their lives, to build something for themselves. Money’s just a safety net.”

Elizabeth exhaled, still trying to wrap her mind around it. She had always known John was from wealth, but the way he had never leaned on it, never acted like it, made it easy to forget.

“If both sets of grandparents left you trusts, and you still had a payout from your mother’s life insurance, then that means…” She trailed off, realization dawning.

John nodded. “Yeah. Tycoons on both sides. My dad’s side and my mom’s side.”

Elizabeth stared at him like he had grown a second head.

He snorted at her expression. “Look, I didn’t touch most of it. My mom left me a trust, plus her life insurance. I couldn’t access most of it until I was twenty-six, and by then, I was already in Afghanistan. Didn’t need it, so I left it alone, let it grow.” He shifted slightly. “Then there were the trusts from my grandparents. I could start accessing small amounts when I turned twenty-one, but the bulk of it didn’t open up until I was thirty. Again, I barely touched it. When I knew I was coming here, I consolidated everything into one account to make it easier.”

Elizabeth could see it now—the compounding interest, the untouched fortune growing over the years.

“You realize this is enough money for all five of your children to live comfortably without ever having to work,” she said, still slightly flabbergasted.

John’s expression grew thoughtful. “Yeah… but I’m not sure how useful that money is here. It’s not like they can spend it in Pegasus.”

Elizabeth frowned, considering. “Unless they start buying up Earth goods to bring back for trade.”

John nodded. “That’s possible. But that would take years to make a real impact.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “More like they’d have to start today and fill every Daedalus run with supplies. Even then, it would take twenty years before the accounts were significantly drained.”

John huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, they won’t be able to start today. I set it up so they can’t touch the money until they’re twenty-one. And even then, it’s only a small allowance until they’re thirty. After that, they get full control.”

Elizabeth studied him for a long moment. She could see the care behind every decision, every plan. Even now, in the face of his own mortality, he was still trying to set things up so that the people he loved—his children—would be okay.

She let out a slow breath, placing the tablet gently on the table beside his bed.

Elizabeth swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she fought against the stinging pressure behind her eyes. “I’ll make sure it’s all honored,” she said softly, her voice thick with unspoken emotion.

John met her gaze, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. So much passed between them in that silence—trust, understanding, and the weight of finality. They both knew what this meant. They both knew what he was preparing for.

“Thank you,” John murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together as she reached down, squeezing his hand gently. His skin was too cool, his grip weaker than she remembered, but he still held on. She tried to smile, but it was shaky at best, her composure hanging by a thread. She wanted to say something else—something to offer comfort or defiance, to tell him he wasn’t allowed to just give up—but the words wouldn’t come.

So instead, she simply held his hand for another lingering second before forcing herself to let go.

Carefully, she placed the tablet back in his hands, her fingers brushing against his as she pulled away. Then, without another word, she turned and left.

She made it past the infirmary doors before the first choked sob escaped.

“Fuck.”

The curse came from the bed beside him, rough and unsteady.

John blinked, turning his head slowly. His neighbor, Staff Sergeant Atticus McGreggor, was watching him, his expression unreadable, but his dark eyes were glassy with unshed tears. He’d definitely heard everything.

For a long moment, the two men just stared at each other.

Then McGreggor swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll also make sure your kids get raised here,” he said, his voice hoarse, raw with emotion.

John didn’t know what to say to that.

McGreggor was a tough bastard, a Marine through and through—one of the few John trusted implicitly. He had been in the thick of it with them, had bled for Atlantis, had nearly died for it. And now, even as he recovered from the rock slide that had left him with broken ribs and a leg still in a walking cast, he was making a promise. A vow.

John exhaled slowly, nodding once in acknowledgment.

McGreggor shook himself, shifting stiffly as he reached for the small crate beside his bed. Inside, the two tiny infants lay nestled together, their soft breathing the only sound for a moment. With a tenderness that seemed almost at odds with his hardened exterior, McGreggor made sure they were settled before carefully setting the crate aside.

Then, gritting his teeth against the pain, he swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself upright.

John’s eyes widened slightly as the Marine struggled to his feet. The movement was slow and agonizing—his ribs had to be screaming, and his injured leg was trembling under his weight—but he forced himself through it.

And then, even still wrapped in bandages, even though it must have been killing him, Staff Sergeant Atticus McGreggor stood at full attention and gave John a perfect military salute.

The infirmary fell silent.

The crisp motion, the rigid lines of his stance, the sheer discipline in his posture—it was an act of respect, of recognition. A farewell.

John swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.

“It has been an honor serving you, sir,” McGreggor said, voice unwavering despite the pain written across his face.

That was when John realized they weren’t alone.

The movement had caught attention. First, from the other Marines in the infirmary. Then, from the scientists who had worked alongside the military long enough to understand exactly what was happening.

Then the medical staff.

They all knew.

They had already known, in a way—had seen the slow deterioration, had been whispering amongst themselves when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. But this was confirmation. This was the moment they understood the truth.

Elizabeth Weir’s choked sob as she left had already raised questions, but seeing McGreggor—one of the most no-nonsense Marines in Atlantis—standing there, saluting despite his injuries, was the final piece of the puzzle.

The worst was happening.

John Sheppard, their commander, their leader, wasn’t going to make it.

One by one, the other military personnel in the infirmary—whether confined to their beds or standing on shaking legs—began to follow suit.

Salutes, slow and deliberate, filled the room.

John exhaled softly, looking around at them all.

He had always known that dying for Atlantis was a possibility. He had just never expected to witness his own eulogy before he was even gone.

–

“The fuck?”

The sharp exclamation cut through the heavy silence like a gunshot, snapping everyone’s attention toward the infirmary entrance.

Dr. Rodney McKay stood there, holding Theodore in one arm and Eleanor in the other, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with growing alarm. Ronon was right behind him, his face set in a neutral mask so controlled that John immediately knew—Ronon understood. He had pieced it together. And he was doing everything in his power to suppress the storm raging inside him.

Kael, perched on Ronon’s hip, was looking around curiously, his small brow furrowing at the scene before him. The children could feel the tension in the room, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

Rodney’s gaze swept the infirmary, taking in the mix of grief-stricken, red-eyed faces, the way the military personnel had gone rigid, still half-poised in salutes. He wasn’t an idiot—he had caught a glimpse of Elizabeth power-walking away from the infirmary, shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her sobs.

And now this.

His gut clenched.

Something was very, very wrong.

John watched as Rodney’s eyes landed on him, the exact moment realization hit him like a sledgehammer. The color drained from his face. No. No, no, no.

As they moved toward him, the crowd instinctively parted, giving the fathers and their children a clear path. Some soldiers who had struggled to their feet now shakily lowered their salutes. Others, still confined to their beds, simply stared, their expressions a mixture of grief and helplessness.

Rodney, ever the scientist, didn’t let himself react fully—not yet. He would not jump to conclusions until he had all the facts. He would be a good Alpha, a rational Alpha.

But then Theodore caught sight of John and shrieked.

“MAMA!!”

The little boy’s cry shattered the tension like glass.

“MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!” The others immediately echoed him, all three older babies wriggling and reaching desperately, eager to get to their mother.

The moment they were within arm’s reach, both Rodney and Ronon carefully deposited them into John’s waiting arms.

The weight of them—his children, warm and solid and very much alive—was grounding. But he was weak. Too weak. His arms trembled as he tried to hold them all, muscles aching under the strain. The babies, sensing his unsteadiness, clung to him just as fiercely, tiny hands grabbing fistfuls of his hospital gown.

Kael reached out, his curious little fingers grazing the tube taped to John’s face, the one that ran down his nose, keeping him alive.

Ronon caught the small hand before it could pull at the tubing, gently redirecting it to John’s shoulder. “There,” he murmured, keeping the child’s touch safe from the medical equipment.

Rodney, however, was far from calm.

“The fuck was that about?!” he snapped, his voice tight and controlled—too controlled.

John sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t cuss in front of the kids.”

He was stalling, and Rodney knew it.

John tried to focus on the babies, snuggling them the best he could. They kept looking him over with wide, uncertain eyes. They could tell something was wrong. Too smart, just like their father.

Rodney wasn’t letting this go.

“Fine!” His voice rose slightly. “Then why was the entire military contingent saluting you?”

His hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening as he fought against the dread creeping up his spine. He had spent the last day tearing through the Ancient database, desperately looking for a way to undo what had been done to John. He had refused to believe this was it. That it was too late.

John hesitated.

“They were saying goodbye,” he finally admitted, voice quiet.

Rodney froze.

His breathing hitched.

“Goodbye?” The word came out strangled. “Why? Where are you planning on going?”

Panic clawed up his throat. No. No.

John didn’t answer immediately, and that silence—that awful silence—was answer enough.

Then Ronon, voice like gravel, growled out the words Rodney had been desperately trying to outrun.

“He’s dying.”

John’s head snapped toward Ronon. The Satedan’s jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, his nostrils flaring, his broad shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury. His eyes burned with unshed tears.

Rodney sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath—

“NO!” The scream ripped out of him, raw and broken.

“NO, HE’S NOT! HE’S NOT DYING!”

The infirmary shook with the sheer force of his denial.

“THIS IS NOT HOW JOHN SHEPPARD DIES!!!” Rodney’s voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “HE DOES STUPID SHIT LIKE FLY A JUMPER WITH A NUKE INTO A HIVE SHIP!!!”

His chest heaved.

“HE DIES MAKING SURE EVERYONE MAKES IT HOME—”

His voice faltered. Broke.

Rodney choked, a strangled sob tearing free before he could stop it. His hands shook as he clenched them at his sides, his whole body trembling.

The babies, already distressed by the heavy emotions filling the room, finally reached their breaking point.

The first cries started with Theodore, then Eleanor, then Kael, their little faces scrunching up as heart-wrenching wails filled the air.

The two newest babies, sensing the distress of their older siblings, soon joined in.

Suddenly, the infirmary was filled with the high-pitched, urgent cries of five deeply upset children.

The reaction was immediate—several of the onlookers, overwhelmed by the raw emotional weight of the moment, quickly fled. Some of the soldiers looked as though they were barely holding it together themselves, and the sound of crying infants was the final straw.

Dr. Carson Beckett had arrived at some point, drawn by the raised voices. Now, between him, Rodney, Ronon, and Atticus, they worked quickly to soothe the babies.

John, weak and drained, could do little more than hold onto them as his children sniffled and burrowed their faces into his chest, seeking comfort.

Rodney, still trembling, swallowed hard and muttered, “I’m sorry.”

John exhaled softly, his own voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to talk to you guys about some names.”

There was a beat of silence as the adults exchanged glances, still emotionally raw from the outburst.

Finally, Ronon spoke. “I was wondering if we could name the girl Shaela.”

John perked up slightly, adjusting his grip on the babies. “Shaela… Setidan… like Kael?”

Kael, hearing his name, lifted his head slightly, his little face still blotchy from crying.

Ronon nodded. “It’s widely used, but she was a warrior in our lore. Strong. Compassionate. She took in orphans, abandoned children, trained them, protected them. Created an army not out of fear, but loyalty.”

Rodney, still sniffling, tried to joke, “So… mama bear. Loves and cares for her kids but will rip someone limb from limb if they threaten them?”

Ronon nodded, dead serious.

John smiled faintly. “I like it.”

He glanced at Rodney. “How do you guys feel about Logan for the boy?”

Rodney wiped at his eyes. “Is there a reason for it?”

John shook his head. “No. Just liked the name.”

Ronon grunted. “I like it too.”

Rodney gave a watery nod. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

“So, Shaela and Logan it is,” John murmured.

The family stayed together, unwilling to separate, talking, even when food arrived—someone must have called the mess because there should only been a tray for John, but there was food for all 3 adults and the 3 babies. They ate in quiet companionship, talking softly, staying close.

John told them about his conversation with Elizabeth. About his will. About how everything was taken care of. He didn't tell them the details he didn't want another fight.

Rodney didn’t argue.

Didn’t fight.

But he wasn’t giving up.

Not yet.

Soon after, the food was gone, leaving only empty plates and cold utensils as evidence of their meager attempts at normalcy. Even the small, indulgent cakes that had been sent with the meal—usually a treasured treat—remained mostly untouched.

The children had eaten most of them, little fingers grabbing at the sweet morsels with innocent delight. For them, food was still food, and dessert was still dessert. But for the adults… the mere thought of something as frivolous as cake turned their stomachs.

The weight of impending loss pressed down on them, suffocating and inescapable.

John was fading fast. His body, already fragile, had reached its limit.

He fought against it, tried to stay present, but the exhaustion was all-consuming. His limbs felt too heavy, his breath too slow. Even the warmth of his children against his chest, the soft weight of their tiny bodies, was not enough to anchor him to wakefulness.

His eyelids drooped, head tilting slightly to the side. The gentle rise and fall of his chest remained steady, but each breath seemed shallower than the last.

Ronon and Rodney exchanged glances.

It was time.

Carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile peace, they pried the children away from John’s weakened grasp. The little ones whined in protest, reluctant to leave their mother’s arms, but they were too young to understand why.

Ronon moved first, smoothly gathering up Kael and one of the newborns, his strong arms cradling them with ease.

Rodney followed suit, scooping up Theodore and Eleanor with practiced efficiency, holding them close. He hesitated before reaching for the last baby, the smallest of the new twins, who had somehow curled into the crook of John’s arm.

For a moment, he considered leaving the baby there, letting John have just a little longer with them.

But the fear that this could be the last time forced him to act.

Gently, he lifted the infant away, murmuring a quiet apology even though John was already too far gone to respond.

They stood there for a moment, watching John sleep.

He looked so peaceful. Too peaceful. His pale skin, the dark bruises under his eyes, the unnatural stillness—it all made Rodney’s chest tighten painfully.

This is not the last time. It can’t be.

Ronon swallowed, his usually unreadable expression slipping just enough to show the raw emotion simmering beneath. He turned, leading the way out of the infirmary, his footsteps heavy but purposeful.

Rodney lingered for just a second longer, watching John’s slow, measured breathing.

Then he turned and followed.

They prayed—silently, desperately—to any higher being that would listen.

That this was not goodbye. That this was not the last time.

That somehow, somehow, John Sheppard would find his way back to them.

Chapter Text

The lights had been lowered to evening mode, casting the infirmary in soft hues of blue and white. Most of the staff had rotated out, replaced by the quiet competency of the night shift. The usual bustle of Atlantis had faded into a hush.

But in the far corner, time hadn’t moved.

Dr. Carson Beckett stood over the still figure of Lt. Colonel John Sheppard, one hand lightly resting on the edge of the bed, the other gripping the corner of a vitals monitor. His eyes didn’t blink. He was watching the numbers—the oxygen saturation, the blood pressure, the heart rate. Not because he needed more data. But because he was hoping, praying, willing them to shift up.

They didn’t.

Not for the last thirty minutes.

A quiet footfall broke the silence. Dr. Daniel Patel approached, tablet in hand, face drawn. He stopped beside Carson and followed his gaze to the screen.

“You saw it too,” Carson murmured. His voice was hoarse.

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. It’s slow, but… everything’s trending down.”

Carson exhaled, jaw clenched, grief etched deep into the lines of his face. “I was hopin’ I was just bein’ paranoid.”

“If you were, I’d be relieved. But you’re not.”

The monitor let out a soft tone—just a minor fluctuation, a change of a few points in oxygen level—but both men winced at it. They didn’t speak for a while.

Daniel finally broke the silence. “Carson, you’ve been here since before the breakfast. You’ve skipped two meals. You haven’t sat down for more than five minutes at a time. You should—”

“Don’t,” Carson said firmly, though not unkindly. “I know what you’re going to say, and I know you’re right, but I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Daniel gave him a look—one that wasn’t frustrated, but rather full of that quiet, exhausted understanding only doctors share in moments like this. “He’s not waking up tonight.”

“I know,” Carson whispered. “But if he doesn’t wake up tomorrow… I want to be the one who’s here when he slips.”

Daniel’s chest tightened. He nodded.

“We’ve done everything we could,” he said quietly, eyes flicking back to the tablet. “Massive blood loss, post-operative instability, organ stress—his body’s trying to rally, but it’s stretched past its limit. He’s running on sheer stubbornness now.”

Carson gave a dry, almost bitter smile. “That’s John, alright.”

“He’s made it through worse,” Daniel offered gently, though his voice was hollow even as he said it. “Statistically speaking, though…”

Carson cut him off with a raised hand. “I know the odds. I wrote them down myself earlier tonight.”

They stood in silence for another long moment.

“I’ll keep managing the floor,” Daniel said, more gently now. “You don’t have to leave. Just… sit, Carson. Be here the way you need to be.”

Carson nodded once, eyes not leaving John’s pale face. “Thank you, Daniel.”

When the other doctor retreated, Carson finally lowered himself into the chair beside the bed. The moment his weight hit the cushion, he realized how much his knees ached. How heavy his limbs were. But he didn’t care.

He reached for John’s hand. Cold. Lax. Fingers barely curled inward.

Carson laced his fingers gently with John's, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. His other hand reached for the thermal blanket and pulled it up a little higher across John’s chest, like he could somehow shield him from the fragility pressing in on all sides.

“You’re not allowed to do this, you stubborn bastard,” he said, voice thick. “Not now. Not after you found your family. Not after everything you’ve fought for.”

John didn’t stir.

His vitals gave another slight dip. Not enough to trigger alarms, but enough to make Carson’s heart lurch.

He leaned forward, forehead nearly touching the edge of the bed. “If you’re tired, I understand. God knows you’ve earned your rest a hundred times over. But not tonight, John. Don’t leave them tonight.”

There were no heroics left to try. No miracle injections. No final life-saving procedures. Just time.

And love.

And the unbearable weight of waiting.

–

John drifted back to consciousness slowly, his awareness surfacing like a swimmer rising from deep waters. For the first time in what felt like forever, waking up didn’t feel like a struggle.

The ever-present exhaustion still weighed on him, his limbs heavy and weak, but something was different. The bone-deep chill of blood loss was gone, the constant dizziness absent. Even the gnawing pain that had become his constant companion had dulled to something distant, barely there.

His mouth wasn’t dry. That alone was strange, considering the damn feeding tube still running down his throat. He could feel the weight of medical equipment still strapped to him, the IVs, the monitors, the leads. His body was still a battlefield, but for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was actively losing.

A warmth beside him drew his attention.

John turned his head, expecting to see Rodney curled up in a chair, or maybe Ronon standing watch. Instead, he froze.

His breath hitched, his heart stuttering for just a second.

Sitting next to his bed was her.

Atlantis.

She appeared as she always did when she chose to show herself—elegant, luminous, with a presence that was impossible to ignore. But something was different this time. The way she looked at him, the sorrow in her deep, knowing eyes… it was unnerving.

John’s jaw clenched, a flash of anger sparking in his chest. “Oh, great. What do you want?” His voice, surprisingly strong, carried a sharp edge of bitterness. “Come to check in on another one of your meddling messes?”

Atlantis flinched, ever so slightly. She didn’t try to argue, didn’t even frown. Instead, she offered a sad, almost regretful smile, and John realized with a start that her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

That gave him pause.

“No, John,” she said softly. “I'm so sorry.”

John blinked.

That wasn’t what he had expected.

“I have been ignoring your labs,” she admitted, her voice raw with regret. “The impulse to step in, to do something with the equipment you’ve been uncovering, was too strong. So I… I didn’t know. I didn’t know you found that machine.” She inhaled sharply, as if steadying herself. “If I had known, I would have risked the punishment to break that thing myself. It should have never been made.”

Her voice shook, filled with a sorrow so profound that John found himself momentarily speechless.

He studied her, trying to find any trace of deception, but all he saw was regret.

For the first time, he considered the possibility that maybe she hadn’t known. That maybe she wasn’t behind this.

Still, trust didn’t come easy. Not anymore.

“I...” Atlantis hesitated. “I want to help you. But I know you’re angry with me.”

John swallowed, still wary. “Help me how?”

She met his gaze, unwavering. “I can either heal you… or I can show you how to ascend.”

John stiffened.

Ascend.

He knew what that meant. The idea of shedding his mortal form and becoming some glowing, omnipotent being was not appealing. Not now. Not when his family still needed him.

He shook his head. “I’m gonna go ahead and say hard pass on ascending. That’s not exactly my scene.”

Atlantis smiled, a small, sad thing. “I thought you might say that.”

“Then… you said you can heal me?” John latched onto the hope before he could stop himself. His heart beat faster.

“Yes,” she confirmed simply.

John’s throat tightened. His first instinct was to demand she do it, right now, but something held him back.

There was always a catch.

His eyes narrowed. “Wait—this isn’t one of those things where someone else has to die to heal me, right? Because if you’re about to sacrifice some poor soul—”

“No, no,” Atlantis assured him quickly, shaking her head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

John still wasn’t convinced.

“Then how does it work?”

Atlantis exhaled slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “As an Ascended being, I have access to abilities far beyond human limitations.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I would use those abilities to repair the damage done to your body. I can undo what that machine did.”

It sounded too good to be true.

John still wasn’t sure he believed it.

His instincts screamed that there had to be a price, something she wasn’t telling him.

“What’s the catch?” he asked bluntly.

Atlantis hesitated, just for a second.

“I need to do this now.”

John blinked. “What?”

She held his gaze, her expression somber. “I’m using my abilities to keep you awake right now. To sustain you. I had to heal some of the damage just to allow this conversation to happen.” She looked down at her hands, then back at him, her eyes soft with something close to grief. “When I let go… you will, too.”

John’s breath caught in his throat.

“So either you heal me now, or ascend me now, or…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Atlantis nodded.

His chest constricted.

His mind reeled, trying to process everything at once. He had spent the last day—longer, maybe—preparing for the end. He had made peace with it. Or at least, he thought he had. But now…

Now he had a choice.

It wasn’t even a question.

“Please.” His voice cracked, raw with desperation. He wasn’t too proud to beg.

He didn’t want to die. Not really.

Not when he had so much left to live for.

Not when his children needed him.

Not when Rodney and Ronon still looked at him like he was the center of their universe.

Not when there were first steps to witness, scraped knees to kiss, bedtime stories to tell.

Not when he wanted to live.

Atlantis nodded, eyes glistening.

“Then close your eyes,” Atlantis whispered, reaching for him. “And let me fix this.”

John exhaled slowly, then did as she asked.

The moment his eyes shut, warmth flooded his body. Not the feverish heat of sickness or the artificial heat of a medbay, but something different—something pure. It was the kind of warmth that seeped into his bones on a perfect day at the beach, the kind that made you feel safe, whole.

It spread from his chest outward, washing over his limbs, his fingers, his toes. It filled the spaces where pain had once carved deep hollows, driving away the lingering exhaustion, the bone-deep fatigue that had settled into him ever since the triplets arrived.

John had already noticed that the pain was gone when he woke, but now he understood why. She had done that first, before even speaking to him—she had wanted him to have a clear head, to be able to choose.

And now?

Now he felt alive.

The suffocating fog he’d been trapped in for days—hell, weeks—vanished, replaced by a surge of energy so foreign he barely recognized it. His body no longer felt like it was wading through quicksand, no longer betrayed him at every turn. He felt whole.

And just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

Silence.

For a few moments, he kept his eyes closed, half-expecting something else—another surge, another wave, something. When nothing new happened, he slowly blinked them open.

His vision was crystal clear. No disorienting blur, no dizziness, no nausea clawing at his stomach.

Even the lingering mental fog—the weight of exhaustion and strain—was gone.

Atlantis stood before him, calm and serene. Or was she floating? It was hard to tell. She was always just slightly other, existing in a way that defied normal perception.

John studied her for a moment, waiting to see if she would do something, say something. When she remained still, he finally spoke.

“For some reason, I thought that would take longer,” he said, tilting his head. “Or be more dramatic. Maybe some light show, trumpets, at least a wind machine.”

It earned him a smile, one that took him completely off guard.

Because for the first time, he saw it—the resemblance.

That was his mother’s smile.

The realization punched the air from his lungs, catching him completely off guard. He swallowed hard, trying to push past the sudden lump in his throat.

Atlantis, however, continued as if she hadn’t noticed his reaction.

“I healed all your injuries,” she said gently. Then, after a pause, she asked, “But have you noticed the lack of a bond between you and the new ones?”

John shifted, marveling at the fact that he could move without pain. “Uh… yeah,” he admitted slowly, frowning.

She nodded. “That’s because the hormones released during pregnancy and again during birth never happened for you. Those hormones are crucial for forming the initial bond.”

John frowned, a flicker of unease running through him. “So without them… I can’t bond with my kids?”

Atlantis shook her head. “No, you can—eventually. But it won’t be the same. It won’t be as immediate, or as deep, as it was with your first three.”

John swallowed, his chest tightening.

“You can form a pack bond with them,” she continued, “but it will be more like when you adopt a pup, rather than birthing one.”

His frown deepened. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on those instincts, on that connection. The idea that it wouldn’t come naturally this time, that he would have to force it, made his stomach twist.

“Now that you’ve… fixed everything,” he said carefully, “the hormones won’t come?”

She shook her head again. “No. I had to revert your body to a state before birth, to fully repair the damage. Your existing bonds remain intact, but the new ones… they need help.”

John looked down, processing that.

Atlantis hesitated. “I can release the hormones for you,” she offered, her voice soft. “If you wish to have the same bond with your new ones.”

His gaze snapped back to hers. “You can?”

“Yes.” She studied him closely. “But I should warn you—since you didn’t have the slower build-up over pregnancy, it will flood you all at once. You may become… borderline feral in your protectiveness. Not just over the babies, but possibly over your whole pack.”

John exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face. “Feral, huh?”

She nodded. “It will pass. A month at most. But I wanted you to have the choice before I did it.”

John was silent for a moment, weighing his options.

But really, there wasn’t a choice.

These were his kids.

His babies.

He refused to let anything—biological, emotional, or otherwise—stand between them.

“I want the bond,” he said firmly. “They deserve it. No matter how they came into this world.”

Atlantis smiled again, warm and knowing.

She reached out, her translucent hand hovering just above his forehead. If she had been solid, it would have been a gentle touch—a grounding weight. Instead, her hand occasionally flickered, passing through him.

Then, she lowered it.

For a brief moment, John felt nothing.

Then, like a freight train, it hit.

A tsunami of raw, overwhelming emotion crashed into him, slamming through every fiber of his being. It was primal, an instinct so fierce it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

Where are my babies?!

I NEED my babies!

The sudden, desperate ache to see them, to touch them, to hold them close and never let go—it was all-consuming.

His entire body tensed, his muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. He needed them now.

John shifted restlessly, the sudden flood of instincts making it impossible to sit still. His fingers clenched at the sheets, his breath coming faster, heart hammering like a war drum.

Atlantis watched, serene, as understanding dawned in her gaze. She had seen the moment it hit him.

He barely noticed when she leaned in, pressing what would have been a kiss to his cheek if she had been solid.

Then, without another word, Atlantis disappeared.

For a beat, there was only silence, thick and heavy. The infirmary was still, the hum of machines a quiet undercurrent in the background.

Then—

“So the rumors were true?”

John blinked, turning toward the voice.

Atticus.

He was propped up on one elbow on the bed beside him, watching with wide, curious eyes. His hair was tousled from sleep, but the sharp edge of disbelief in his gaze made it clear—he had been awake long enough to see what had just happened.

John realized that Atticus had probably woken up when he’d snapped at Atlantis earlier.

“Depends on the rumors,” John replied, trying for a teasing edge. His voice was steady, strong—more than it had been in days.

Atticus arched a brow. “That the Ancient who made this city is Ascended, has a soft spot for you, and is the reason the first three were made?”

John exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face. His fingers caught against the feeding tube still running down his nose, and he grimaced in irritation.

Damn thing.

Looking down, he took stock of all the wires and tubes still attached to him. IV lines, monitors, that damn nasal tube. He needed to get rid of them. He needed to move.

More importantly, he needed to find his babies.

He was already shifting, testing his strength. His limbs didn’t feel weak anymore. No dizziness. No pain. Nothing sluggish or broken. He could get up. He should get up.

But he still had enough sense left not to just rip everything out—doing that would set off alarms and bring the cavalry running. He had to be smart about this.

“So… she just healed you?” Atticus asked, still staring at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Like, you feel better?”

John looked up, meeting his gaze.

“Yeah…” he said, almost in wonder. Then, grinning, “Yeah, I really do.”

And for the first time in a long while, it was a real smile—one he actually meant.

But they weren’t left alone for long.

John became aware of movement on the far side of the infirmary. Glancing up, he saw the night shift medical staff hovering, their eyes wide and disbelieving.

A voice muttered, “Sweet Mary and Joseph…”

That got John’s full attention.

He turned his head toward the office doorway—and there stood Carson Beckett.

John frowned. That was odd.

Carson should have clocked out hours ago. Yet, there he was, still in his scrubs, exhaustion shadowing his face.

For a long moment, Carson just stared.

Then, as if breaking free from whatever trance had held him, he moved—striding across the infirmary with purpose, his night-shift replacement close on his heels.

Dr. Daniel Patel

John knew him well. Dr. Patel had been with the expedition since day one, one of the original physicians who had signed on for what was supposed to be a one-way trip to another galaxy. He was older than Carson by a decade or so, steady as a rock under pressure, and had seen John through more injuries than he cared to count.

John barely had time to react before both doctors flanked him, Carson on one side, the night doc on the other.

Carson’s blue eyes were still wide, his expression hovering somewhere between awe and disbelief. “Did she… was that… she helped you, didn’t she?” His voice was hushed, as if saying it out loud would make it less real.

John leaned back against the pillows, forcing himself to relax. He gave Carson his usual cocky grin. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “She said she fixed what that machine did.”

Carson swallowed, still looking like he couldn’t quite process what was in front of him.

Then, without warning, he reached for John’s wrist, fingers pressing firmly against the pulse point.

John arched a brow. “You could just ask, you know.”

Carson ignored him, his brows drawing together as he counted. Then, satisfied, he dropped John’s wrist and held out both hands. “Grip my hands as hard as you can.”

John obeyed, wrapping his fingers around Carson’s and squeezing.

At the same time, the Dr. Greene clicked on a penlight, sweeping it across John’s eyes.

Carson made him release his grip, then turned off the automated blood pressure cuff, opting to check it manually instead. The night doc listened to his chest with a stethoscope, brow furrowed in concentration. The two doctors worked in tandem, checking reflexes, responsiveness, vitals.

John sighed. “So how come you’re not in bed?” he asked, glancing at Carson. “Seems late for you to still be here.”

The second the words left his mouth, he noticed something.

Carson flinched.

Just the tiniest movement—but enough.

John’s stomach clenched. He shifted his gaze to the night doctor, who was suddenly very interested in his clipboard. Neither of them would meet his eyes.

His pulse picked up.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

“You didn’t think I was gonna make it through the night, did you?” John whispered.

Carson finally looked up, and his eyes—already bright with unshed tears—shone with grief.

“No, lad,” he admitted, voice choked with emotion.

John swallowed thickly, glancing between them.

He had known he was dying.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t felt it in every sluggish heartbeat, in the bone-deep exhaustion that never lifted, in the way his body had been shutting down piece by piece. He had felt death creeping up on him, an inevitability he had been too weak to fight. He had accepted it—or at least, he had thought he had.

But knowing it himself was one thing.

Seeing it reflected in the eyes of the people he called friends—family—was something else entirely.

Carson hadn’t just been waiting for him to slip away—he had expected it. They all had.

If Atlantis hadn’t intervened, he wouldn’t just have died—he would have died tonight.

The weight of that realization settled over him, cold and suffocating.

He could have died.

He should have died.

And it would have happened while his children were asleep, unaware, expecting him to wake up like always. If Atlantis hadn’t stepped in, tomorrow morning would have started without him. His babies—his tiny, precious babies—would have woken up and never seen him again.

The thought made him restless, a surge of anxious energy tightening his muscles. He needed to see them. He needed to hold them, smell them, reassure them—and himself—that he was still here. That he hadn’t left them.

That he never would.

“Where are my babies?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, his eyes scanning the infirmary. Any of them. The newest had been kept in the infirmary with him—why couldn’t he hear them?

He twisted, trying to see past the medical equipment, searching for some sign of them. A cry, a coo, a tiny fist peeking out from a blanket—something. But there was nothing. His skin prickled with unease.

Carson’s voice broke the silence.

“Ronon and Rodney took them when they left for the night,” he explained, voice gentle.

John’s head snapped toward him. “They took all of them?”

Carson nodded. “Aye. The older ones needed rest, and the wee ones weren’t settlin’ well here without ye. Ronon thought it’d be best to keep them together.”

That should have calmed him. Ronon and Rodney were more than capable of looking after his babies, and he trusted them. But right now, none of that mattered.

They weren’t here.

“I wanna see them.” The words came out rough, almost a growl. It was borderline his command voice.

Carson lifted his hands in a soothing motion. “Ye will, just let us finish these checks first.”

John bristled. “You’ve already checked me. You can see I’m fine.” His patience was razor-thin, and every second that passed without his pups was making it worse.

He shoved at the hands trying to steady him, his instincts screaming for freedom. His fingers found the IV in his arm, ready to yank it free—

Dr. Greene caught his wrist.

“Colonel, if you rip that out, you won’t be fine anymore,” he scolded, voice firm with experience. He had dealt with Sheppard’s stubbornness before, but this was different. The man was practically vibrating with barely contained agitation, his body coiled like a spring. If someone didn’t get him to his children soon, he was going to snap.

“Umm, Doc…”

Atticus’s hesitant voice drew everyone’s attention.

“The lady warned the Colonel might get borderline feral,” he explained, his gaze flicking warily toward John. “She did some, uh, voodoo thing to fix his bonding instincts. He’s got that pack drive back—big time.”

Both doctors exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting from frustration to concern.

Carson turned back to John, assessing him. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing fast, his body coiled like he was ready to fight his way out of the infirmary.

He wasn’t just restless.

He was on the edge of a full-blown omega panic.

Carson firmed his stance, gripping John’s shoulders. “John.”

John barely heard him. He was still struggling, his focus locked on getting out.

“John!”

Carson’s voice cracked like a whip.

John froze.

His head snapped toward Carson, eyes narrowed. The tone was rare—Carson never used that tone unless it was serious. It reminded John of his mother, the way she’d snap his full name when he was being a little shit.

Carson held his gaze, his hands still steady on John’s arms. “I want to do an internal exam,” he said, slow and measured. “Then I’ll release ye to see yer bairns. Will ye behave long enough for me to do one final check?”

John scowled. “Behave? What am I, five?”

Dr. Greene muttered under his breath, “You’re acting like it.”

John shot him a glare.

“The last exam,” John pressed, locking eyes with Carson, “then I get to go?”

Carson sighed but nodded. “Aye, lad.”

John stilled, taking a deep breath. Then, with great reluctance, he let go of the IV line. His hands clenched into fists before resting at his sides.

“Fine.” His voice was stiff. Then, after a beat—“Can we at least get the damn feeding tube out first?”

Carson and Dr. Greene shared a glance.

“Fine,” they said in unison.

Carson gestured to the night nurses, who moved quickly to bring over the portable privacy curtains. They surrounded John’s bed, sectioning off his space from the rest of the infirmary.

Dr. Patel stepped in first, carefully removing the feeding tube.

John gagged the second it started coming out, his throat convulsing. The sensation was awful—burning, uncomfortable, making his eyes water. He hated it. But then, finally, it was gone, leaving him coughing and rubbing his throat.

Dr. Patel stepped back, murmuring something about letting his throat rest before trying solid food. John barely heard him. He was too focused on Carson, who was already preparing for the exam.

Carson set his jaw as he prepped for the exam, his mind already running through the worst-case scenarios. He had seen John at his absolute lowest just hours ago—body failing, vital signs crumbling, organs on the verge of shutting down completely. And internally…

God, internally.

The last time Carson had checked, the damage had been brutal. The walls of John’s reproductive system had been stretched far beyond what they should have been, tissues so thin and fragile he had feared permanent scarring. The old wounds had barely held together, and he had seen signs of new micro-tears forming. It had been a miracle the damage hadn’t progressed further—one wrong move, one more day without intervention, and John’s body would have just failed him.

And now, John sat there, looking fine. Better than fine, actually—he was fighting them, snapping at them, his voice strong, his body no longer trembling with exhaustion.

It wasn’t possible.

So, with the practiced efficiency of a man who had done this far too many times, he donned gloves and got to work.

The moment he started, he knew.

John’s body—his muscles, his tissue—had healed. Not just patched up or barely holding on—fully healed. The walls that had been stretched thin were thick and strong again, no sign of the micro-tears, no sign of the stress that had been threatening to unravel everything.

Carson sucked in a sharp breath.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered under his breath, his fingers still moving carefully.

John stiffened. “What?”

Carson shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around it. “Lad, it’s… it’s gone. The damage—it’s just gone. It’s as if it never happened.”

He pulled back, stripping off his gloves and disposing of them. He was vaguely aware of Dr. Patel stepping in beside him, watching closely.

“Scans would confirm it, but I don’t need a scanner to tell me what I just felt,” Carson continued, looking John square in the eye. “You’re healed. Completely.”

John exhaled, relief washing over his face, but it was short-lived.

“Then I can go.” His voice was firm. Demanding.

“Aye, let’s get those IVs off ye.” Carson sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before getting to work. He was relieved—no, beyond relieved. He was over the bloody moon. He hadn’t lost John. Five tiny bairns wouldn’t have to grow up without their mother. Rodney and Ronon wouldn’t have to go through the agony of losing his mate. The entire team wouldn’t have to carry yet another ghost in their hearts.

But just an hour ago, Carson had been sure—utterly convinced—that John was slipping away. That this was it. One doesn’t just go from saying goodbye to accepting that same person is standing in front of them, alive and well. The mind doesn’t adjust that quickly.

Together, Carson and Dr. Patel worked with the efficiency of practiced hands, carefully disconnecting the IV lines. The two night nurses remained on standby, ready with bandages, collecting discarded supplies.

The central line was the worst of it—deep in John’s vein, a direct gateway into his bloodstream. That wasn’t something one just yanked out; it had to be done slow, precise, controlled. Carson and Greene handled it together, neither of them willing to risk John going right back into the critical state he had barely clawed his way out of. When the line was finally removed, they pressed a thick pressure bandage against the site, making sure to keep the bleeding at bay.

“Now, lad,” Carson said, leveling John with a look, “with all these bandages, especially this one from ye're central line, ye can NOT get them wet. So no showers.”

John barely seemed to be listening. His eyes were darting toward the door, his body tense like he was ready to bolt.

Carson frowned. “Did ye hear me, son?”

John gave a distracted nod. “No showers. Got it.”

He didn’t got it.

Carson sighed but decided to let it go for now.

Dr. Greene handed John a set of scrubs, the standard Atlantis-issued ones they kept for patients who had nothing else to wear. Unlike a hospital back on Earth, Atlantis didn't have storage for personal belongings—either someone brought clothes for you, or you wore scrubs back to your quarters.

Both doctors lingered as John moved, watching carefully. The moment Dr. Greene was satisfied that John was stable on his feet, he nodded and stepped away. Carson, however, didn’t move.

John caught it immediately. “You gonna help me dress, Doc?” He raised an eyebrow.

Carson scoffed. “Don’t give me any lip. Ye were one foot out the door to the afterlife, and ye should be in that bed for at least another week before I even think about lettin’ ye go.”

John flinched—just barely, but Carson caught it. The reminder stung.

Carson hesitated for only a beat before turning his back. He could leave now, should leave, but his feet wouldn’t bloody move.

Behind him, John dressed quickly, marveling how he felt good. No pain. No dizziness. No stiffness. Not even the lingering weakness that should’ve come after what his body had endured. He pulled on the scrub top, throwing the hospital gown onto the bed with finality.

Maybe the city wasn’t as much of a bitch as they both thought.

When John finally cleared his throat, Carson turned back. He took a slow, measured look at his patient—at his friend.

“Well,” he finally said, a small, tired smile forming. “I guess ye do look hale.”

it was tired but the smile reached his eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was honest.

John shifted, clearly still wired, still running on whatever instinct was driving him to get to his children.

“Come on,” Carson gestured toward the door. “Let’s get ye to your bairns.”

The infirmary was quiet but not empty. Patients stirred in their beds, some half-asleep, some fully awake and watching with wide eyes as John Sheppard, who had been dying not long ago, walked out on his own two feet.

John ignored them all.

Carson kept pace beside him, his medical instincts still on high alert. His gut told him this was real, but his brain wasn’t ready to accept it yet.

They walked in silence, the quiet hum of Atlantis the only sound between them.

When the transporter doors slid open on John’s floor, Carson stepped out alongside him.

John blinked. “You coming with me?”

“Aye,” Carson replied simply. “At least to ye’re door. Excuse me if I have a hard time believing what I’m seeing. Might be a while before I do.”

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Why to the door, then? Why not make sure I get to bed?” His voice held the familiar teasing lilt, but the humor wasn’t landing right now.

“Because,” Carson said, crossing his arms, “once ye’re inside, ye’ll have Ronon and Rodney. If anything goes wrong, they’ll call me.”

They reached John’s quarters.

John hesitated—just for a moment—before rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was quieter when he spoke.

“Well… I made it. And um… thank you.”

Carson didn’t let him struggle with it.

Without a second thought, he reached out and dragged John into a hug. A real, proper, bone-deep embrace that left no room for doubt.

John tensed at first, then melted into it.

God, the man had needed this.

It hit Carson then—John was touch-starved. He had been for years, hadn’t he? He had buried it, hidden it, convinced himself he didn’t need it, but now? After everything?

He needed to feel the weight of someone who cared.

Carson tightened his grip. “I’m glad ye’re alive, John.” He whispered it, voice raw.

John swallowed. His arms tightened around Carson’s back.

When Carson finally pulled away, he gave John one last assessing look before nodding.

“Get inside, lad.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving John at his doorstep—alive, whole.

Chapter Text

Stepping into his quarters, John was met with darkness and quiet. The room felt still, save for the faint hum of Atlantis around him. A few soft nightlights glowed in key spots—placed to help whoever had night duty with the babies navigate without fumbling in the dark. Tonight, they served him just as well. He knew his way around, but between exhaustion and the unpredictability of stray toys or discarded shoes, the extra light was welcome.

His heart pounded, his need to see them, to hold them, overriding every other instinct. He didn’t bother slowing his steps, beelining straight for the nursery door.

It slid open automatically, revealing the quiet sanctuary inside. The warm glow from another nightlight illuminated the space just enough for him to take in the scene before him.

The bed meant for the adult on duty was full, crowded beyond its intended capacity. Two large forms anchored each side, unmistakably Ronon and Rodney, their bodies curled protectively around the five tiny figures nestled between them. Their babies.

John’s breath hitched at the sight.

Ronon and Rodney lay on their sides, each with an arm draped protectively over the little ones. Between them, all five of their babies slept in a tangled heap of small limbs, soft breaths rising and falling in perfect rhythm.

His chest ached.

His babies.

His newest, Shaela and Logan, were barely days old, their tiny faces barely visible in the dim light. He felt something deep in his core pull toward them—an ache, a need that was more than emotional. It was instinct, primal and unrelenting.

He needed to hold them.

John surveyed the situation, his mind already working on a way to get to them without waking everyone in the process. Carefully, he moved to the foot of the bed, testing his weight as he knelt. The mattress barely dipped beneath him, the exhaustion of everyone in the bed working in his favor.

Slowly, he crawled forward.

No one stirred.

When he reached two of the older babies—Theodore and Kael—he carefully scooped them up, cradling their warm little bodies against his chest as he shifted into the spot they had been sleeping in.

Still, no one stirred.

Not even Ronon.

John smirked at that. They must have been beyond exhausted to sleep through him moving them.

Adjusting, he settled Theodore and Kael on his chest, freeing his arms so he could reach for the others. He was just beginning to pull the rest of his babies toward him when—

“MAMA!”

Theodore’s wail shattered the silence, his tiny hands clutching at John’s shirt with all the desperation of a child who had woken up expecting someone else to be there.

The others stirred at the sound, and soon the whole bed was filled with little voices crying out, “Mama! Mama!” in a chorus that tugged at John’s very soul.

He barely had time to react before Rodney, still half-asleep, reached out blindly toward the sound of crying. “Shhh, Mama’s not here right now, baby. Shhh, it’s okay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His hand fumbled forward, aiming for a comforting pat—

—and landed squarely on John’s face.

John grinned.

And licked it.

Rodney flailed back with a startled yelp. “Gahhh!”

John barely had time to enjoy the reaction before he felt movement—fast, aggressive movement.

Ronon, who had woken at the sound of his children crying, let out a low, threatening growl. John barely had time to register it before he felt the bed shift. Ronon was moving, ready to throw whoever the intruder was.

Before he could react, John quickly thought the lights on.

The room flooded with brightness—not full, blinding daylight, but enough to erase the deep shadows and reveal everything clearly.

Rodney and Ronon froze, still half-risen from the bed.

For a moment, they simply stared.

The older babies, now curled into John’s chest, clung to him as if unwilling to ever let go again.

Rodney was the first to break the silence.

“JOHN?!”

Ronon’s sharp, disbelieving “John?” overlapped his cry.

Rodney scrambled, his exhausted brain trying and failing to process. “But—but how—what is this—oh God, you’re some kind of ghost, aren’t you?! Oh fuck, please tell me you didn’t Ascend!” His voice pitched higher with every word.

Ronon, on the other hand, was moving with slow, deliberate intent. He reached out, first with a single finger, poking John’s arm like he was testing to see if he’d pass through it.

When his hand met solid, warm skin, he let out a breath that sounded more like a growl and moved from poking to patting. Then to pressing. Then gripping.

John sighed. “Atlantis.”

That single word made both of his mates blink.

Rodney, still looking like he was trying to reboot his brain, threw his hands in the air. “Okay, you’re gonna have to break that down for two sleep-deprived, emotionally wrecked people. And maybe assume we’re five while you’re at it.”

John huffed a soft laugh, unable to stop scenting his babies. His hands, his face—he couldn’t stop pressing into them, inhaling their little familiar scents, reassuring himself that they were real.

“She came back,” he murmured. “She offered to either help me Ascend or heal me. Though I think she didn’t actually want me to Ascend.”

Rodney made a strangled noise. “Gee, you think?!”

John ignored him, focused instead on pulling Shaela and Logan closer, scenting them deeply. His older children were still practically climbing over him, forcing their way into the pile, desperate to reclaim their place in their mother’s arms.

Rodney’s sarcasm faltered as he watched.

Ronon was still touching John, his large hands moving with slow, deliberate pressure—gripping his shoulder, sliding down his arm, pressing against his ribs, his touch firm and grounding. It was as if his body refused to trust what his eyes were seeing, as if at any moment John would dissolve like a mirage.

John just held his children tighter, their small, warm bodies curled against him, the steady rhythm of their little breaths washing over his skin. The scent of them—milk, baby powder, something uniquely them—wrapped around him, anchoring him to the moment. It was a feeling unlike anything else. This was real. They were real. He was real.

He was home.

Alive.

And home.

A deep, guttural rumble came from Ronon’s chest, a sound of both relief and claim, before he lunged.

John barely had a second to brace himself before Ronon's powerful arms wrapped around him and, by extension, the babies. The force of it knocked the breath out of him, but he didn’t care. Ronon’s embrace was fierce, all-consuming, a desperate, unrelenting grip that pulled him tight and close, as if holding any less might risk losing him again.

Rodney wasn’t far behind. His breath hitched, his face streaked with silent tears as he threw himself forward. His hands trembled as they found John’s face, cradling his jaw like something both fragile and irreplaceable.

Then, he kissed him.

First, a firm, shaky press of lips to his cheek. Then another, just below his eye. Then his nose. Then his forehead.

Rodney kept going, kissing every inch of John's face he could reach in frantic, reverent succession, whispering between them, "You bastard—don’t you ever do that again—I swear to God—I thought you were gone—we thought you were gone—" His voice cracked, but he kept going, working around Ronon’s arms, clinging just as fiercely, as if pressing close enough could make up for every moment they thought they had lost him.

John let out a slow breath, overwhelmed, his heart too full for words.

The babies squirmed, adjusting to the added bodies pressing into the bed. One of them—Theodore, maybe—made a soft, sleepy sound and curled tighter against his chest. The others followed, their small fingers gripping at his shirt, seeking reassurance even in their sleep.

Ronon’s grip never loosened, his hand running up and down John's back in a steady, soothing motion. Rodney pressed his face into the crook of John’s neck, breathing him in, absorbing the solid proof that he was here.

The warmth of them all, the weight of them, the right-ness of it, settled deep into John’s bones.

A sound bubbled up in his chest, low and rumbling.

It took him a second to recognize it.

A purr.

It was an omega’s happy purr—steady, content, vibrating through his body.

John had never been the type of omega who purred. He never thought he could. He’d spent so much of his life suppressing those instincts, pushing them down, convinced they had no place in his world.

But with his mates? With his family?

He had discovered something about himself.

He was an omega who purred.

He just needed a reason.

Thinking the lights off, he pressed closer, letting the darkness fold around them like a cocoon.

He was home.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt it.

–

John woke to the soft fussing of the newborns. Even half-asleep, he knew that sound—it was the unmistakable noise of hungry babies searching for food. His body had already caught on to the fact that he was starting over with breastfeeding, his chest swollen and ready to provide for them.

He sighed, shifting slightly, trying to unravel himself from the warm tangle of bodies cocooning him. Ronon was pressed against his back, solid and protective, while Rodney was sprawled out on his other side, one of their older triplets draped across his chest. Even with the quiet of the night, John could feel the steady rise and fall of their breathing, the comforting warmth of his family all around him.

As he moved, Ronon stirred first. Years of being a warrior meant he woke fast, alert even before his eyes fully opened. He turned toward John, immediately recognizing the quiet whimpers of hunger. Without hesitation, Ronon rolled out of bed, reaching for the babies before John could even sit up.

“I got them,” Ronon murmured, already reaching for Shaela and Logan.

“No.” John tightened his grip on the infants, unwilling to let them go.

Ronon frowned. “I’m already up. I can do it.”

“I said no.” John’s voice sharpened, commanding. He finally managed to extract himself from the pile of children and mates, his oldest three grumbling in protest as he moved them off. He adjusted his grip on the twins and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Ronon growled low in his throat. “You don’t have to be stubborn and prove how strong you are. Let us help.”

John exhaled sharply, irritation flaring. “I’m not being stubborn. I want to feed my own kids. I haven’t had a chance to properly bond with them yet, and I want to bond with them.”

Rodney, half-awake, groaned into his pillow. “Let him take the babies and let those of us who like sleep, sleep.”

Ronon hesitated. It was too dark to make out his expression, but John could feel the tension in the room.

Rodney cracked open one bleary eye and sighed. “Ronon, just let him have it. Carson wouldn’t have let him come back if he wasn’t one thousand percent sure he could handle it.” He yawned before adding, “Besides, he’s right—he does need to bond with them. Would you deprive your kids of bonding with their mother?”

That caught Ronon off guard.

John could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the way his rigid stance wavered. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Ronon relented. He reached out instead, offering John a steady hand as he stood up with the newborns.

John didn’t miss the way Ronon hovered as he walked toward the door. Ever the protector.

He made his way to the living room, the soft glow of Atlantis’s nighttime lighting casting everything in a muted blue. The comfortable nursing chair had been moved out here weeks ago—no longer needed for feeding, but too cozy to go unused. Now, it had become the designated cuddle chair and story-time chair.

Settling into it, John adjusted his hold on the twins, making sure they were positioned properly. He didn’t need to fumble or overthink it—his body still remembered exactly what to do. The newborns latched easily, much better than their first night, and a deep, warm contentment settled over him as he rocked them gently.

For the first time since this whole ordeal began, he felt peaceful.

His gaze wandered around the room, half-expecting things to look different after everything that had happened, but nothing had really changed. He hadn’t been gone that long.

Then something on the coffee table caught his eye.

A small, black velvet-covered box.

John’s heart skipped. He knew exactly what kind of box that was.

Curiosity sparked, but he forced himself to be patient, waiting until the babies finished feeding. They were small, still figuring out their rhythm, it took them a bit longer. He burped them with ease, one at a time, the movements second nature. Once they were settled on the couch, swaddled and nodding off again, he reached for the box.

Lifting the lid, he found a dog tag inside—rimmed with gold, carefully crafted, gleaming even in the dim light.

John picked it up, running his fingers over the familiar weight of it. His name was etched into the metal, along with Ronon’s and Rodney’s, and a suspiciously empty spot. Below their names was the symbol for Atlantis, and as he turned it over, his breath hitched.

The Triad symbol.

John went still.

His pulse thrummed in his ears as realization sank in.

It was an engagement gift.

A thoughtful, carefully crafted engagement tag—because whoever made it knew he would never wear rings. John Sheppard wasn’t the kind of guy to have jewelry on his fingers, but dog tags? He already wore them daily. He also already wore the tracker for the babies. This wouldn’t be an imposition on his life. It would be tucked away, close to his heart, where only those who mattered would know it was there.

His fingers tightened around it.

Rodney.

It had to be Rodney.

He wasn’t sure if Ronon had helped, but there was no way Ronon didn’t know about it. The box had been sitting right there, out in the open. Ronon would have investigated, would have asked questions.

John swallowed thickly. He had so many emotions swirling inside him, but none of them were bad.

This was what he wanted.

He wanted to marry Ronon and Rodney. He wanted to make their relationship official. He had known, deep down, for a while now that he viewed both of them as his mates—he just hadn’t acted on it.

Not until now.

With steady hands, he reached for his existing dog tags, unclipping the chain. He rarely ever took them off, rarely even messed with them, but this? This was worth it. He threaded the new tag onto the chain, letting it settle alongside the others before putting it back on.

The cool metal rested against his chest, warm with familiarity, right.

He let the empty box drop back onto the table, its lid falling open on its side. He didn’t need to say anything. He knew they’d see it.

Checking the time, John realized he wasn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon. He glanced down at the couch and saw that the old blanket was missing—the one that had been taken to the infirmary, soaked in his blood.

He sighed and stood, padding over to the closet. Grabbing a new one, he returned to the couch and settled in, curling around his newborns. They were so tiny, so warm against him, their little breaths even and steady.

As he held them close, he let out a slow exhale.

For the first time in days, he let himself be still.

No Wraith. No life-threatening injuries. No machines forcing his body through impossible changes.

Just this.

Just his babies.

Just home.

–

Rodney shuffled out of the bedroom, still groggy, rubbing at his face as he made his way toward the living room. Ronon followed behind him, his movements slow and measured. It was too early for this, and after the stress of yesterday, Rodney had planned to drag himself straight to the kitchen for coffee before dealing with anything remotely complicated. But as soon as he stepped into the living room, his eyes caught on something small and dark sitting on the floor near the coffee table.

A box.

Rodney blinked at it, his sleep-addled brain struggling to process what he was seeing. A familiar box. Oh, crap. His stomach clenched, and suddenly, he was very awake.

The box was open. And worse—it was empty.

Panic spiked through him, cutting through the last remnants of sleep like a lightning bolt. Oh, no. No, no, no. John must have seen it. He must have opened it before Rodney had the chance to explain. Before Ronon had the chance to explain. Rodney’s mind spun through a thousand different terrible scenarios. What if John thought it was too much? What if he thought it was a joke? What if he panicked? What if he said no?

His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for anything that would give him a clue as to what had happened. Then, finally, his gaze landed on John.

John was lounging on the couch, still in his sleep clothes, cradling the newborns against his chest with a lazy sort of ease. He looked completely fine, like he hadn’t just found a surprise marriage proposal waiting for him. No signs of panic, no distress—just John, rocking slightly as the babies dozed against him.

But the box was empty.

Rodney’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. He forced himself to take a slow breath, trying to suppress the urge to start demanding answers immediately. His eyes flickered to Ronon, who had stopped just behind him, his expression unreadable. Then Rodney’s gaze snapped back to John, scanning him more closely.

And then he saw it.

A glint of gold.

It was barely noticeable at first, tucked against the usual silver of John’s dog tags. But once he saw it, Rodney couldn’t unsee it. His breath caught, heart stuttering.

“Is that—” He pointed wildly, voice cracking as he tried to form a coherent sentence. “Is that what I think it is?!”

John looked up at him then, a smirk playing at his lips. He reached up and thumbed the new tag absently, the movement casual—almost teasing.

Rodney’s mouth opened and closed as his brain sputtered. His emotions went from panic to confusion to a kind of gut-wrenching hope in the span of seconds. He turned to Ronon, who was staring intently at John, his whole body tense.

Rodney whipped back around. “Did you—” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard before trying again. “Did you say yes?”

John huffed a small laugh, nodding. “Yeah,” he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I said yes.”

Rodney sucked in a sharp breath, feeling like someone had just hit him over the head with a frying pan. His hands flew to his temples as if trying to physically keep his brain from short-circuiting. “You—you said yes?” His voice was high-pitched now, bordering on hysterical. “You actually said yes?!”

John’s smirk widened into a full grin. “I did.”

Rodney made a strangled noise, looking back at Ronon, who still hadn’t said anything. The big guy was just staring at John, his expression unreadable, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

John’s smile softened as he turned his attention to Ronon fully. “That okay with you?”

For a long moment, Ronon didn’t move. He just looked at John, his eyes dark and intense. Then, without warning, he strode forward and pressed his forehead against John’s, gripping his shoulders tightly. Rodney let out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly as an overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over him.

And then he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. With a broken sort of laugh, he threw himself into the embrace, wrapping his arms around both of them.

John let out a small, surprised sound but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into them, his body warm and solid against theirs. Ronon let out a slow breath, his grip tightening as if he was afraid to let go.

Rodney sniffled, his voice thick with emotion. “You scared the hell out of us, you know that?”

John sighed softly, his voice full of warmth. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I know.”

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, letting the weight of the last few days sink in. Rodney still couldn’t quite believe it. John had said yes. John had said yes.

Soft footsteps broke through the moment.

Rodney barely had time to register Serin stepping into the room before she froze.

For a long, terrible second, she just stared. Her face crumpled, her breath hitched, and then—before anyone could say anything—she launched herself at John.

John barely had time to adjust the babies before she collided with him, arms locking around his neck, a choked sob escaping her lips. “You’re alive,” she whispered, voice raw and trembling.

John’s arms came up, one still supporting the babies, the other wrapping around her tightly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Serin clung to him, her shoulders shaking. “I—I thought—” Her voice broke, another sob wracking her frame.

Rodney swallowed past the lump in his throat. Ronon placed a steadying hand on Serin’s back, grounding her.

John pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Serin didn’t let go, her fingers digging into John’s shirt as if afraid he’d vanish.

Rodney sniffled, rubbing at his eyes furiously. “Okay, well. This is fine. I am fine.”

Ronon raised an eyebrow at him.

Rodney huffed. “Shut up.”

John chuckled, and something warm and light settled in Rodney’s chest. Because for the first time in far too long, everything felt right. John was alive. John had said yes.

Chapter Text

Teyla walked into the infirmary, her head held high, her face a mask of control. But beneath that carefully constructed exterior, she was barely holding herself together.

She had not slept. She had barely even breathed since leaving John's side the night before, convinced it was the last time she would ever see him in this life.

She had felt it—something shifting in the stillness of her meditation. The weight of his suffering had lifted so suddenly, so completely, that she knew.

John Sheppard was no longer suffering, he was gone.

The realization had struck like a knife to the heart, sharp and inescapable. In just two years, he had become the dearest friend she had ever known. Not just an ally in the fight against the Wraith, not just a leader of Atlantis—he had given her hope. Hope that they were not merely surviving, that there was a way to truly live beyond the Wraith’s shadow.

To lose him now was a blow she was not ready to bear.

She had come to say goodbye.

Her steps faltered when she reached his bed.

It was empty.

Stripped bare. No sheets, no monitors, no trace that he had even been there.

Teyla’s stomach clenched.

Her hands trembled at her sides as she stared at the stark, lifeless space. The final confirmation.

They had already taken him away.

Her breath hitched, but she forced it down, locking her grief behind the same discipline she had used her entire life. Not here. Not yet.

She straightened her shoulders and turned, scanning the infirmary for someone who could tell her where they had taken him. She had to pay her respects.

"If you’re looking for the Colonel, the doc took him back to his quarters last night."

Teyla turned so quickly that the voice startled her.

A Marine—Atticus, one of John’s men—was making his way past her on crutches. He moved stiffly, but his expression was relaxed, casual, as if what he had just said was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Teyla blinked. “His quarters?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Atticus said, adjusting his grip on the crutches. “Doc Beckett signed off on it last night.”

Teyla struggled to make sense of his words. Her mind was still trapped in grief, still processing loss, and the idea that John had been taken home instead of to… somewhere else—it did not make sense.

She took a slow, measured breath. “That is… not what I expected,” she admitted, forcing herself to remain calm.

Atticus frowned slightly. “Well… yeah, I mean, it’s protocol,” he said, clearly puzzled by her reaction. “Once he was stable, there was no reason to keep him here.”

Teyla’s throat tightened. Stable? Her pulse quickened. What was he saying?

She searched his face, looking for some sign that he was speaking in euphemisms—that "going home" meant his final rest, that "stable" meant at peace.

Atticus, however, looked entirely unbothered, as if this was a normal conversation.

“I wasn't aware of that Earth people took their loved ones back home?” she asked cautiously, her heart pounding.

Atticus gave her a strange look. “Uh… yeah? Why wouldn’t he?”

Teyla's breath caught.

Why wouldn’t he?

Because he had been dying. Because she had felt the moment his suffering had ended. Because—because he was gone.

Wasn’t he?

“I do not understand,” she said slowly, her composure slipping, cracks forming in the wall she had built around her grief. “John was…” She swallowed hard, not wanting to say it.

Atticus frowned, shifting his weight. “Okay, I feel like I’m missing something here,” he said, giving her an uncertain glance. “I mean, yeah, he looked bad for a while, but that was before the glowing lady showed up and fixed him.”

Teyla just stared.

Atticus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I dunno who she was—maybe an Ancient, maybe one of those ascended types, but she just kinda… did her thing, and suddenly, Sheppard was fine. Not just fine—like, better than fine. Doc Beckett was losing his mind over it.” He gave a small chuckle. “Colonel wasted no time either—bullied his way out of here and went straight home.”

Teyla felt as though the floor had just vanished beneath her feet.

Her world—one that had been tilting toward grief, toward mourning—lurched.

She had known John was gone. She had felt it.

But she had been wrong.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Her mind was still trying to reconcile what she had braced herself for with the truth that was now unfolding before her.

John Sheppard was alive.

He was home.

The tears that welled in her eyes this time were not from sorrow, but from something far more overwhelming—relief, joy, disbelief.

She had to see him.

She barely managed to murmur a thank you to Atticus before she turned on her heel, walking quickly—too quickly—toward the transporter.

The moment the doors slid open onto John’s floor, she ran.

She did not care who saw, did not care that she was breathless by the time she reached his door.

Stopping just long enough to steady herself, she wiped her face, forcing the last traces of panic from her expression.

Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, Teyla pressed the door chime.

She didn’t have to wait long. The door slid open smoothly, but no one stood on the other side.

That could only mean one thing.

Someone inside had thought the door open.

Her breath hitched. That was a feat John alone could accomplish.

Hope—pure, overwhelming hope—rushed through her like a tidal wave.

Stepping inside, she was immediately engulfed in warmth. Not just the physical warmth of the room, but an atmosphere of joy, of life. The air carried the scent of food cooking—something rich and hearty—and mingled with it was the sound of laughter. Soft, content baby noises filled the space, not the cries of distress she had last heard from them in the infirmary.

The room felt alive.

Her eyes swept across the familiar space, landing first on Rodney, who was perched on the couch, bouncing Kael on his knee. The baby let out a delighted giggle, tiny fingers grabbing at Rodney’s sleeve, his chubby legs kicking in excitement. Rodney’s whole face was lit with happiness, his usual sharp edges softened by unguarded joy.

But Kael and Rodney were both looking at something lower on the couch, something Teyla could not yet see from her vantage point.

Further inside, Ronon stood near the dining table, setting it with an ease that spoke of routine. His movements were relaxed, fluid—not the tense, watchful stance of a man expecting grief.

In the kitchen, Teyla spotted Serin moving between the stove and counter, skillfully preparing a meal. The scent of something freshly baked wafted through the air, mixing with the aroma of simmering stew.

Everything was so... normal. So whole.

It was almost too much to believe.

Rodney glanced up from where he sat, his gaze landing on her. His face lit up instantly, and without hesitation, he called out, “TEYLA!”

His voice was bright, filled with more happiness than she had ever heard from him. His grin was practically swallowing his face.

She took a step forward, then another, her feet moving before her mind could catch up.

Rodney’s gaze flicked downward again, returning to whatever—or whoever—was below. The sheer joy in his expression made her desperate to see for herself.

As she reached the couch, she finally looked down—

And her breath caught.

There, lounging on the couch like he hadn’t just fought for his life less than a day ago, was John.

Teyla’s heart stopped.

His oldest children, Theodore and Eleanor, clung to him like they had no intention of ever letting go. One was curled into his side, the other resting against his shoulder. And on his chest, nestled against him in peaceful contentment, were the newborns. They weren’t swaddled in blankets, just resting against him, as if their tiny bodies sought out the very heartbeat they had feared losing.

John’s arms were draped around them all, holding them close, cradling them as if anchoring himself with their warmth.

Then, as if sensing her presence, he looked up.

His familiar hazel eyes met hers, filled with warmth, exhaustion, and something lighter—something unburdened.

And then he smiled.

That smile.

That trademark John Sheppard smirk, tinged with amusement and ease, the one that so often came before a joke or a casual, dismissive quip. The one she had feared she would never see again.

“Hey, Teyla,” he said, voice smooth, untroubled.

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “John—”

She couldn’t help it. The name burst from her lips like a prayer.

He looked good.

Better than she had dared to hope.

She searched him for any sign of lingering injury, any hint of the man who had been dying before her eyes just the night before.

His hair was flatter than usual, likely from not having been washed in some time. There were a few bandages on his arms, but they were precisely where she remembered the IVs had been. Nothing more. No pallor, no weakness in his limbs, no pain in his expression.

He was here. He was alive.

And for the first time since she had stepped into the infirmary that morning, Teyla breathed.

A breath of relief. A breath of joy. A breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding since the moment she saw John collapse in a pool of his own blood.

The moment shattered when Ronon’s deep voice rumbled across the room. “Hey! Breakfast is ready.”

Rodney shot up from the couch as if launched by an invisible force. “Ooo, goody, goody!” he practically chirped, shifting Kael with enthusiasm. The baby shrieked with laughter, flailing his chubby little arms as Rodney bounced him with almost reckless abandon.

Ronon approached the couch, his sharp eyes landing on Teyla. “There’s a spot for you,” he said simply. It wasn’t an invitation so much as a fact.

Teyla inclined her head in appreciation but didn’t move right away. She wasn’t ready to take her eyes off John.

Ronon, however, was already focused on the two oldest children still clinging to their mother. He crouched beside the couch, reaching for Theodore and Eleanor. “Come now,” he coaxed, his voice gentler than one would expect from a man of his size. “There’s food.”

They whined in protest, clutching at John’s shirt like they feared letting go meant losing him again.

Ronon sighed, but he was undeterred. With practiced ease, he peeled them off one at a time, murmuring reassurances even as he manhandled them toward their highchairs. Their little faces scrunched in displeasure, and a few whimpers escaped, but their father was unwavering.

John, meanwhile, carefully sat up, shifting the newborns in his arms. He rocked them slightly as he swung his legs over the couch, moving with surprising ease.

Teyla watched intently, searching for any sign of strain. Any wince. Any sluggishness in his movements that might hint at lingering weakness.

There was none.

In fact, John looked better than she had seen him in a long time.

His color was vibrant, his eyes bright, his presence exuding the easy energy he had before exhaustion had started to chip away at him in recent months.

He rose to his feet smoothly, still cradling the babies against his chest.

Teyla was about to ask if he needed assistance when he suddenly stopped. His gaze swept the room as if searching for something.

Before she could question him, he turned to her.

“Here, can you hold them for a minute?” he asked, already shifting the tiny bundles toward her before she could answer.

She instinctively reached out, adjusting the babies in her arms, cradling their small, warm bodies against her.

John disappeared into the spare room, the one she knew they used as storage—for now, at least, until the babies were old enough for their own space.

Teyla looked down at the newborns, her heart swelling. Their tiny faces were so peaceful, their breathing soft and steady.

And then something clicked.

She realized something glaringly obvious—she didn’t know their names.

“I was never told what you named them,” she said, lifting her head toward the others.

Rodney, who was in the middle of getting Kael settled in his highchair, barely glanced up. “Oh, the girl is Shaela, and the boy is Logan.”

Teyla looked down at the babies again, committing their names to memory. She wasn’t entirely sure which was which, but she figured she would learn soon enough.

She moved toward the table, where Ronon had indeed set a place for her. The small gesture touched her more than she expected.

Just then, John reappeared, a familiar fabric bundle in his hands.

Teyla recognized it immediately—one of the slings he had used for the older triplets until they had outgrown them.

As he pulled it over his shoulder and adjusted the straps, something else caught her eye.

A glint of gold.

Hanging against his chest, peeking out, was his dog tag chain.

Only… there was something new attached to it.

John never wore gold.

Her brow furrowed. Under the pretense of handing the babies back, she stepped closer. As soon as his hands were full again, she reached out, gently taking hold of the tags.

John didn’t stop her.

She turned them over in her fingers, familiar with what was supposed to be there. She had seen them before—when the Iratus bug had latched onto him, when Aden had first called them "tags" in confusion, and when John himself had explained that all Earth military personnel wore them.

But now… there was a new tag.

Gold-rimmed. Carefully crafted.

Her eyes scanned the inscriptions.

John’s name.

Ronon’s name.

Rodney’s name.

And an empty space.

There was also the symbol of Atlantis. And on the other side, a symbol she didn’t recognize.

Before she could even ask, Rodney’s voice boomed from across the room, overflowing with excitement.

“JOHN SAID YES!”

Teyla blinked, startled by his outburst. She looked up to find Rodney practically beaming.

Still holding the tags, she turned to John, one eyebrow raised in question. “Yes… to what?”

John chuckled, shifting the babies slightly so he could meet her gaze.

“They asked me to marry them,” he said, his voice warm with amusement.

Her eyes widened in understanding, and then a slow, genuine smile spread across her face. “Oh, that is wonderful.”

Without hesitation, she stepped forward and threw her arms around her friend, never mind that he was wearing two newborns.

She embraced all three of them, her heart bursting with joy.

Because this was life.

This was family.

And John was here to be a part of it.

–

Elizabeth moved through the corridors of Atlantis with a weight in her chest she couldn’t shake. She hadn’t slept much—maybe an hour or two at most—her mind stuck in an awful loop, waiting for the dreaded confirmation.

She had expected a call. A somber summons. An update from Carson. Something. Anything.

But nothing had come.

That silence had stretched out like a cruel joke, leaving her in a state of terrible anticipation. After all the chaos yesterday, she had been certain they were nearing the end of John Sheppard’s life. The last reports had painted a grim picture—uncontrollable bleeding, blood pressure barely hanging on, and a worried, almost resigned tone in Carson’s voice that Elizabeth had heard too many times before.

And worst of all, she had sat with John just before that. When he was weak, pale, his voice a rasp—yet determined to put everything in order. She had witnessed it all: his updated will, the final version of his testament, the naming of guardians for his children, the distribution of his assets. He had signed it with a trembling hand, Elizabeth had seen the look in his eyes. He had truly believed that was it. So had she.

So why hadn’t she been informed of the inevitable?

Determined to get answers, Elizabeth stepped off the transporter and made her way briskly to the infirmary. Carson would be there. He had to be. And if this was some sort of breakdown in communication—if someone had failed to inform her of John's passing—there would be consequences. She needed to be there. She needed to honor John’s service, his sacrifice, his memory—

She pushed open the doors to the infirmary and stopped short.

The room was calm. Peaceful, even. A nurse passed by, nodding politely to her, no urgency in their step. Carson was standing near the back, reviewing a tablet. He looked… relaxed.

Elizabeth blinked.

“Carson,” she called, her voice tight, more forceful than she meant it to be.

He looked up and, upon seeing her, gave a bright smile. “Elizabeth! I was just about to stop by and give you an update.”

Her stomach dropped. There it was.

“I haven’t heard anything since last night,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “I thought you would have notified me when—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Carson’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “When what?”

She hesitated. “When John passed.”

Carson’s eyes widened. “What? No! Elizabeth—John’s alive. He’s more than alive—he’s healthy.” He set down the tablet and stepped toward her. “Did no one tell you?”

She stared at him, heart stuttering. “What…? What do you mean, he’s healthy?”

“I mean it. Some… well, let’s call it Lantean intervention occurred,” Carson said, still a little in awe himself. “It was unlike anything I’ve seen. One moment he was on death’s doorstep, and the next—his vitals were stable, wounds healed, color back in his face. It’s miraculous.”

Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand, stunned. “He’s… really okay?”

“Aye. We released him late last night,” Carson said gently. “Sent him back to his quarters. He’s spending time with his family. Frankly, I’ve never seen him look better.”

Elizabeth took a step back, dizzy with the news. The weight in her chest cracked open and flooded out in a rush of disbelief and relief. She remembered how serious John had been during their final conversation, how carefully he had spoken about making sure everything would be taken care of. There had been no anger in him, only quiet sadness and acceptance.

She had watched him say goodbye.

And now he was alive?

“I… need to see him,” she murmured, and without another word, she turned and headed for his quarters.

When she arrived, the sounds of laughter greeted her even before the door opened. She paused, blinking in surprise. Laughter?

She pressed the chime. A beat passed, then the door slid open.

Inside was a scene that felt impossible. Ronon and Rodney were bustling around the table. Serin was bouncing one of the babies on her hip while helping another out of the highchair. Teyla was seated nearby, a calm smile on her face. And in the center of it all—John.

Standing, upright, alive. Sling across his chest, two newborns curled up against him. His hair was a mess, and there were a few bandages where IVs had been, but he looked good. Whole. Vibrant.

His eyes found hers, and that familiar crooked grin spread across his face. “Hey, Elizabeth.”

It hit her so hard she had to take a breath. “John,” she whispered, stepping inside. “You’re really—?”

“Alive?” he finished for her, eyes dancing. “Yeah. Seems like it stuck this time.”

Rodney looked up from pouring himself a second cup of coffee. “Oh! Hey! You’re just in time to hear the other big news.”

Elizabeth blinked. “There’s more news?”

Ronon came to John’s side, resting a warm hand on his back. Rodney joined them a second later, practically bouncing with excitement.

John rolled his eyes fondly and reached for the gold tag around his neck, letting it fall into view.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“You’re engaged?” she said, stunned.

Rodney beamed. “We are.”

“After everything that happened,” John added, “we figured... why wait?”

“We’re still deciding if we want a proper ceremony,” Rodney explained, “or just sign the paperwork. But either way—he said yes.”

Elizabeth was silent for a long moment, blinking away tears. Yesterday, she had watched this man prepare to die, calm and brave and heart breakingly responsible. And now he stood here, wrapped in life, surrounded by family, looking toward the future.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “You're joking, right?”

Rodney blinked. “No? I mean—why? Does it matter?”

She took a step closer, arms crossed. “Rodney, half the city thought we lost John yesterday. The entire expedition was grieving. If you think you can just quietly file a marriage license and no one will say anything, you are deeply mistaken.”

Ronon let out a soft rumble. “She’s not wrong.”

“You’re seriously siding with her?” Rodney asked.

John gave him a look. “Rodney. If we don't do something, Atlantis will. Probably with banners, streamers, rice throwing and some lemon dessert. At least this way, we get to control it.”

Rodney squawked at the lemon comment.

Ronon leaned against the wall, arms folded but amused. “Let them have their party. We survived. It’s worth celebrating.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Exactly. And you three—what you have—it means something to everyone here. You deserve a proper ceremony. Let people share in it.”

John groaned lightly, but his eyes were warm. “You’re determined to make this a spectacle.”

“Not a spectacle. A celebration,” Elizabeth corrected. “And no one deserves one more than you.”

“Fine,” John relented with a crooked smirk. “But let’s not drag it out forever. We’ve got kids. We're already living together. It’s not like anyone needs more time to think about it.”

Rodney perked up. “So what, like... a couple months?”

“No,” John said flatly. “God, no.”

Elizabeth jumped in. “Actually, a 2 weeks is doable. Everyone will still be here. The Daedalus will be in orbit and won't leave for another eight days. That gives us time to organize everything—otherwise, you'll be looking at three to four months.”

Rodney went pale. “Two weeks?!”

Ronon shrugged. “Plenty of time.”

John nodded. “I like it. Let’s just do it. Quick and clean. Say vows, feed people, go home.” Turnign to Rodney. “Plus the quicker we do this the less crazy and elaborate plans people here can get.” He smirked.

Rodney groaned into his hands. “You say that like planning a wedding is as easy as calling a team meeting.”

Elizabeth smiled fondly. “Rodney, you’re not doing this alone. Everyone in Atlantis will help. We want to.”

John looked at both of them, a soft, grateful expression crossing his face. “Alright then. Two weeks.”

Rodney glanced between his partners, still trying to convince himself. “No explosions. No emergencies.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Ronon said with a smirk.

John chuckled, the babies in his sling squirming slightly. “Let’s make it official.”

Chapter Text

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard and Dr. Elizabeth Weir stood side by side on the gate room platform. The air shimmered with the arrival of the Daedalus's transporter beam, and with a familiar flash, Colonel Steven Caldwell materialized in front of them—military straight, clipboard in hand, and already halfway through his usual greeting.

“Doctor, Colon—” His words stumbled as his eyes landed on John. More specifically, on the object strapped across John's chest.

The sling was familiar—he’d seen John use it before when his first set of children were infants. But he remembered those days had passed; the babies had grown. This sling wasn’t straining under the weight of 3 5 month olds. It was smaller. The soft bulge of fabric stretched over two distinctly smaller lumps.

Caldwell’s brow furrowed. He pointed at the sling, tone already wary. “That’s not your kids.”

“Oh, they’re mine,” John replied with a smirk, one hand gently resting on the side of the sling in a protective, motherly way.

Caldwell stepped forward, peering more closely. “Colonel… that’s only two. And they’re tiny. That’s not the triplets you had.”

John’s grin widened. “These are the new ones.”

There was a beat of silence. Caldwell blinked like he hadn’t quite heard right. “You… had more kids?”

“Surprise!” John said lightly.

Elizabeth groan next to her second.

Caldwell blinked again, slower this time. “Please tell me they’re adopted and not the result of another time dilation field or Ancient experiment gone sideways. I haven't been gone long enough for you to have gotten pregnant again.”

Elizabeth, who had been quiet until now, gave a diplomatic cough. “Well... time dilation might have been preferable, in some ways. Why don’t we take this to my office? We’ve had quite a few developments since your last report.”

Caldwell gave her a look that said he already regretted asking, but his attention drifted back to the sling. “Can I see them?”

John immediately stiffened.

Caldwell, undeterred, stepped forward, one hand half-raised in what might have been a harmless gesture to gently tug down the top layer of the sling and sneak a peek at the babies within.

He didn’t get the chance.

With a sudden, startling hiss, John shifted his stance. His hand swatted Caldwell’s away in one fast, sharp motion, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the air.

Caldwell froze, eyes wide, hand halfway to his chest. “Did you just hit me?”

John stood his ground, body angled slightly to shield the sling, his posture bristling. He just glared at the invading Alpha.

Caldwell’s expression darkened immediately. “Sheppard, that’s insubordination. You are way out of line, Colonel—”

“He’s not,” Elizabeth cut in smoothly, stepping between them without missing a beat.

Caldwell looked at her sharply, eyes narrowed. “Doctor—”

“Colonel Sheppard is… borderline feral right now,” she said calmly, as though explaining the weather. “We’ve had to make accommodations. He doesn’t allow anyone to touch the babies. I, personally, received a swat when I tried to adjust one of the slings for him. He nearly took Lorn’s fingers off yesterday.”

She lied for John. She did not want Caldwell to have any idea John had actually punched her for petting the cheek of one baby. Or that he nearly threw Lorn off the balcony for trying to lift one of the babies to help John feed them.

John gave a small, unapologetic shrug.

Caldwell stared at Elizabeth like she was speaking in tongues. “And that’s acceptable behavior now?”

Elizabeth smiled tightly. “It is when the hormone imbalance is more Ascended being tampering vs anything human caused.”

The older Colonel exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This place was strange when I left. Now it’s completely unhinged.”

Snapping his eyes up at Dr. Weir. “Did you just say Ascended being tempering?!” He was now even more alarmed.

Gesturing towards her office, Elizabeth replied. “Shall we continue this in my office? I promise it will only get weirder.”

The grave look Caldwell gave her made it clear he didn’t like the sound of that. His eyes flicked back to John again—and lingered. While it wasn’t unusual to see Sheppard baby-wearing back when the first set were small, he’d never carried them into formal meetings. Not like this.

Still, he nodded and followed them out of the gate room.

—

In Elizabeth’s office, Caldwell sat in his usual chair, posture military-stiff, but his face was another matter entirely—torn between concern, confusion, and mild disbelief as John and Elizabeth recounted the events of the past several days.

They told him about the unexpected pregnancy, the emergency birth, the Omega complications, and how John had nearly died from the blood loss and strain on his body. His expression turned grimmer with each detail.

Elizabeth watched the dawning horror on his face as she calmly added, “Carson was preparing a death certificate. We were sure we’d lose him.”

John, who sat relaxed with the sling still across his body, just shrugged. “Didn’t stick.”

Caldwell stared at him like he was seeing a ghost.

“And now,” Elizabeth said, switching to a lighter tone to ease the tension, “we’re planning a wedding.”

Caldwell turned slowly to look at her, like the words hadn’t registered. “A… wedding?”

“Yes,” she said brightly, clasping her hands. “John, Rodney, and Ronon have decided to formalize their bond. They’re becoming an official triad.”

John added dryly, “Figured after nearly dying and waking up with two new kids, making it five total, it was time to stop dragging our feet.”

“We’re holding the ceremony five days from now,” Elizabeth continued. “While Daedalus is in orbit. We wanted to do it while most of the senior staff were still planetside. If we waited for your next return window, we’d be looking at over three months.”

Caldwell leaned back slowly in his chair, his eyes still bouncing between the Omega holding two newborns and the expedition leader looking entirely too pleased. “So, just to be clear... In the last two weeks, Sheppard nearly died, had two surprise children, and is now getting married.”

“That about sums it up,” John replied with a small smile.

“Welcome back to Atlantis,” Elizabeth added with a faint grin.

Caldwell let out a long breath and muttered, “Next time I beam in, someone better hand me a drink first.”

John snorted. “Ceremony’s in five days. You’ll get your drink then.”

Caldwell shook his head with a mixture of resignation and something like awe. “Only you, Sheppard. Only you.”

–

Going to his closet to pull out his dress uniform, Lt. Colonel John Sheppard came to an abrupt stop.

The garment bag was missing.

At first, he didn’t panic. He crouched down, thinking maybe it had slipped behind the other hanging clothes or gotten shoved off its hook. But a thorough check of the floor yielded nothing. He checked behind his jackets, through the narrow end of the closet — no bag. His shoes weren’t there either. The polished black leather pair he wore only under threat of death or official ceremony were just… gone.

A slow frown crept across his face as he stood up straight.

Okay. Maybe he’d moved it.

He headed down the hall to the spare bedroom — the one that was supposed to become a nursery, eventually. Currently, it was chaos. Again.

Boxes that had once been neatly stacked were now tumbling over one another like drunken dominoes. Diapers, baby bottles, burp cloths, and tiny clothes spilled out like the room had sneezed baby supplies. The recent arrival of the two youngest had thrown their whole system into disarray. Five babies under one didn’t leave much time for organizing. Good thing John hadn’t followed through on giving the old newborn stuff to the Athosians — they'd needed every last item.

He stepped carefully over a stack of toppled burp cloths and opened the closet.

More boxes. More mess.

No uniform.

“Shit,” John muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair in growing frustration. The ceremony was in less than a day. He couldn't exactly show up in BDUs or a hoodie, though the latter was very tempting.

Grumbling, he made his way back to the living room.

There, Serin sat cross-legged on the floor, her long braid swaying slightly as she leaned over a colorful pile of Earth-style wooden blocks. John’s older three — Theodor, Kael, and little Eleanor — were all intently focused on stacking towers with her, babbling excitedly about their “castle”. Serin, as always, was patient, engaged, and completely absorbed in their play. The Athosians didn’t grow up with toys like these, so she'd found Earth playthings fascinating — intricate, bright, and, in her words, "engineered joy."

Nearby, Mila — Serin’s younger sister — sat rocking slowly in the nursery chair, holding the twins. John's feralness had dissipated enough he could leave the babies with either their fathers or his nannies, while he attended other things. It had even gotten on John's nerves how he just couldn't be more than 5 feet from them.

Mila was bouncing one gently while murmuring softly to both. Mila had arrived recently to help her sister with nanny duties. With five babies now, it was officially a two-person job whenever all three parents were off-world or occupied. Mila had made it clear she wasn’t looking to be a full-time nanny — just a temporary second pair of hands until John, Rodney, and Ronon could find someone permanent. And with Serin now officially betrothed and likely to return to the mainland once married, John knew he’d be losing his anchor far sooner than he liked.

Still, they had time. A little.

“Hey,” John called, stepping fully into the room. “Either of you happen to see a bag — about this big?” He made vague gestures to approximate the garment bag’s size and shape. “It would've been in my room. Holds my dress uniform.”

Serin looked up, blinking thoughtfully. Mila just tilted her head.

“You mean that fancy clothing you wear for formal events? The one with all the jewels pinned to the front?” Mila asked, her tone curious.

John winced. “Ehh… yeah, I guess? They’re not jewels, though. They’re medals. Military decorations.”

Mila nodded as if she understood, though he could already tell she was still mentally filing them under "jewelry."

“That man — Major Lorne, I believe — he came by yesterday when you were working,” Serin added, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “He took the bag. And the shoes.”

John blinked. “He what?”

Serin smiled calmly, almost amused. “He said it’s tradition — that those closest to the military person are responsible for making sure the uniform is properly prepared for a significant ceremony. He said it needed to be cleaned, polished, and ‘pressed.’”

“Pressed,” John repeated flatly, running a hand over his face. Of course Evan had pulled this. “Right. Thanks.”

He’d thought maybe — maybe — he’d dodge this part of the tradition. Maybe flying in a different galaxy exempted him from the old customs that haunted every military wedding or burial. Apparently not.

He turned to leave, muttering under his breath, “Just so long as he doesn’t try to saddle me with an escort…”

Mila raised a brow. “What is this ‘escort’?”

John paused mid-step and pointedly did not answer.

–

The sliding doors to the shared office hissed open as John approached, triggered by his presence. He stepped through with a purposefully heavy stride, jaw tight, irritation brewing just beneath the surface. He knew Lorne would be here — the man was nothing if not predictable when it came to paperwork — and John wasn’t about to let this little stunt slide without a word.

He crossed the threshold and spotted Lorne exactly where he expected: sitting calmly behind his desk, half-buried in a stack of mission reports and requisition forms, looking for all the world like a man who hadn’t just swiped his CO’s formal uniform without warning.

“So,” John began, voice sharp, “you made off with my dress blues?”

He tried to make it sound like an accusation. Tried to put some steel into it. But his voice came out more tired than angry. A low simmer instead of a fire.

Evan didn’t even glance up. “Yes,” he said simply, scribbling something onto a datapad. “They needed to be cleaned, pressed, and polished.”

John folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, frowning. “And I’m not capable of doing that myself?”

“Technically, you are,” Evan replied, still not looking up. “But you’re also busy. You know — commanding Atlantis, juggling missions, not to mention the whole ‘five children under one’ situation.”

John narrowed his eyes. “So your solution was to break into my quarters and steal my uniform?”

“I didn’t break in.” Lorne finally glanced up, just long enough to raise a brow. “Serin let me in. Very politely, I might add.”

John grimaced. “Traitor.”

He stepped further into the room, flopping heavily into the chair across from Lorne’s desk with a grunt. He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the silence stretch for a second. “Okay, so when exactly were you planning to find the time to get all this done, Major? You’re not exactly twiddling your thumbs lately.”

Evan shrugged without looking away from his reports. “True. But I also don’t have five kids.”

John bared his teeth, not quite a smile. “So what poor sap did you dump that task on, then?”

That finally got Lorne to look up fully. His expression was all innocence — the smug, practiced kind that came with years of knowing exactly how far to push your superior officer. “I didn’t dump it on anyone. The men were non-stop pestering me about it. I figured it was better if I took care of it, because otherwise? They were planning to break in themselves.”

John blinked. “What.”

Lorne leaned back in his chair, folding his arms like he’d just presented a watertight argument to a jury. “It’s tradition, sir. They want to show respect. You’ve been through a hell of a year, and they see you — not just as their commanding officer, but as someone who’s earned it. They wanted to help. Please… just let them.”

John stared at him, his expression unreadable. His jaw worked for a second before he groaned, tipping his head back and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Straight to the blackmail, huh?” he muttered, voice muffled.

“If it works, sir,” Evan said cheerfully, clearly enjoying himself now.

John peeked over his hands, eyes narrowed in mock irritation. “You do know I’m your commanding officer, right?”

Lorne’s smirk was practically weaponized. “Yes, sir.”

And with that, he went right back to his paperwork, leaving John to stew in reluctant acceptance.

–

John sat in the rocker, gently bouncing as he nursed his youngest in his arms. The quiet rhythm of the chair matched the soft, contented sounds of the baby nestled against him. Across the room, his older trio were buckled into their highchairs, kicking their feet impatiently as they waited for breakfast. Serin and Mila were bustling about in the kitchen, working in tandem like a well-rehearsed routine. It always impressed John how seamlessly they’d adjusted to five babies.

The five-month-olds, babbled between themselves in their usual nonsense language. They seemed stuck on a single syllable lately — probably the early stages of a second word that wasn't Mama — but it didn’t stop Mila and Serin from cooing back at them with patient, musical tones. The girls carried on the conversation with the babies as though they understood every word.

The morning felt quiet, too quiet compared to the chaos of the night before. After a big family dinner, a group of Marines had shown up at John’s door, dragging Ronon and Rodney away under the pretense of keeping with tradition — something about not letting the groom(s) see the “bride” before the wedding. John had tried to argue, but it was no use. The Marines were determined to do things their way. So now, it was just John, the babies, and the nannies.

He watched as Mila plated up the food and served it to the three older ones first. Despite all their attempts at growing coordination, breakfast was still a messy event. Kael, thankfully, had graduated from face-planting into his plate to eat, but his spoon work left much to be desired. At least no one had launched their cup yet. That was progress.

The younger babies made it clear they were done nursing — tiny fists curled, bodies relaxed — so John shifted them with practiced ease. He tucked himself back into his shirt, then started the familiar burping routine, gently patting each baby over his shoulder. As soon as they were swaddled again, they drifted back into sleep, warm and satisfied.

John stood and padded quietly across the room, placing the twins into the cot they kept near the window in the main living space. The sunrise coming in through the windows of Atlantis gave the room a soft, golden glow. The light was warm, the kind that made things feel a little easier.

He finally made his way to the dining table, where the food had been laid out in proper Athosian fashion: slices of herbed bread still warm from the oven, soft cheeses with a smoky edge, and scrambled eggs mixed with bits of meat and vegetables. Everything was topped with chopped herbs Serin had brought from the mainland. There was a jug of juice — some tart, tangy thing from a Pegasus fruit — after being so close to being able to drink coffee again, he was yet again denied, tea and juice were his drinks for the foreseeable future.

John smiled, taking it all in. “Looks good. Thanks,” he said genuinely.

Serin returned the smile, and Mila nodded from her seat. Between bites of their own breakfast, the two women leaned over and helped the older babies get food in their mouths — or at least near their mouths. There was a lot of wiping, coaxing, and reloading spoons. No one wanted hungry meltdowns today of all days.

John was nearly finished with his food when the door chimed.

Without standing, he triggered the Atlantis doors to open with a thought. The soft swoosh echoed into the room — and in stepped Major Evan Lorne, followed by several senior-ranking Marines. One of them carried John’s garment bag like it was precious cargo. Another had his freshly shined shoes. Lorne himself carried a small ditty bag, probably with John’s shave kit and whatever else they'd decided he needed.

John’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Ah, hell no,” he barked.

Lorne grinned like the cat that got the cream. “Come on, sir. You act like we’re taking you to a court martial.”

John winced. That one hit a little too close to home.

John sighed and set his fork down. “Can’t a guy have some dignity and get himself ready?”

“It’s tradition,” Lorne said, more gently this time. “Let us do this for you.”

John ran a hand down his face. “Come on, it’s embarrassing. Grown-ass man can’t get himself dressed?”

“How is it embarrassing,” Lorne countered, “to have people who care about you show that care — make sure you look your best for your big day?”

John looked at them all, really looked. Each one stood a little straighter under his gaze, like they were proud just to be a part of this. His irritation faded, replaced with a resigned affection. They weren’t mocking him — they were honoring him.

With a groan, John stood and grabbed his juice. He downed the last of it in one shot, set the mug down, and muttered, “Fine.”

The Marines grinned like a bunch of kids who’d just gotten away with something. Behind them, Serin and Mila exchanged looks over the heads of the still-messy babies and stifled their laughter behind polite smiles.

John sighed dramatically but led the little parade down the hallway to the master suite anyway, bare feet silent on the cool floor. The Atlantis sliding doors whooshed open automatically at his presence, revealing the large private bathroom. It was bigger than most on the city — one of the rare perks of his rank — and, today, it had been turned into something halfway between a staging area and a barbershop.

“You wanna hop in the shower and we’ll get everything set up?” Major Evan Lorne said, the question clearly rhetorical.

John rolled his eyes with an exaggerated groan. “Yes, Mom,” he muttered, heading for the shower stall behind the dividing wall. He stripped down with the ease of long habit and started the water. Years of military training kicked in; he showered fast, methodically, and efficiently. The water was warm, not hot — enough to wake him up, not lull him to sleep.

Once he was done, he dried off and wrapped the towel securely around his waist. He stepped out from behind the divider, water still dripping from his hair, and blinked in surprise.

Someone — clearly one of the Marines — had dragged in a kitchen chair and placed it in front of the mirror. A fresh towel was draped over the back. With a sigh of long-suffering dignity, John dropped into the chair.

Staff Sergeant Miguel Ortiz stepped forward, calm and professional. He took another towel and draped it over John’s shoulders. His eyes briefly flicked to John’s back — and lingered, just for a second. Old scars. Deep ones. But Ortiz didn’t comment. His face didn’t even twitch. He tucked the towel around John’s neck like a practiced barber and began prepping the kit he'd brought in.

Sometimes John forgot just how much he loved the people who served on Atlantis. Their care was quiet, consistent, and filled with unspoken respect.

John huffed, watching in the mirror. “Y’all better not be planning on doing my hair too.”

“You’d be surprised how many of the guys voted yes on that,” Lorne replied from where he leaned against the doorway, grinning like a jackal.

John muttered, “Bunch of insubordinate bastards,” and glared into the mirror. Not that it had any heat. Not today.

Ortiz went to work. He whipped up a bowl of old-fashioned shave cream, the scent of sandalwood and something faintly citrusy rising in the air. He lathered it with a soft-bristled brush before applying it with careful, practiced strokes. John stayed quiet, eyes half-closed, the familiar ritual pulling him back.

It reminded him of being sixteen — his older brother had taken him to an old-school barber shop for his first proper shave. There’d been straight razors, fresh cream, and hot steam towels that smelled like tobacco and cedar. Even the aftershave had been a special house blend. Today, there was no steam towel, but Ortiz moved with that same reverent precision. His strokes were steady, his hand firm but gentle.

When Ortiz was done, he applied a splash of aftershave. It wasn’t the usual choking alpha-male cologne the Corps was famous for — it was subtle, light, almost floral, but grounded with enough Earth-scented notes that it felt like something John might actually pick out himself.

John rubbed his jaw. “Damn. That’s smoother than anything since Carson did it last time.”

He barely had time to appreciate it before Ortiz came at him with a comb and a small pair of scissors.

“HEY! No touching the hair!” John squawked, pulling away slightly.

“It’s just a trim, sir,” Ortiz said, pushing him gently but firmly back into the chair. “It won’t even be close to regulation when I’m done.”

“Come on, sir,” Lorne piped in, poking his head further into the room, clearly enjoying himself. “At least let him get rid of the flyaways and split ends. It'll match the dress uniform better.”

Ortiz chuckled under his breath. “Pretty sure his whole head is flyaways.”

John shot him a mock glare through the mirror. “I’m pretty sure comments like that are insubordination.”

“I’m very sure your hair is worse insubordination,” Ortiz countered, scissors already snipping.

John gave up with another exaggerated sigh and slumped in the chair as Ortiz worked. To his credit, the Staff Sergeant kept the cut light — just enough to shape it up and smooth the worst of the frizz. By the time he finished, John's hair still looked like his, just... cleaner. Sharper.

Ortiz brushed him off and carefully rolled up the towel with the clippings so the hair wouldn’t fall everywhere. John stood, checking that the towel around his waist was still secure. Then, barefoot and freshly groomed, he padded into the adjoining bedroom.

The rest of the Marines had been busy. His dress blues were laid out on the bed with ceremonial precision — jacket, shirt, slacks, tie, and gloves. His medals were already in place, the buttons gleaming like they’d been polished by elves. Even his shoes sat at the foot of the bed, catching the light just so.

Lorne tossed him something. “Catch.”

John snagged it one-handed. He unfolded it to find regulation undergarments — the standard white briefs that actually fit under the form-hugging pants, and a sleeveless undershirt that would sit smoothly beneath his uniform.

He raised a brow. “You pack my socks too?”

Lorne just smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, John slipped the briefs on under the towel. He might let someone handle his underwear in an emergency, but he wasn’t about to flash anyone under his command. Standing, he pulled the undershirt over his head, then dropped the damp towel into the laundry basket with a satisfying thunk.

He eyed the uniform laid out. “If I get to put the pants on myself, I’ll call it a win.”

Lorne lifted both brows. “Deal. That part’s always awkward anyway.”

John dressed in the slacks, leaving them unfastened for the moment so his shirt could be tucked in easier. He stood in just pants and skivvies, facing the gathered Marines like a man about to be sacrificed.

They grinned — then closed in.

They moved with the practiced efficiency of men who’d done this before — not for themselves, but for someone they respected. Buttons were done up. Collar adjusted. Cuffs straightened. John stood there, quietly letting it happen. There was something deeply humbling about it.

When they finally stepped back, John looked down at himself. Lt. Colonel John Sheppard stared back in the mirror — crisp, clean, polished to perfection.

Whoever had done the work on the uniform had gone all out. Every crease was sharp, every button gleamed. Even the tiny silver threadwork in his insignia had been cleaned and carefully arranged. He never would’ve had the time — or the patience — to do this himself.

He looked at them all. “Well... I guess this is as good as it’s going to get.”

The Marines laughed, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, but their smiles were warm, proud.

And John — despite all his grumbling — felt something bloom quietly in his chest. Gratitude. Maybe even a little joy.

–

John stepped out into his living room and paused, scanning the space with a practiced eye. Breakfast had been cleaned up completely—no stray crumbs or sticky spots in sight. The highchairs where his older three had sat were empty, wiped down and gleaming in the morning light. It was oddly quiet for a home that housed five babies.

Following the muffled sounds of chatter and the unmistakable rush of running water, John made his way down the hall. He found the entire troop—his five children, plus Serin and Mila—gathered in one of the spare bathrooms. It was a whirlwind of damp giggles and soft splashes. All five babies were in various stages of bath time. Judging by the scene, they were nearly done. The youngest, Shaela and Logan, were wrapped snugly in fluffy towels, resting on the counter like little bundled burritos. Beside them sat two of their older siblings, Eleanor and Theodore, both damp-haired and clearly fresh from the tub. Kael, however, was still in the water, having the time of his life. His hands slapped at the surface, sending water everywhere with joyful defiance.

Mila stood near the dry children, holding a towel over her shoulder and doing her best to keep them warm and wrangled, while Serin wrestled gently with Kael, who had no interest in surrendering his watery kingdom.

Theodore spotted movement by the door and turned his head. His face lit up instantly. “MAMA!” he cried out with a beaming smile, arms stretching toward the door in that grabby, desperate way only babies could manage.

John smiled, heart softening. That one word—they’d been obsessed with it lately. Just two weeks since they’d started shouting it in the infirmary, and they hadn’t bothered to learn another since. It didn’t worry him, though. It was still early for them, knowing Mama was pretty impressive as is. For now, their enthusiasm for the one word was enough.

Stepping inside, John made his way over to his excitable son. He bent slightly, arms half-extended to scoop him up, but Mila interjected quickly. “Oh, be careful! He’s still wet—and you don’t want to get your clothes soaked.”

John sighed and glanced down at his freshly pressed dress blues. Right. If he ruined this uniform, he’d never hear the end of it. Instead, he changed course, leaning in to place a kiss on Theodore’s damp curls and then tickled his exposed belly, earning a bright giggle from the little Omega. Theodore squealed and latched onto John’s wrist with pudgy fingers.

Smiling, John stayed a little longer to help finish drying off the others. The older ones grabbed at him with damp hands, giggling all the while, while the younger ones squirmed and fussed as towels were rubbed over their soft skin. He was just about to help Mila get them dressed when a voice cut through the air.

“Come on, sir. Don’t ruin your uniform before your big day.”

John turned to see Lorne leaning in the doorway, already decked out in his own dress blues—sharp, crisp, not a single wrinkle in sight. Unlike John, Lorne had done his own pressing, and it showed.

“My big day?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Do I get another promotion? Finally be a full bird colonel?”

Lorne rolled his eyes hard. “No, sir—your wedding. That big day.”

John groaned, straightening slowly. “Really? Why is it such a big deal? What’s going to change? We already live together, we have five kids. Now we just have a piece of paper to make it official?”

He wasn’t being ungrateful, not really. He just didn’t understand why everyone was so obsessed with this ceremony. He didn’t like being the center of attention, never had.

“It’s not about change,” Lorne said, stepping into the room and leaning against the wall. “It’s about acknowledgment. You’re making your relationship official, yes—but you’re also showing the people who care about you—and yeah, even Rodney and Ronon—that love and family are worth celebrating. And on Atlantis, we celebrate hard when we get the chance.”

John exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. Yeah, okay. That made more sense when Lorne put it that way. He wasn’t going to win this fight.

He wandered back to the living room, eyeing the couch longingly. Throwing himself onto it was tempting, but he resisted. Someone had gone through the trouble of pressing his uniform. He wouldn’t disrespect that. Instead, he eased down carefully, unbuttoning the jacket to prevent wrinkles and smoothing out his trousers with practiced hands. Lorne joined him, choosing to perch on the armrest instead—safe from potential creases.

“Well, there is one change,” Lorne said after a moment.

John glanced up. “Oh?”

“Didn’t Dr. Weir approve three days off on the mainland for you three? Completely alone?” Lorne grinned. Eyebrows waggling.

John chuckled. “You gonna get raunchy in front of the kids?”

“Oh please. They’re five months old. They won’t remember a thing. And besides, I’m positive you three have done worse when you share a wall with them.”

John snorted. “So a weekend away is your idea of big change?”

“How often do any of us get that kind of break?” Lorne countered.

“Point taken.”

Just then, Mila and Serin returned with the babies. They’d been dressed—clean and adorable in fresh clothes. No frills or Earth-style dresses, but everything was neat and free of wear. Eleanor had her hair in pigtails, Kael sported a tiny top knot, and Theodore’s unruly hair was beginning to resemble John’s own windswept mess.

The older three were placed into the large pram, their wide eyes scanning the room. It wasn’t every day they saw adults in full uniform, and their attention bounced between their mother, Lorne, and the other Marines in their dress blues.

Serin carried Shaela and Logan in an Athosian sling across her chest. They were bundled close, cheeks rosy, their small hands peeking out of the folds.

The soldiers in the room softened, every one of them. Each man there would gladly lay down their life for these tiny humans. Somehow, in a very short time, these children had wrapped Atlantis around their tiny little fingers.

“If you wanna head off,” Lorne said to Mila and Serin, “we’ll make sure the Colonel gets to the church on time.”

Both women paused, brows furrowed.

“Church?” Serin asked.

John groaned. Lorne grinned.

“It’s an old Earth phrase. It means we’ll get the bride and groom to the ceremony on time,” he explained.

“What is a church?” Mila asked, learning by now to ask questions freely.

“It’s a place where people go to worship our god,” Lorne said simply.

The women exchanged glances, still puzzled, but they shrugged and gave the men nods before disappearing with the babies.

There was a quiet beat as everyone waited for the girls and babies to have a chance to get ahead of them. Then Lorne stood up and stretched. “Guess it’s time to get this show on the road.”

John groaned again. He stood up, brushing at his jacket—but before he could adjust anything, the Marines were on him. Hands smoothing his jacket, straightening his collar, aligning every fold and seam. He didn’t bother to protest.

Chapter Text

When they finally deemed him acceptable, Lorne gave the universal sign to move out. John followed them to the door—and froze.

Outside stood an entire Marine contingent, fully decked out in formal dress. Sabers gleamed at their hips. Their posture was perfect, eyes forward.

“Aww, come on guys,” John muttered. “I don’t need an escort.”

“Colonel, you think we’d let you go get married without one?” Staff Sergeant Atticus McGreggor stepped forward. “People might think you were a bad commander and we didn't like you.”

John raised an eyebrow. McGreggor was standing. “Hope Dr. Beckett knows you’re upright.”

“He said I could weight-bear again a couple days ago.” McGreggor smirked.

John looked over the faces in the formation. These were his men—his people. They’d been with him since the beginning. He’d saved their lives. They’d saved his.

With a sigh and a reluctant smile, he gestured forward. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Two Marines moved to lead the way to the transporter, the rest forming ranks behind. The group had to split into two for transport. John waited, his heart starting to thump louder in his chest.

When the second group materialized in the main tower, they reassembled quickly. Two Marines in front, John behind them, Lorne at his side, and the rest falling into step behind.

John hadn’t expected to be emotional. He didn’t think he’d be that kind of Omega. But as they stepped into the corridor leading toward the control room, his stomach flipped. His mouth went dry. His palms, suddenly clammy, he tried to keep from nervously rubbing his hands against his pants.

They reached the control center, the doors swishing open with a soft pneumatic hiss as the entourage passed through. The transformation of the room made John slow slightly, his eyes sweeping the space. The control center—normally a place of cold steel, glass panels, and efficient design—had been softened. Cloth draped in gentle arcs from the upper railings, woven through with wildflowers from the mainland and bits of ribbon. The scent of something floral and sweet was in the air, blending strangely with the sterile scent of electronics and polished metal. Someone had clearly gone out of their way to make the space feel like more than a command hub.

Lining the room were the people of Atlantis—every face familiar, each one part of the unlikely family they'd built in this distant galaxy. There were Athosians in ceremonial garb, their colorful fabrics and intricate braids standing out in the sea of Earth-made uniforms and suits. The crew of the Daedalus was there too, and John couldn’t help but blink in surprise—every single one of them was in dress uniform. He hadn’t expected that. He honestly didn’t know they even kept their dress blues aboard ship, let alone had them ready and pressed. But there they were, proud and formal, standing shoulder to shoulder with Atlantis.

John spotted Zelenka in a slightly wrinkled suit that looked like it had been unpacked five minutes ago. Katie Brown was nearby in a simple but lovely dress, beaming. Even Chuck, who rarely left the control consoles, had changed into something formal and stood near the back, his hands clasped and eyes shining.

Passing through the crowd, the familiar notes of the U.S. Air Force anthem echoed through the room, bouncing lightly off the ancient walls. As John climbed the main staircase, he looked up.

At the top stood Dr. Elizabeth Weir, but not in the sleek pantsuit she usually wore to formal events. Instead, she was dressed in Athosian feast-wear—soft green and gold fabrics, intricate embroidery, her hair pinned back with silver clips. John’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She looked regal. Peaceful. Almost like a high priestess standing at the head of some ancient rite.

And flanking her—his heart skipped just a little—were Ronon and Rodney, each standing proudly on either side of her atop a beautifully woven mat that looked like a hybrid of an Athosian blanket and Earth wedding runner.

Rodney, somehow, was wearing a well-fitted suit. Not the frumpy kind he usually dragged out under duress, but something new. It had a dark vest, a tie that matched the color of his boutonniere, and it looked like someone had not only tailored it but styled him. His hair was trimmed and combed—well, mostly—and his cheeks were clean-shaven. John could just imagine someone—probably Teyla—hovering behind him with a comb and a firm hand.

Ronon stood opposite, just as striking in his own way. He hadn’t worn an Earth suit, but some Athosian garments that were clearly ceremonial: deep reds and blacks with silver trim, and the way they flowed with his movements made him look more like a warrior-king than a groom. His beard had been neatened, and his dreadlocks were pulled back and braided and polished him ornaments. Someone had cleaned and arranged them with care. He had a matching boutonniere to Rodney, tucked neatly against his chest.

And in front of the staircase stood the real stars—his children. Serin and Mila stood at the bottom of the steps. Carson Beckett was there too, holding Theodore in a way that let the baby see everything. Teyla had Kael, balancing him easily on her hip, and Mila had Eleanor settled on hers. The youngest ones, Shaela and Logan, were cuddled together against Serin’s chest, tucked warm and quiet in the sling.

John felt his throat tighten, but he swallowed it back. He focused on the rhythm of the music, the steady steps of the soldiers in front of him, and the warmth building behind his eyes. This wasn’t a military mission or a life-or-death situation. This was his wedding.

At the last step before the top, the two Marines who had led his escort peeled off in opposite directions, their footfalls fading as they stepped aside. That final stretch of stairs? He climbed alone.

He moved slowly, reverently, each step deliberate. At the top, he stepped onto the mat, between his two mates-to-be. Elizabeth gave a small nod, and the music faded out.

John glanced between Rodney and Ronon, and both men smiled back at him. He felt like his heart might punch its way through his chest.

He was hot in his dress blues, sweat slicking at his lower back. He didn’t dare touch his forehead to wipe it, but he could feel the nervous sheen building. His mouth was dry. His palms were clammy. He hoped to hell he didn’t look half as overwhelmed as he felt.

Elizabeth gestured for them to step in closer.

She cleared her throat. “I want to thank everyone for being here today to celebrate the union of three people who are deeply important to this city and to all of us.” She gave a knowing smile. “Now, I’ll admit, I didn’t see this union coming. Especially considering that one of their first interactions involved being thrown off a balcony. Right here in this control room.”

The crowd rippled with laughter and knowing chuckles.

John smirked. “To be fair, I did shoot him in the leg first.”

More laughter followed, bubbling up through the ranks of guests as the story spread like wildfire.

Elizabeth shook her head, smiling through it. “Yes, well. Most relationships don’t start with bodily harm, but this one has proven remarkably resilient.”

The mirth settled into warm amusement as she continued. “Normally, I would talk about the commitments of marriage—of being there in sickness and health, through rich and poor—but the three of you have already proven time and again that you will stand by each other through everything. You've faced more hardship than most couples could even imagine—and come through it stronger.”

She looked at each of them in turn. “And normally, I would say ‘till death do you part,’ but frankly? I think death is still trying to catch up to you.”

Laughter again, with some louder chuckles and even a “damn right” from somewhere in the back. Everyone knew how close they'd all come recently—how close John had come.

Elizabeth waited for the noise to fade, then turned to John.

“Lt. Colonel John Sheppard—do you take Ronon and Rodney as your mates, and vow to create a triad together?”

John nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

She turned to Ronon. “Ronon Dex—do you take John and Rodney as your mates, and vow to create a triad together?”

Ronon nodded, his voice gravelly and deep. “Yes.”

And finally, she turned to Rodney. “Dr. Rodney McKay—do you take John and Ronon as your mates, and vow to create a triad together?”

Rodney nodded with such force it looked like his neck might snap. For once, words escaped him.

Elizabeth smiled, the moment hanging tenderly in the air. “If there are any objections to this —”

“MAMA!” came a shrill cry from below.

Theodore, in Carson’s arms, had caught sight of his mother again and was reaching with grabby hands, clearly distressed that he was standing on the stairs and not paying attention to him.

“MAMA! MAMA!” he called again, which promptly set off his siblings.

The crowd laughed gently, the perfect human reminder that, despite the ceremony, this was a family already.

John turned and smiled at his son, gesturing discreetly to Elizabeth to speed things up.

She nodded in understanding, pulling a long braid of threads from her pocket. Each color represented something different—strength, unity, protection, and family. The three men stepped closer. Rodney’s palm was placed face-up. John set his over it. Ronon’s calloused hand closed over them both.

Elizabeth wound the braid around their joined hands and began speaking in Setidan—Ronon’s native tongue. It was the prayer blessing he'd requested. The words were guttural, rhythmic, almost musical in their cadence. They didn’t need to understand it to feel it.

As she finished, she gave a final nod. “I now pronounce you married.”

Cheers erupted. Confetti and flower petals burst into the air, catching in the light from the windows. Rodney pulled John down and kissed him firmly—but briefly. Ronon followed suit, drawing cheers and whistles from the crowd.

Elizabeth subtly unwound the braid, tucking it away discreetly. In Setidan tradition, the newlyweds were supposed to remain bound through the celebration feast—but with three partners and five grabby children? Exceptions had to be made.

The newlywed triad turned slowly to face the crowd and the long staircase they had just climbed. The air still shimmered faintly with the remnants of flower petals and confetti, some of it clinging to John’s shoulders and sticking in Rodney’s hair. A few pieces had even nestled into Ronon’s dreads, glinting among the silver ornaments.

Before they began their descent, Rodney suddenly paused. He turned slightly and held out his arm to John, palm upward in silent invitation. His eyes were warm, the nervous energy he’d carried earlier replaced by something steadier—pride, maybe, or just the firm resolve of a man claiming his family.

John blinked, then smiled. He didn’t hesitate. He looped his arm through Rodney’s, their elbows locking with natural ease.

Then John turned, lifting his other arm toward Ronon, offering it the same way. “You coming?” he asked with a smirk, eyebrows raised.

Ronon glanced at how the other two were linked and gave the smallest of amused huffs. Without a word, he stepped in, his large hand wrapping easily around John’s forearm, his grip solid and grounding. The three of them stood together—joined, steady, and facing forward.

As they took their first steps down the staircase, the Marines at the base of the steps snapped to attention. With perfect synchronization, they drew their ceremonial sabers with a sharp, unified shing, the blades flashing in the city’s pale light.

They raised their swords high, angling them to form an arched tunnel, one pair after another. A gleaming corridor of steel and ceremony.

John’s instinct twitched. His eyes darted to Ronon, half-worried how the Setidan warrior would respond to men suddenly drawing weapons—even ceremonial ones—so close to him. But Ronon looked unbothered, curious at best. Calm. John narrowed his eyes slightly. Someone must have warned him about the saber arch ahead of time. He’d bet it was Evan aka Major Traitor.

Together, the triad stepped forward beneath the raised sabers. The edges gleamed, catching the light as they passed beneath them, and John felt the weight of tradition settle around his shoulders like an old friend. It wasn’t exactly a regulation saber arch—this wasn’t Earth, and there were no chapels here—but his men had clearly done everything they could to bring a piece of their world into this one. John’s chest swelled with quiet pride.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the last pair of Marines blocked their path. With deliberate slowness and broad smirks, the two crossed their sabers in front of the triad, forming a final barrier. The gesture was unmistakable: pay the toll.

John rolled his eyes. “Seriously?” he muttered, more amused than annoyed. He turned to Rodney, whose brows had shot up, clearly unsure what was happening.

“Just go with it,” John whispered, then tugged him in.

Their lips met in a soft, short kiss—one that still sent a cheer through the waiting crowd. Rodney smiled dazedly when they broke apart.

John didn’t need to turn to Ronon. The Setidan warrior had already moved, taking John’s jaw gently in one calloused hand and pressing his own kiss to John's lips—fierce and sure. The crowd whooped and hollered.

Only after both kisses did the Marine pair lower their sabers and step aside, grinning as they rejoined the others.

Reaching the final step, the triad barely had a chance to get their bearings before their nannies met them.

Serin and Mila were already moving toward them, each bouncing slightly to soothe the babies they carried. But it was Theodore who made his presence known the loudest.

“MAMA! MAMA!” the five-month-old wailed, his little face red and tear-streaked, his arms flailing in dramatic grabby hands.

Carson tried his best to calm him, bouncing slightly and murmuring something soothing, but the baby was inconsolable. His eyes locked on John and he cried again, louder this time, reacting like the world might end if his mother didn’t come back right now.

John didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and held out his arms. “C’mere, buddy.”

The moment Theodore saw the gesture, he squealed—an honest-to-god excited squeal—and practically launched himself forward. Carson barely had time to adjust before the baby was in motion.

Theodore flung himself into John’s arms with the full drama only a five-month-old could muster. John caught him easily, cradling him close against his chest.

“There you are,” John murmured, rocking him gently. “Not even gone five minutes and you're already staging a protest.”

Theodore pressed his damp little face into John’s collar and clung tight with tiny fists. He quieted quickly, hiccupping a little from the effort of his tears. John bounced him lightly, his fingers gently rubbing the baby's back.

Behind him, Rodney stepped up and gently ran a hand down Theodore’s spine, leaning in to kiss his soft curls. “You really know how to time things, huh?” he said softly, voice fond.

Ronon approached Eleanor next, taking her from Mila’s arms with practiced ease, cradling the girl against his shoulder. She babbled and slapped a hand gently against his chest, not crying, but making it very clear that she also wanted attention.

Soon, Kael was passed to Rodney, and Logan and Shaela—once content in their slings—were starting to wiggle impatiently.

In the midst of the growing chaos of baby-wrangling, formal clothes, and loud congratulations from the crowd, John looked at his mates. Their arms were full, their collars tugged by little hands, and their eyes soft.

–

The reception was held in the mess hall, though calling it that didn’t quite capture the effort poured into it. The room had been transformed—not into something elegant or formal, but into something unmistakably personal. Something handmade. John thought whoever decorated for the baby shower had been impressive, this was in another world or maybe a new galaxy.

As the newlywed triad entered, arms full of children, the room erupted into cheers.

John carried Theo, who was still sniffling from earlier and clinging to his mother like he’d been abandoned for days rather than minutes. The boy had one fist tangled in John’s dress blues and the other rubbing his eyes, a telltale sign that the excitement had worn him out. Rodney had Kael on his hip, the toddler wide-eyed and unusually quiet, his little fingers curled tightly into the lapel of Rodney’s suit jacket. Ronon held Eleanor effortlessly on his side; she had no such reservations about the crowd, waving at people and babbling like she was hosting the whole affair.

Shaela and Logan, only a few weeks old, were safely nestled in the slings worn by Serin. Shaela occasionally let out a soft coo or hiccup, while Logan seemed content just watching the lights with sleepy eyes. Neither was in any mood to be handed off—closeness was their only demand.

It wasn’t just a triad walking into a reception—it was a whole unit. A squad. A slightly drool-covered, deeply loved little army.

The decorations reflected that same kind of heartfelt chaos.

Hand-painted signs dangled from string across the ceiling, the lettering a little uneven and glitter clinging for dear life. One banner, crafted from scrap fabric and stitched in what could only be described as "well-intentioned enthusiasm," read: “Celebrating Our Triad!” with an uneven little heart sewn under the word Triad. Another banner had cartoon sketches of the three men—one with messy hair, one in a lab coat, and one with a massive sword and a charming scowl.

Some decorations seemed... oddly familiar.

Rodney slowed as they passed the dessert table, narrowing his eyes at a streamer. “Is that a diaper pin?”

John leaned in, smirking. “Yep. From the baby shower. I’m pretty sure that centerpiece was built from the game board used at the shower.”

“There’s a balloon back there that says ‘It’s a Boy!’ with the word ‘boy’ half-scribbled out and ‘Triad’ written over it in marker,” Rodney muttered.

Ronon just grunted. “Still better than that time we had to celebrate your birthday with emergency ration protein bar with a candle shoved into it.”

The tables were covered in a chaotic mix of mismatched cloths—Athosian woven blankets, infirmary linen sheets, and a few suspect swatches that might have once been curtains. Someone had used clean bottle nipples as makeshift vase toppers. Wildflowers spilled from upturned beakers and reused food tins. One centerpiece, near their table, was made of toy building blocks that spelled out “LOVE WINS.”

It was messy. It was weird. It was perfect.

Their designated table had high chairs waiting, already stocked with baby-safe snacks and spare bibs. Clearly someone had planned for clinginess.

As they made their way to the table, the three were stopped over and over again by crewmates and friends offering congratulations, well wishes, and back-pats. No one batted an eye at the fact that each groom looked five steps into exhaustion and had a child latched to them in some way.

Because this was Atlantis.

And this—chaotic, loud, and covered in drool—was exactly what everyone expected.

Elizabeth, already present with a drink in hand, met them with a warm smile. “Well, you three survived the ceremony with minimal chaos. That’s already ahead of schedule.”

John gave a soft laugh as Theo tugged on his ear. “Barely. This guy almost objected mid-vows.”

“His timing is impeccable,” Rodney said. “He waited until you hit the dramatic part, then went full banshee.”

Ronon grinned, adjusting Eleanor on his arm. “Good lungs. Takes after his Alpha.”

Elizabeth clinked her glass with a spoon, drawing the room’s attention. The buzz settled, and all eyes turned toward her.

“I want to take a moment before we eat,” she said, her voice clear and warm. “Not just to thank you all for coming—and for not blowing anything up yet—but to say something real.”

The room chuckled, but quieted again.

“I’ve known these three men a long time. I’ve watched them fight together. Argue. Save each other’s lives. Scare the hell out of each other. Grow in ways I didn’t expect. And then grow some more when they suddenly had more than just each other to protect.”

She looked at each of them in turn. “This triad wasn’t just forged through romance or tradition. It was built in crisis. Strengthened through shared burdens. Tempered by war. And, more than that—by kindness. Patience. And love. The kind of love that builds foundations, not just memories.”

She raised her glass. “To John, Rodney, and Ronon. To the little family they’ve created. May Atlantis always be big enough for them—and may the rest of us learn a little from how they lead, love, and endure.”

The room echoed with “To the triad!” and a chorus of raised glasses.

Only then did people glance toward the buffet.

Elizabeth stepped back and waved a hand. “Alright. Newlyweds eat first, or I will make you go back and sit down.”

John, Rodney, and Ronon didn’t argue. Their kids were already eyeing the snack table.

–

It wasn’t long after dinner had been eaten, the last bites of cake snuck from napkins, and the first round of dancing reluctantly attempted, that the youngest members of the family began to crash.

Theo had finally relaxed enough to fall asleep on John’s shoulder, snuggled deep into the collar of his uniform with a faint drool spot forming against the fabric. Kael, tucked safely into Rodney’s arms after a lengthy, frosting-fueled sugar high, gave one last valiant yawn before passing out mid-snuggle, one small fist still tangled in Rodney’s tie. Eleanor, after waving like a queen and trying to charm a cupcake off a marine, went limp against Ronon’s chest without protest, her thumb in her mouth and curls sticking up every which way.

Shaela and Logan had been snoozing most of the evening, nestled securely in their slings with the serene expressions of babies who’d decided the party was a bit much. Occasionally, Shaela let out a coo or sigh, but both infants remained content in the soft safety of their wraps, wrapped in the heartbeat of familiarity.

Serin and Mila arrived like clockwork, moving through the room with practiced gentleness. There were soft words exchanged—barely audible over the laughter and music—and kisses pressed to sleeping foreheads. One by one, the children were transferred into the nannies’ arms. Theo clung to John’s collar until Mila began whispering a lullaby in Athosian, her voice low and melodic. He didn’t wake, just sighed, and let go.

With the babies gone, a surprising shift occurred. The newlyweds were finally free—not from responsibility entirely, but from the constant tug of tiny hands and the low-level worry that always hummed in the background. They could just be them for a little while.

And so they joined the party as adults among adults.

It was fun, in a way John hadn’t quite expected. Not elegant or dignified—Atlantis didn’t do formal—but honest, relaxed, a little ridiculous. McKay got cornered by a tipsy botanist who wanted to discuss the correlation between pheromones and wedding cake frosting. Ronon arm-wrestled a marine on top of a supply crate and won without even adjusting his stance. John danced with Elizabeth once, awkward but genuine, while Lorne and Teyla did some sort of Athosian jig that had everyone clapping along.

It didn’t become a wild rager—this was still Atlantis, with its curfews and quiet sensors and faint possibility of alien attack—but it was definitely the loosest anyone had ever seen the crew. Someone broke out glowsticks salvaged from a supply crate. There was laughing, drinking, some accidental sparkler singeing, and at least one person started a conga line that ended in an overturned chair.

But slowly, as the hours wore on, exhaustion began to catch up.

John started stifling yawns behind his hand. At first he tried to play it cool, but by the third one in a row, he gave up the ghost and shot his partners a meaningful look.

Ronon was already leaning more heavily against the wall, his arms crossed and his posture relaxed in that way that meant he was winding down.

Rodney looked equally done, swaying slightly and blinking slowly behind his glasses. “You guys wanna sneak out now?” he murmured. “Before Zelenka ropes me into another toast that includes quantum physics?”

John nodded. “Now’s good.”

Word spread quickly as the triad stood and made their way toward the exit. The crowd picked up on the cue and gathered for their send-off, lining the path to the transporter with cheers, claps, and more streamer tossing. Someone tossed dried flower petals. Someone else tried to replicate Earth wedding traditions by gently launching popcorn kernels. No one was entirely sure why, but it was Atlantis—traditions got weird sometimes.

It was the Pegasus version of rice and confetti and tin-can cars. No getaway vehicle here—just a transporter platform waiting at the end of the corridor.

They stepped inside together, shoulder to shoulder.

The doors hissed closed.

And just like that, the noise was gone.

Engulfed in silence, they were alone for the first time all day.

They stood there for a long moment, just breathing.

Rodney let out a long sigh and leaned against the side of the transporter like it was the best chair he’d ever sat in. “Okay, I love our kids. I would die for them. But... I also love this silence.”

“Same,” John muttered, loosening his tie and letting his shoulders drop. He looked between his mates. “That was a good day.”

Ronon grunted in agreement and stretched slightly, rolling his neck. “A long one.”

The transporter ride was quick—barely a pause, barely a breath—and then the doors slid open again, depositing them back onto a quiet hallway lit by soft ambient lights. The hum of the reception had faded entirely behind them, leaving only the distant sounds of Atlantis’ usual nighttime rhythms.

They didn’t rush.

Their footsteps echoed lightly off the floor as they walked side by side, shoulders brushing, the weight of the day settling in their bones.

“You know,” John said quietly, “as much as I’m looking forward to having three days on the mainland... I’m worried about the kids. Today showed that Theodore especially is having some attachment issues.”

Rodney and Ronon both nodded.

“He’s been clingy with me too,” Rodney replied, running a hand through his hair. “Last week I left the room to pee, and he screamed like I’d gone through a wormhole.”

John huffed a tired laugh. “He just looked so scared when I tried to put him down tonight, even to eat. I hate the thought of him feeling like we’re not coming back.”

“What do you wanna do—bring them?” Rodney asked, and this time there was no flippancy. Just real concern layered beneath his exhaustion.

John smiled faintly. “As much as I love them... if we bring them, we won’t have time for each other. And if we bring Serin and Mila to help, it won’t feel like a honeymoon. More like a field trip.”

Ronon let out a small grunt of agreement. “Then let’s compromise. We go. But we bring a radio. Tell Serin and Mila if anything goes sideways—or if any of the kids are really struggling—they can reach out. We’ll talk to them. Maybe hearing our voices will help.”

John nodded slowly, the idea easing some of the tension in his shoulders. “You think that'll be enough?”

“I think they’ll know we’re not far,” Ronon said. “And if it’s not enough, we come back early. It’s not a a big deal.”

Rodney snorted. “It’s parenting. Just... with a view this time.”

That earned tired laughter from all three of them as they reached their quarters.

John palmed the door open, and the soft lights inside flickered on, welcoming them home—not just as individuals, not just as partners, but now, officially, as one.

Together.

–

Entering the apartment, the first thing they noticed was the quiet.

Not just the absence of sound, but a kind of peaceful stillness that settled into the space like a warm blanket. The soft hum of Atlantis’ systems buzzed faintly in the background, but otherwise, everything was calm. The lights had been dimmed to a cozy glow, casting gentle pools of amber light across the floor and walls. The apartment smelled faintly of baby lotion, clean laundry, and the subtle herbal tang of Athosian tea.

It was immediately clear that the babies had all been put to bed. The custom made baby monitor on the side table, blinked softly—green lights for calm, not red for cries. A minor miracle, really.

Serin and Mila were still awake. The two nannies sat comfortably on the couch, a basket of unfolded laundry between them, chatting quietly in a mix of Athosian and English. As the door hissed open behind them, the soft rustling of fabric and the quiet, rhythmic tone of their conversation floated out into the hallway.

“—and he’s already started building the frame,” Serin was saying, her voice low with a mix of excitement and disbelief. “He said he wants it to be ready before the first spring storms hit.”

Mila gasped quietly, a smile blooming across her face as she folded a soft swaddle cloth. “He’s already starting the tent? Serin, that’s—he’s serious.”

Serin gave a small, almost bashful nod. “He carved our joining sigils into one of the support posts. Brother helped him carry the center beam last night. Mother cried.”

“She should,” Mila said gently. “That’s a big step. Once the tent is finished…”

“I know,” Serin whispered, clearly both overwhelmed and overjoyed. “It will be real then. All of it.”

The door hissed open fully, and both girls turned their heads toward the triad entering the apartment.

Serin lit up with a wide grin. “Welcome back! Did you enjoy yourselves?”

“We did,” John said, a small, sincere smile curling at the corners of his lips. The sight of her there—folding one of Theo’s shirts—hit him harder than he expected. If John was being honest, he’d long since stopped thinking of Serin as just the nanny. Somewhere along the way, she’d slipped into a role that felt more like a little sister. Someone who belonged in their chaos.

He was really going to miss her when she left to begin her own life, her own marriage.

“So,” John began, easing out of his shoes, “we wanted to check in with both of you before we left. Make sure you guys think you can handle the five of them while we’re gone? Especially with how clingy they’ve been the last few weeks?”

“I’m sure almost losing their mother has greatly upset them,” Mila said gently, folding a soft burp cloth with practiced precision.

John winced. The words weren’t accusatory—just honest—but the reminder still landed hard in his chest. Even though every logical part of his brain knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent the incident, he couldn’t shake the guilt. The bruises of near-loss didn’t fade easily.

“We were planning on going,” Ronon said, taking over, “but bringing a radio. If any of the babies can’t seem to handle us being away, call. We can come back. Or just talk to them over the line.”

Serin nodded firmly. “You need time to celebrate your union. Even our people spend a few nights alone after a new bonding. We’ll do what we can to keep the babies happy.”

Her voice was warm and resolute. She meant every word.

The men nodded their thanks, too tired to say much more. The girls didn’t expect them to. With a quiet goodnight, they slipped into the now-shared bedroom—still new in some ways, but already deeply theirs.

Shortly after John had returned from the infirmary, none of them wanted to keep up the old routine of separate beds. That arrangement had vanished quickly. They’d dragged Ronon’s bed into John’s quarters, shoved the two mattresses together, and made one gloriously oversized bed fit for three grown-ass adults and a few stray babies. It was messy, a little uneven, and absolutely perfect.

They were mostly packed already. Just a few last-minute items to toss in, a change of clothes, and they’d be ready to leave.

John pulled off his uniform jacket and grimaced. The thing was a disaster.

What had started the day crisp, clean, and regulation-perfect now looked like it had been through an apocalypse. There were faint snot trails across the shoulder from Theo’s dramatic post-ceremony meltdown, tiny handprints in drool-slicked patterns on the chest, and a streak of something—probably sweet potato—down the left side.

He sighed. “I feel bad for whoever pressed this.”

Instead of hanging it up, he draped it over the room chair. That was a problem for future John.

With a relieved sigh, he pulled on a pair of worn jeans and one of his softest t-shirts. He didn’t get to wear civilian clothes often, and the comfort of it was immediately soothing. No gear. No boots. Just fabric and familiarity.

He double-checked his bag, then paused.

Tucked in the side compartment was a small zip pouch—medical-issue, nondescript, but unmistakable. John pulled it out and padded barefoot to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

A few days before the wedding, he’d gone to Carson. He wasn’t looking for hormones or implants—he was still breastfeeding, and adding hormones to his system wasn’t something either of them were comfortable with. But he also wasn’t interested in having more kids.

Carson had given him a few options. The cervical cap had been the best option.

The Scot had walked him through the whole process, made sure he knew how to use it. He’d even made John insert it three separate times during the appointment to make sure he had the technique down.

Now, John sat on the closed toilet lid, steadying himself. He opened the pouch and took out the little silicone cap. The lube came next—cold and a little too slick in his hands. He worked methodically, the muscle memory already forming. Widening his stance, he inserted the cap, adjusting it until it felt right.

It was weird. Not painful, just... odd. Unnatural.

But Carson had told him it would feel that way. He’d also said it’d get easier.

And hey—wedding night. There was always a possibility, even if they were exhausted. So John prepped, just in case.

He stood up, fixed his clothes, flushed, and washed his hands. After putting everything neatly back in the pouch, he returned to the bedroom where Rodney and Ronon were still fiddling with the last bits of packing.

“Ready?” Rodney asked, looking up from his bag.

John nodded, letting out a breath. “Yeah. All set.”

Ronon gave him a soft smile and handed over a small container. “Tea for tomorrow morning. From Teyla.”

John took it with a murmur of thanks and slid it into his bag.

They were almost ready. Almost gone. Almost alone.

–

The newlyweds strolled side by side through the quiet corridor, duffle bags slung over their shoulders, the soft hum of Atlantis all around them. They didn’t speak much—each lost in the warmth of the day, the exhaustion tugging gently at their limbs, and the surreal joy of being married.

When they entered the Jumper Bay, John came to a slow halt—and Rodney walked straight into his back.

“What the—?” Rodney started, then looked up and saw it. “Oh… oh no.”

John’s mouth curled into a crooked smile. “Guess we didn’t escape tradition after all.”

There, parked neatly in Bay 2, was their designated Puddle Jumper. And someone—multiple someones—had gotten very enthusiastic about decorating it.

The ramp was closed, but it didn’t hide the handiwork. Dozens of silver cans were strung together and tied in bunches to the rear underside of the Jumper, the metal glinting in the ambient light. “Just Married” was painted across the back hatch in large, bold white letters. Underneath were smaller phrases like Madly in Love, About Time, Finally, and Congrats Triad! scrawled in a variety of handwriting styles.

Someone had even painted a few little hearts. One had “R + R + J” inside it.

Ronon just stopped a few paces behind them, his eyebrows slowly drawing together. He frowned deeply, pointing toward the gleaming mess on the back of the ship.

“What…” he grunted, brow furrowing as he gestured vaguely toward the tins and paint.

John adjusted the strap on his duffle and turned slightly toward him with a grin. “It’s an old Earth tradition,” he explained. “People decorate the newlyweds’ car before they drive off—supposed to be fun, celebratory. Looks like some of the Earthlings on base didn’t want to let go of that one.”

Ronon made a noise that was somewhere between confused and skeptical. “Weird,” he muttered.

John just chuckled and approached the Jumper, slapping a hand affectionately against the side. “Well, at least they didn’t fill it with packing peanuts.”

The ramp hissed softly as John hit the control pad to open it. As it descended with its signature low hum, the trio were met with an unexpected sight. A torrent of folded paper notes began to spill out like a paper waterfall, tumbling across the ramp and onto the bay floor.

John bent down and scooped one up. He unfolded it carefully. Inside, in neat handwriting, was a short message:

“May your union be as strong as Atlantis herself. Love always, Teyla.”

Ronon peered over his shoulder. “What is that?”

Rodney reached down, snatched up a few others, and opened them quickly. “They’re notes,” he said with a surprised huff. “Blessings. Well-wishes. Look—this one’s from Keller. And—ha!—this one’s from Radek. Says ‘May you argue less and love more.’ Very on-brand.”

John picked up another one and laughed quietly. “Chuck wrote a limerick. I think he rhymed ‘Rodney’ with ‘soddy.’”

As John continued rifling through the mound, he noticed how varied the papers were. “You can tell people just grabbed whatever they could find,” he said with amusement, holding up what looked like the corner of a torn mission report with a message scrawled in purple pen. “This one’s on the back of a requisition form… and—uh, okay—this is definitely cardboard.”

He turned it around, revealing a jagged, cut-up chunk from a supply box with “LOVE CONQUERS ALL” written in giant marker letters across the side.

Rodney snorted. “That one’s probably from Miko. She has a thing for dramatic flair.”

Ronon gave them both a sidelong look. “You guys are weird.”

Rodney didn’t even dignify it with a response as he stepped forward into the Jumper, pushing his way through the sheer pile of folded paper that littered the floor like snowdrifts. There were white streamers tangled over the control panels and trailing from the ceiling like celebratory vines. The bench seating along the sides had been carefully covered in soft white cloth, and the front seats—clearly intended for the grooms—had been draped in more white fabric and tied off with thick satin bows.

Rodney paused and stared. “Someone really committed to the theme.”

John stepped in behind him, lifting the streamers with exaggerated grace like parting vines in a jungle. “I’m going to bet on Cadman and Miko being behind most of this. And possibly Lorne. This has coordinated chaos written all over it.”

Ronon followed last, his massive form somehow managing to not trip over anything. He gave the decorations a long, unreadable glance, then took a seat and propped his bag at his feet.

Despite the mild annoyance at the mess, the three of them couldn’t help the way their expressions softened. The decorations weren’t just for fun—they were heartfelt. The kind of thing that didn’t happen unless people genuinely loved you.

John sat in the pilot’s seat, gazing at the paper-covered floor and the bows fluttering gently from the airflow vents. “I guess… we’re really married now, huh?”

Rodney dropped into the co-pilot’s chair and scoffed, but his voice was warm. “We got married hours ago, Sheppard.”

“Yeah, but now we have tin cans and bows. It’s official-official.”

Ronon settled back into his seat with a grunt. “Let’s go before someone gets the idea to throw rice again.”

John chuckled and flipped the controls, guiding the Jumper into lift-off mode. As they rose gently from the bay and turned toward the mainland, the strings of cans clinked softly against the metal hull, echoing through the quiet corridors of Atlantis like a soft farewell.

Just as they cleared the city airspace, John glanced back at the rear hatch. “Place your bets now,” he muttered with a grin, “on whether the cans and that paint job make it through atmospheric flight… or if I’m going to be explaining debris fields to Lorne by tomorrow morning.”

Rodney sighed. “You better hope it's biodegradable.”

John just laughed and pushed the Jumper to cruising speed.

Chapter Text

It was long past dark by the time they reached the secluded camp the Athosians had prepared for their mini honeymoon. The stars were out in full force, brilliant and starting to be familiar. The air was cool, kissed with the scent of pine and loamy earth, and the hum of the Jumper’s systems was the only break in the tranquil silence of the mainland wilderness.

John didn’t bother circling the area to inspect the camp. He trusted the Athosians implicitly—and after the long day they’d had, all he wanted was to land, stretch his legs, and maybe collapse into a bedroll with his husbands flanking him on either side.

The Jumper descended into a wide clearing, clearly left empty on purpose, the grass tamped down slightly from recent foot traffic. As the ship settled into place with a soft hydraulic hiss, John rose from the pilot’s seat, already stretching his back. The rear ramp opened slowly, allowing the cool night breeze to spill into the ship.

Moving toward the back, John stooped to collect his duffle and one of the storage crates they’d brought—containing extra bedding, a compact medical kit, Earth-style cookware, and other basic supplies. The Athosians were renowned for their resourcefulness and generosity, but John and his husbands didn’t want to take more than hospitality allowed. Borrowing a tent, bedding, and some pots was one thing; eating into the tribe’s food stores for a private getaway was another matter entirely.

Rodney grabbed his own bag with a muttered complaint about his shoulder. Ronon shouldered the last crate and followed without a word.

John was the first to step down the ramp, boots crunching on soft grass and packed earth. The quiet of the wilderness wrapped around him instantly, as if the trees and stars had been waiting for him to arrive. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the silence settle in his bones.

Before them, the modest camp waited. Even in the dark, John could make out the large dark bulk of the tent the Athosians had erected. A faint orange glow flickered nearby—coming from a fire pit that had been expertly banked for the night. The Athosians had perfected a method of keeping embers hot and usable for hours without needing constant attention. It would only take a few minutes of coaxing to get a proper flame going come morning.

Near the fire was a low wooden table, hand-built in the Athosian style from local wood, sturdy and slightly rustic. Though it was hard to see details in the darkness, John could make out the vague shapes of items left there—perhaps a water skin, a lidded basket of food, or a welcome gift. The Athosians were nothing if not thoughtful.

John took a deep breath, then headed for the tent, his boots silent on the mossy earth. He lifted the flap and ducked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but then he spotted it—a small Earth-made camping lamp hung from a hook on the center pole. Someone had left it on the lowest setting, its soft yellow glow casting gentle shadows across the fabric walls.

He flicked it up a notch, just enough to better see the inside of their temporary home.

It was simple but clearly arranged with care. Thick mats covered the ground, layered with soft woven rugs and piled high with warm bedding. There were three bedrolls laid out together to form a large shared sleeping area, draped in dark blue and burgundy blankets. Small personal touches were scattered around the interior—fresh flowers tucked in a clay jar, a small woven basket holding a few local fruits and sweet cakes, and even a carved wooden trinket left on one of the pillows. A blessing token.

John blinked at the unexpected warmth in his chest. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was… homey. Cozy. Peaceful.

He let out a slow sigh and dropped his duffle near the bedding. The smell of pine sap and clean fabric filled the tent. A long day’s worth of tension started to bleed from his shoulders.

Rodney ducked in next, muttering about how “civilization is a place with walls and thermostats,” but even he went quiet as he looked around. “Huh,” he finally said, placing his bag gently near John’s. “This… isn’t bad.”

Ronon entered last, his large frame filling the doorway before he stepped inside. He grunted approvingly and dropped the crate with a satisfying thud. “Warm. Dry. Food. This is good.”

John chuckled and shook his head, brushing a hand over his short hair. “They really outdid themselves.”

–

John woke slowly, the way he always did when he was truly comfortable, truly safe. The kind of waking where your brain doesn’t sound an alarm but gently coaxes you from sleep. The first thing he noticed was the birdsong.

It was light, cheerful, melodic—too perfect to be real. It honestly sounded like something out of one of those corny old romance movies: birds chirping at just the right volume, the breeze rustling the fabric of the tent ever so softly, and the faint smell of flowers and fresh earth wafting through the open flap. If it weren't for the warm weight pressed against his back, he might’ve rolled his eyes at how idyllic it was.

And then he registered what actually woke him up.

There were lips on his neck. Slow, deliberate kisses trailing along the curve of his throat, right behind his ear. A soft breath tickled the edge of his hairline, and then the unmistakable sensation of someone nuzzling into the crook where his scent gland sat nestled. The touch was possessive and tender, a brush of warm skin against one of the most intimate spots on his body.

He shifted just slightly, and the rest of his senses caught up. The arm draped over his waist was massive, warm, and unmistakably familiar. The hand rested low on his stomach, fingers curled lightly against the soft fabric of his sleep shirt. But more telling than the arm was the solid, unmistakable pressure pressed against his lower back.

Ronon.

John smirked, eyes still closed for another heartbeat as he just felt. Ronon was radiating heat like a furnace, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against John’s back. That warm, unmistakable presence, coupled with the not-so-subtle morning wood pressing into him, gave away more than Ronon probably meant to. Not that John minded.

Cracking one eye open, John slowly peeked over his shoulder, and sure enough—there he was. Ronon’s eyes were open, watching him already with a sleepy but mischievous look on his face. His dreds were slightly mussed, falling into his face. His beard brushed lightly against John’s skin as he leaned in closer.

When he realized John was fully awake, Ronon grinned wide and unapologetic, then leaned forward to kiss him properly. Their lips met in a slow, lazy kiss—unhurried and warm. Not the fevered kind that came with desperate need, but the kind born from familiarity and affection. The kind that said good morning, I missed you, you’re mine—all in one press of lips.

John melted into it, shifting so he could better face his lover without breaking the kiss. He rolled over to face the Setidan better. As John rolled over Ronon moved with him. Soon they found themselves with John on his back, arms wrapped around the large man. Ronon braced his weight on his forearms, looming over the Omega.

John threaded his fingers through the dreds and pulled Ronon closer, deepening the kiss. Spreading his legs, Ronon took the invitation to rub their groins together. Both moaned into the kiss.

The Setidan was the first to break the kiss. Moving down John's jaw, kissing and nipping as he went. When he got to John's scent gland he payed special attention it. Licking, biting and sucking, this time he didn't care about leaving a mark, he wanted one.

John just whined and whimpered. Rutting up into his mate, digging his fingers into the man's hair.

Ronon tried to move to explore his mate more, but the t-shirt John insisted on going to bed in got in his way. It was something he had noticed about John, he insisted on going to bed with clothing on, even if they did get tossed off early in the night or in the morning, he still wanted them.

With a low rumble of annoyance he sat up and started tugging at the hem of the offending shirt. The sudden movement dislodged John's grip from the mans hair. Whining at the loss of contact, John caught the meaning quick and lifted himself from their sleeping pallet to get the shirt off.

With the shirt tossed aside landing who knew where, Ronon dove back in pushing his Omega back into bed. Kissing his way down John's chest. Avoiding stimulating John's breasts, with him back to breast feeding full time he was still sensitive.

Kissing the Omega's belly button Ronon moved lower, kissing and licking around the waistband of John's sleeping pants. Nuzzling the soft warm skin, letting the trail of hair tickle his nose.

He was relearning John's belly, before the last 2 it had been kinda soft, a bit pooched, now it was hard with a hint of definition of abs. He hadn't noticed before now, this was the first time they had been able to have sex since the whole accelerated pregnancy debacle. He did notice when he hugged the Omega, held him, or somehow touched him, but shrugged it off. The only thing he could come up with is when Atlantis said she had to revert John's body back to per-pregnancy, she even got rid of the baby belly.

Ronon didn't care, John was here, John was his and he was near to begging Ronon to get on with it. With a final kiss to the new...ish abs he hooked his fingers in the sleep pants and started tugging them down. John was very eager to help. Bracing himself, he lifted his butt off the bed. Ronon slid the offending item off and tossed them to join the shirt.

Getting a good look at his mate fully naked in what felt like ages to the large man. John's pupils had eclipsed his eye color, face flushed, lips pink and puffy, breath coming in pants. The Omega looked at him him like he was the only thing in the Galaxy.

John was laying back against his pillow, legs bent and spread open for his mate. Ronon looked, John's small cock was erect, swollen and leaking all over him. But it was below that made Ronon's mouth go dry and his heart rate to increase.

The Omega pussy was puffy and wet, Ronon watched some slick drip out and hit the bed.

With a rumble, Ronon stooped over his mate and caputred his already kiss swollen lips. Wiggling around he took off his own sleep pants. He didn't like them, but it made John happy.

As naked as his mate, Ronon took 2 fingers and thrust them into the Omega pussy. John whined loud and needy. The sound was swallowed by Ronon's kiss. Arching his back, John pushed the fingers deeper into himself.

The Setdian had learned John's body quickly, he knew John was ready. Could feel it in the way the Omega kept rocking onto the fingers, the way he tugged on Ronon's hair. He was also using more teeth in the kiss.

Ronon started moving his fingers, stretching out his mate. It was clear John was more than ready, he kept thrusting onto the fingers. With a sharp nip to Ronon's lip, he took the hint, pulling out his fingers a bit aggressively, revenge for the bite, causing John to whimper.

Grabbing the smaller mans hips in the both hands, he held him still as he shoved his cock inside the very hot wet pussy. He didn't take his time but he also didn't just ram himself in. When he was balls deep, he paused to catch his breath.

With a cry the Omega came, shaking and squeezing Ronon's cock. He always came as soon as someone got their cock inside.

Leaning over the smaller frame with a grunt, he just admired the view. John's head was thrown back, eyes unseeing, rolled to the back of his head, panting. Watching a trail of sweet bead down John's throat. Ronon watched as it pooled into the hallow. Deciding to clean up the mess he was clearly causing, he ducked down to lick up the salty mess.

This seemed to wake John from what ever trance he had been in. He blinked then looked at Ronon, locking eyes with him.

With a smirk, he wrapped his legs around Ronon, locking the bigger man in also making him thrust into the smaller man. They both groaned.

Taking the hint, Ronon pulled back, he had wanted it to be slow and sweat, but he could tell that no sex for a near a month after daily sex was going to make this coupling a lot quicker and dirtier.

Thrusting back in sharp and quick. He soon found the pace for both of them. Leaving them both gasping and groaning.

Neither paid attention as their bed companion and other mate started to rouse. They were soon reminded of his presence.

“Jeeze, so your going to wake a man with all that noise and not even have the decency to invite him to join.” Rodney snapped. He had been woken to the sounds of their love making. At first he had woken excited but then realizing they started without him, he was soon irked.

Ronon ignored him, instead focusing on the body beneath him. John turned to look at his Alpha. Giving the angry scientist his usual smirk, the Omega reached out to the Alpha. Grabbing the back of the man's head he pulled him closer. Nearly toppling the Alpha on top of him, John kissed him like Rodney had the last of the oxygen in the universe.

This seemed to please the Alpha, he stopped giving off angry pheromone scent and switched to very aroused Alpha scent. They both groaned into the kiss.

Still kissing, Rodney shifted himself so he could explore his Omega's body with his hands. Petting, pinching, re-learnign John's body. He also avoided John's sensitive milk filled breasts. Like the Setidan, he also noticed the new abs. He also went to the same conclusion Atlantis must have done it. He had seen John shirtless before either pregnancy and knew the Omega did have some ab definition before hand.

With every thrust Ronon gave it shoved John up into Rodney's mouth, but neither minded. Ronon's thrusts were getting more powerful with each one and more erratic, John could tell the big man was trying to hard to hold off, but was rapidly loosing the battle.

Smirking into his kiss with Rodney he used his hand not holding Rodney down to find one of Ronon's

Both of the big man's hands were leaving bruises on his hips. Wrapping his hand around the larger ones, Ronon couldn't resist and took the slender fingers.

John had learned that Ronon loved to hold hands during sex. For some reason it seemed to excite him more, using this against his mate, John squeezed the hand. Ronon had to brace himself now, pinning their entwined hands next to John's head he leaned over the other 2 and their kiss.

The movement caused John to whine into Rondey's mouth. Ronon's thrusts became hard and sharp. Each movement cause John to rock into Rodney's mouth.

Rodney's free hand that wasn't holding him propped up above his Omega, still roamed the slight body. He did land on the small Omega cock, reaching down below to the full Omega pussy he gathered up some slick.

Rodney's fingers played with John's labia brushing against Ronon's cock, feeling another man's cock. Rodney had thought he would find it disturbing to touch Ronon like this, but he found if it brought pleasure to his Omega he didn't care.

Both John and Ronon groaned as Rodney's hand played with them.

Getting his hand dripping with slick, Rodney went for the small Omega cock. With a firm grip he pumped it.

Causing John to jump and groan, which made Ronon let out a guttural groan. Rodney smirked into his Omega's kiss, he knew exactly what Ronon had felt. Pumping the small cock to the thrusts of the other man, he soon had the omega coming again.

John was the first to break the kiss, head thrown back with a cry. The Alpha felt the come shoot up his arm, knew it probably had gotten all over all 3 of them.

As John came for the second time he squeezed and spasmed around the Setidan. With a roar, Ronon threw his had back, his grip on John's hip now definitely left a bruise.

Rodney for once showed patients as he waited for the other two to get their bearings back. But he did draw lazy patterns in the spunk John had left all over himself. On a bend elbow he held his head up, propped himself next to John, just watching the blissed out expression.

Ronon was the first to regain himself. Looking down at the pair, he smirked. Pulling out, this time gently. No matter how slow or gentle either mate was John always whined when he was separated from his mates.

Leaning over Rodney's lazy hand and over the Omega he captured the smaller man's lips, this kiss was more above love and affection versus passion and sex.

Bumping his nose to the Omega's Ronon got up from the bed. John would have watched him go but Rodney quickly took all his attention.

The alpha took the hand that had been painting in the Omega cum and brought them to his lips. Sucking them in he cleaned off the spunk.

John's breath hitched watching, his eyes were already wide pupils blown. With a growl only a feral Omega could muster, Rodney soon found himself on his back with a very wet Omega straddling him.

John skipped the Alpha's mouth and went straight for the scent gland. Biting and sucking it. He too would have a matching hickey John was already sporting from Ronon.

Rodney yelped when teeth first made contact with the sensitive gland. It soon turned into whimpers. With the reversed positions, Rodney found his arms wrapping around his Colonel.

Rodney didn't notice the smirk behind the bites and sucking on his neck, but he did notice when his right nipped was suddenly flicked, like one would flick a fly. With another yelp and this time jerking causing his very hard cock to jump and bump against both their bellies.

John moaned, the cock slapping his belly reminded him of something better than the neck he was currently marking.

Sitting up suddenly, he braced one hand on Rodney and lifted himself up, using the other he griped the Alpha cock and held it steady as he lowered himself down. He didn't need any prep, he was already stretched and well lubricated.

When John bottomed out, he cried as he came again, this time shooting all over his Alpha, even getting some on his chin. Eyes locked together, they caught their breaths.

John was ready before Rodney, but he didn't care, he had an Alpha cock inside him, he could already feel the knot trying to swell. Using his legs alone this time he raised himself up, with a smirk down at his Alpha he plopped back down. Hard and fast.

Rondey's head flopped back against the pillows. His hands needed something to hold onto, he gripped the only thing that made sense, John's hips, leaving more bruises over the ones Ronon had already given the Omega.

John kept his eyes locked on his Alpha as he rode him. Using his muscle control he squeezed the Alpha cock in time to his bounces. He knew what that did to both his mates, he loved to play them that way. Ronon was always trying to make slow tender love to him, but then John started squeezing and spasaming around him like a hand would and the Setidan would loose all control and go feral on John. Pinning him to any surface and fucking his brains out.

On one of his bounces up John felt the Alpha knot start catching at the lips of his pussy. He knew his Alpha was close, he just needed to push him off.

Leaning down, he captured the Alpha lips. Kissing him till the Alpha saw spots. Moving away from the mans mouth letting him breath he went straight for the scent gland. Biting but not breaking skin, Rodney cried out and bucked up into John, arms flailing as his knot blew and he locked them together. John gave a whole body spasm as he came again.

Not caring, John let his weight drop onto his Alpha, his entire weight supported by the man. When he caught his breath again, he shifted. With a whine at the Alpha cock and knot shifting inside, he moved so he head was pillowed on the soft squishy chest of his Alpha. No matter what others said, John did love that his Alpha was all soft and pillowy for him. It made waiting for the knot so much more comfortable.

John laying across Rodney's chest just zoned out, staring at the tent wall he was facing. He did notice something different, the cum didn't seem to be hitting where he was use to it hit inside. He then remembered the diafram he was wearing. The thing must be working, he couldn't feel come as far inside as it usually went. With a purr he smiled knowing it was working and also that he was able to forget he had it even during sex was awesome, was worried he would always feel it and it would make sex less enjoyable.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Came the sex roughened voice of Rodney above him.

John twisted his head to look at Rodney. “Mmm?”

“Your smiling and purring I know the sex was good, but that was more than a good sex smile.” Rodney leaned down and kissed John's nose.

Wrinkling his face as the nose kiss. “Just happy, good sex, now married sex, with both my mates.” John smirked.

Rondey rolled his eyes, but still leaned in and gave his Omega a tender kiss. John reciprocated. With slow lazy kisses they waited for Rodney's knot to deflate.

While they waited they both heard movement outside the tent. It became obvious that the sounds were that of someone cooking. Once they realized what the sounds were, the sudden smell of food hit both of them.

John's mouth started watering, he realized he was starving. Rodney must have been in the same boat, because his knot started to deflate a lot faster than usual. John pouted at this, till both their bellies rumbled in protest.

Chapter Text

Stepping out of the tent, John was immediately greeted by the crisp morning air and the unmistakable smell of breakfast cooking over an open flame. It hit him hard—warm fat sizzling, the smoky bite of woodfire, the earthy sweetness of root vegetables roasting in a pan—and his stomach let out an audible, desperate growl in response.

Ronon, crouched at the fire, looked up and smirked at the sound. “Food’s almost done,” he said, flipping something in the pan with casual ease. “Didn’t make coffee though.” He gestured toward a small crate to the side, already stacked neatly with mugs, filters, a French press, and a kettle full of water ready to go.

John groaned like a dying man. “Of course you didn’t.”

Ronon shrugged, unbothered. “You can’t drink it anyway.”

“Don’t remind me,” John muttered, dragging a hand down his face before flopping down dramatically onto one of the log stools surrounding the fire pit.

Ronon just kept cooking, entirely unsympathetic. “Still don’t get what the big deal is.”

“It’s coffee,” John said, as if that explained everything. “It’s not just a drink, it’s a lifeline. A sacred ritual. It’s the only reason Earth didn’t collapse into anarchy centuries ago.”

Ronon arched a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s bitter. Smells like burned dirt.”

John looked like he might cry. “It’s supposed to. That’s part of the charm.”

Behind him, the tent flap rustled and Rodney stumbled out, hair sticking up in every direction, new hickey very visible. He paused mid-step at the sound of their conversation and squinted blearily at them. “Is John whining about coffee again?”

John didn’t even look back. “Yes, I’m whining. I was so close, Rodney. So close. I was down to one feeding a day. One. I could practically taste the espresso.”

Rodney winced dramatically. “Poor you. The universe truly is cruel.”

“I was already counting down the days. I had it marked on the calendar. And then—” John threw his arms out wide toward the trees, as if shouting to the heavens. “Then we get a surprise twin delivery!”

Rodney snorted and went straight for the coffee crate, surveying the supplies. “To be fair, you also nearly died, so I’d think that would reset your priorities a bit.”

John let out a long-suffering sigh. “I can survive blood loss, broken ribs, alien parasites, time loops, and homicidal replicators. But no coffee for another five months? That might actually kill me.”

“Dramatic,” Ronon muttered.

Rodney had already started working on the coffee, muttering about water temperatures and brew times. “At least be grateful Ronon prepped everything. The pot’s full, press is clean, filters are sorted.”

John blinked. “Wait, you did prep it?”

Ronon shrugged again. “Figured one of you Earth people would want it bad enough to crawl out of the tent.”

“Bless you,” Rodney said sincerely as he filled the French press. “I’m naming my next datapad after you.”

John just leaned back on the log with a theatrical groan, watching as the steam began to rise from the kettle. “I’m not even asking for much. Just one cup. One taste. A little shot of salvation.”

“You’re breastfeeding, John,” Rodney said as he stirred. “If you ever want a decent night sleep lets not give the kids caffeine till they finish puberty?”

“Well the babies are on the bottle for the next few days, I could just pump and dump vs saving it.” John mussed. A dreamy look on his face.

Rodney chocked as John said pump and dump.

Ronon just raised his eyebrow. “I'm not sure Carson would approve, plus he got that cooler all set up with that special ice, the kind he wouldn't stop lecturing me about not touching bare handed.”

“Dry ice.” John automatically supplied.

The banter went on as breakfast neared completion—Ronon plating sizzling root cakes and some kind of spiced meat while Rodney hovered protectively over his coffee like a goblin hoarding gold. John sulked, eyes locked on the steaming mug Rodney eventually poured for himself, inhaling deeply like a man denied oxygen.

He tried not to drool.

With the food finally ready, they moved over to the picnic table. The clearing, bathed in early morning light, was quiet and peaceful, the Athosian camp still cloaked in calm. Birds chirped overhead in rhythms so perfect they sounded pre-recorded. A breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the smell of smoke and wildflowers.

John looked around, the serenity doing something to ease the constant ache in his chest. For a moment, even the caffeine withdrawal didn’t sting quite as much.

Still, when Rodney lifted the mug to take his first sip, John leaned in close, sniffed dramatically, and whispered, “Someday.”

Rodney didn’t even flinch. “Someday isn’t today.”

John sighed again, and muttered under his breath, “I swear, if we end up with another surprise baby, I’m defecting to the Wraith.”

–

As they ate in comfortable silence, the stillness between them was not awkward but companionable—warm, like a shared blanket on a chilly morning. The food was simple but satisfying. Rodney had even stopped grumbling for once, his attention focused entirely on his rapidly emptying mug of coffee.

John leaned back on the bench with a contented sigh, the sun warming his face. The faint salty tang of sea air tickled his nose, carried by the breeze that rustled the leaves overhead. From their seat at the weathered picnic table, they could hear the natural symphony of the forest—the warble of birds, the distant rustle of small animals in underbrush—but behind them, there was the soothing white noise of waves crashing rhythmically against a nearby shoreline.

The camp was nestled at the edge of the forest, perched just high enough on the rise above the cove to give it shade and privacy, but still within earshot of the sea. The Athosians had established this site years ago as a hunting and fishing waypoint, a temporary stopover for expeditions that needed to remain out for a few days at a time. Fish, shellfish, even sea-mammals could be gathered nearby in abundance, and the forest offered game and edible plants aplenty.

But this weekend, the camp was theirs. The Athosians had graciously offered it to the newlyweds for three full days—no obligations, no interruptions, just peace. No missions, no children pulling at their sleeves or trying to climb into laps with sticky hands and louder voices. It was the first time in what felt like ages that they were just them. John, Ronon, Rodney. No rank. No labs. No emergencies. No diapers.

The plates were empty, the fire now more embers than flame, and Rodney was licking the last smear of sauce from his thumb with uncharacteristic calm. Once the final sips of coffee were taken—Rodney sighing dramatically like he’d just tasted divinity—Ronon stood and started gathering the dishes.

John dusted crumbs off his lap and said, “I haven’t been to this camp before. Was thinking we could explore a bit this morning, get a lay of the land, then decide over lunch if we want to head down to the beach.”

“As long as there is a plan for food,” Rodney muttered, rinsing out his mug in the metal basin the Athosians had left near the table. “That’s all I ask.”

Ronon rolled his eyes. “You just ate.”

“And now I’m thinking about the next feeding,” Rodney shot back with zero shame.

John grinned and stood, stretching out the lingering stiffness in his back. “We’ll bring snacks, genius.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ronon rumbled, stacking dishes on a cloth for cleaning later.

With the plan settled, John ducked into the tent to grab a backpack and supplies for what would likely become a casual hike—some water bottles, snacks, a field medkit just in case, and an emergency blanket. He wasn’t one to venture into the woods unprepared. He had just pulled back the tent flap and was kneeling to check a zipper when the radio on the table outside gave a sharp chirp.

John paused mid-motion, let out a soft groan, and muttered, “Of course.”

He rose and headed back outside, snagging the small handheld off the table where he’d dropped it after breakfast. His gut already told him who it would be. And why.

Clicking it on, he lifted it to his mouth. “Sheppard here.”

There was a short burst of static. Then a familiar, frazzled voice filled the air. “John…”

It was Serin, back in Atlantis. Her tone was strained—apologetic but also teetering on the edge of overwhelmed. Behind her words came the unmistakable, earsplitting wail of a very upset baby.

John’s entire posture changed. His chest went tight. He already knew who it was.

“I’m so sorry,” Serin said quickly, her voice cracking under the pressure. “We’ve tried everything. We cannot get Theodore to settle. Even Teyla came by to help. Dr. Beckett’s here too, but… nothing is working. I—” She was cut off mid-sentence by a shrill, heart-wrenching “MAMAAAAAA!”

All three men flinched. Even through the tinny speaker, it was piercing.

“Bring the radio to him,” John ordered quickly, voice going soft. He waited, and after a moment he tried again. “Hey, buddy… Theo, can you hear me?”

“Mama?” The reply was quieter now, questioning. Trembling.

“Yes, Theo. It’s Mama. It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama’s here.” His voice dropped into the comforting cadence he only used with his babies, low and full of warmth. “You’re safe. It’s okay, baby.”

There was a hitch in the static, a hiccuping breath.

“Maaaamaaa!” This time the cry was even more broken, followed by another sob. “Mama!”

John’s throat clenched. He sat heavily back onto the bench, radio still pressed to his mouth. He knew exactly what this was. The bonding hormones had hit hard after birth. Theo had been by his side—nursing, sleeping, skin-to-skin—for almost every waking moment since then. Being separated now, even for just a night, was like tearing a piece of the baby’s tiny world away.

A new voice cut in, tinged with regret and a thick Scottish brogue. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, lad,” Carson said gently. “He woke up not long after you left last night, and he hasn’t slept since. He’s over-tired, inconsolable, and now he’s workin’ himself into a fever. He’s keeping the other wee ones up too. And he’s started thrashin’—trying to launch himself out of people’s arms, like he’s looking for ye. Honestly, I don’t think there’s any soothin’ him without ye here.”

There was a pause. Carson’s next words were softer, apologetic. “I hate to break up ye'r honeymoon, I really do. But I think it’s best for his health if ye come back.”

John stared at the treetops above them. The branches swayed gently, sunlight filtering through in golden shafts. He didn’t answer for a second, didn’t move—just let the ache roll through him. Of course it was Theo. And of course he couldn’t be mad about it. His baby needed him. End of story.

“Okay,” John said at last. He brought the radio to his lips again. “I’m packing up. Be back soon.”

He dropped the radio back onto the table and stood. Didn’t even need to say a word—Rodney and Ronon were already on their feet.

“I'll pack up the food supplies.” Ronon asked.

John nodded. “Thanks. I’ll handle the gear in the tent.”

Rodney was already dousing the fire. “I’ll get …... whatever’s still out.”

–

As the Puddle Jumper settled to the floor of the Atlantis jumper bay with its familiar thunk, John was already on his feet, moving before the landing sequence even completed. He didn’t need to wait—he trusted the auto-landing protocols and knew the bay's environmental controls would do the rest.

He reached the hatch and mentally triggered it open with a simple thought, and the door began to descend with a soft hiss of decompressing hydraulics. The moment the gap was wide enough to let sound through, it hit him like a gut punch.

The unmistakable, gut-wrenching wail of his baby boy.

The sound was raw, desperate. The kind of cry that had need woven into every note.

John’s heart clenched.

The wailing echoed off the jumper bay walls, amplifying the distress. His eyes snapped toward the sound—and there was Carson, standing just outside the landing zone, his arms full of a red-faced, thrashing Theodore. The boy’s tiny limbs flailed with abandon, and his chubby hands were grasping wildly in the air, his whole body arching and twisting as if trying to launch himself away from the man holding him.

Even from a distance, John could see what Carson meant about the baby “throwing himself.” Theo wasn’t just fussing—he was actively trying to escape, his tiny brain desperate to reach the only person who could fix this.

As soon as the hatch lowered far enough for Theodore to get a clear view of the inside of the jumper, his eyes locked on John.

“MAMA! MAMA!” he wailed again, voice cracking on the second cry. His hands shot forward, his entire body straining in Carson’s arms, as if the sheer force of his will could bridge the distance.

John didn’t waste another second. He stepped down the ramp even before it was fully extended, boots thudding against the metal with hurried urgency.

“Hey there, buddy,” he called softly, trying to keep his voice calm despite the tightness in his chest. “What’s all this fuss about, huh?”

He was barely within arm’s reach when Theo lunged again, a surprisingly forceful motion for such a tiny body. Carson grunted, clearly struggling to keep hold.

But John was ready.

“I got him,” he said quickly, reaching out.

Theodore launched himself with all the strength his five-month-old body could muster—and John caught him cleanly, arms closing around his baby with practiced instinct. He brought him in close, cradling Theo against his chest, one hand supporting the boy’s back, the other cupping the back of his head.

“There now, there now,” he murmured, rubbing his cheek over the wispy hair on Theo’s crown. “Mama’s here, buddy. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

The transformation was instant—but not total.

The shrieking stopped, but now came the aftershocks: hiccups and snuffling sobs. Theodore’s little hands clenched fistfuls of John’s shirt, knuckles white. His body trembled with the force of his emotions, face flushed and blotchy. His whimpers were softer now, broken by those sharp hiccups of breath that only came after a prolonged cry.

John pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head and swayed slightly on his feet, a comforting motion etched into his very bones after so many nights walking the halls of Atlantis with a crying child in his arms.

“He’s burning up,” John muttered quietly, his brow furrowing as he felt the heat radiating off Theo’s tiny body.

“Aye,” Carson said softly, stepping up beside him now that his arms were free. “He’s not full fevered yet, but he’s close. He’s worked himself up something fierce. I gave him a small dose to help bring it down, but he needs rest and quiet… and you.”

John nodded, rocking slightly. “Yeah. He’ll sleep now. He’s just… scared.”

Carson gave a sympathetic hum. “He woke up, didn’t know where you were. Couldn’t be soothed. Poor lad’s heartbroken.”

Theodore let out a tired, trembling sigh against John’s chest and shifted slightly, face burrowing into the crook of John’s neck like he was trying to become part of him.

Rodney and Ronon came down the ramp behind John, slowing when they took in the scene. Rodney’s usual sarcasm was absent, his face softening with concern. Ronon crossed his arms but said nothing, just nodded like he understood exactly what this was: a child in distress and a parent doing what needed to be done.

“I’m taking him to our quarters,” John said, glancing between them. “Let Lorne know I’m back early. I’ll check in after he’s down.”

“I’ll let Elizabeth know,” Rodney offered, already pulling out his tablet. “And I’ll make sure no one bugs you.”

“Thanks,” John said, eyes never leaving Theo’s face.

The baby was calmer now. Still hiccuping, still hot, but the panic had faded. He had his mama, and that was all he needed.

As John turned and walked from the jumper bay, he held Theo close, whispering softly the whole way.

“Not going anywhere, little man. I promise. Mama’s right here.”

And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

–

Walking into their quarters, John was struck by the unusual hush that hung in the air. With five children normally living in the space—including three babies who just started crawling—“quiet” wasn’t just rare, it was practically mythical.

The lights had been dimmed, casting a warm golden hue over the familiar furnishings. The playpen was empty. The normally scattered toys had been picked up, and a folded blanket sat neatly on the arm of the couch. For once, there were no errant socks or stuffed toys scattered all over.

John blinked, confused. “Where is everyone?” he asked quietly, adjusting Theodore’s sleeping form in his arms.

Carson, a few steps behind him, offered a small, knowing smile. “When I knew ye were on ye'r way back, I took wee Theodore an’ told Serin and Mila to see if the rest of the bairns could be coaxed into a nap—and to get some sleep themselves, poor lasses.” He gestured vaguely toward the closed door leading to the kids’ sleeping quarters. “They earned it.”

John nodded slowly, taking in the peace. He hadn’t realized just how tense he was until the quiet began to seep into his shoulders.

“I guess everyone finally got some sleep,” he murmured, his voice hushed in deference to the baby sleeping soundly in his arms. John shifted slightly, his hand gently patting Theo’s back in a slow rhythm.

Theodore had cried himself hoarse, but somewhere between the jumper bay and their quarters, the motion of walking and the sound of his mother’s heartbeat had finally worn him down. He was now slumped heavily against John’s chest, completely out. His small mouth hung open slightly, breath wheezing through his stuffy nose. His face was blotchy and red, his lashes clumped together from earlier tears. Puffy eyelids fluttered every so often in restless sleep.

John rested his cheek against the soft fuzz of Theodore’s hair and exhaled. He could still feel the heat radiating from his son’s skin—not quite a fever, but warm enough to keep a parent’s radar on high alert.

He nuzzled instinctively, brushing his nose against the crown of Theo’s head. The scent of baby shampoo and dried tears hit him in the chest.

Carson watched the quiet exchange, his expression soft. He stepped forward, reaching out to lay the back of his hand gently against Theodore’s forehead.

“Aye… still warm,” he said, his brogue thicker now in the softened atmosphere. “But wi’ some proper rest, a bit of food, and some uninterrupted time wi’ his mama, I’d wager he’ll be right as rain before the day’s out.”

He stepped back, letting his hand fall to his side, and looked John square in the eye with a gentle smile. “I’m sorry for ruinin’ yer honeymoon.”

John snorted, flashing a crooked smirk. “It’s not like you purposefully set out to be a cock block.”

Carson choked on a startled breath, his eyes going wide. “Good Lord, John!” He sputtered, clearly torn between scandalized indignation and amusement.

John chuckled low in his throat, careful not to wake Theo. The baby shifted slightly, fingers flexing in sleep, then relaxed again with a soft sigh.

Carson, still recovering, shook his head with mock exasperation. “Honestly. I never know what’s goin’ to come out of that mouth of yours.” But his expression softened again. “Still… if I may, I suggest you don’t waste the time ye were given. You’ve still got two and a half days—use ’em. Stay close to home if ye need to, but make it about family. I think it’s clear this wee lad could use the reassurance.”

He nodded toward Theodore, who was now sleeping more peacefully, a bit of drool starting to soak into John’s shirt.

“I’ll swing by close to dinner, check on him, see if he’s cooled off,” Carson added, already heading for the door. “Just give a shout if anything worsens.”

John gave a nod of thanks, his arms tightening slightly around Theo. “Thanks, Carson. Really.”

Carson offered a brief wave over his shoulder and quietly slipped out the door.

Moments later, Ronon and Rodney came in through the main entrance, the soft hiss of the door breaking the silence. Both men carried their personal bags, the smell of forest and faint smoke clinging to their clothes.

John glanced over and raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t bring the gear?”

“Left it in the jumper,” Ronon said simply, setting his bag down by the wall. “Lorne said he’d have someone take care of it.”

Rodney nodded, already peering over at the sleeping bundle in John’s arms. “We figured you’d be carrying enough.”

John gave them a tired but grateful smile.

“Good call.”

Rodney stepped closer and looked at Theodore, his voice dropping into a whisper. “Is he… okay?”

“Still warm,” John said softly. “Exhausted himself crying. He’s out now.”

Ronon looked down at the baby, his massive arms crossing over his chest. “He’s tough. He’ll bounce back.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah… but I think Carson’s right. We’re staying in for the rest of the honeymoon. Theo needs us.”

Rodney shrugged. “I don’t need a beach to be happy. Just give me real food and at least five hours of sleep.”

Ronon grinned. “I’m good with napping on the couch.”

John looked down at his son again, then at his husbands. “Then it’s settled. Family time. Right here.”

He turned toward the couch, gently shifting Theo in his arms. As he sat down, Theodore stirred slightly but didn’t wake—he just curled a little tighter into the warmth of his mama’s chest, finally safe, finally home.

–

Tucked securely into Ronon’s side, John let his eyes drift half-closed, exhaustion tugging at him like a quiet tide. The gentle rumble of Ronon’s breathing vibrated through his ribs, grounding and warm. Theodore lay sprawled across John’s chest like a little sun-warmed bundle, arms slack, breath soft and even. The poor kid had cried himself hoarse earlier, and none of them had the heart to move him once he’d finally passed out.

His fever had broken, but it hadn’t stopped the little guy from clinging to John like a life raft. They’d barely been back in their quarters for two hours. The gear was still half-unpacked. And the honeymoon?

Canceled.

Rodney’s fingers paused in their practiced massage along John’s foot, then resumed with a little more pressure, like he knew what John was thinking even without looking. His other hand balanced the oversized popcorn bowl in his lap, fingers tapping absently against the rim in rhythm with the on-screen music. The Clone Wars animated series played on the wall screen, the soft flicker of explosions and lightsabers giving the room an ethereal blue tint.

They hadn’t even tried to pretend the honeymoon was salvageable. Not after hearing Theo’s panicked wailing in the background of Serin's call. The baby hadn’t handled the separation well.

John curled a little tighter around the warm weight on his chest.

“Okay, seriously,” he whispered, brushing his lips against Theo’s hairline. “This is what Episode II was missing. Actual war. Actual tension. Not awkward sand flirting.”

Rodney let out a noise somewhere between a snort and a hum of agreement. “Thank you. Finally, something with momentum. I mean, Anakin’s still clearly unstable, but at least here it’s not just adolescent whining. It’s… narratively justified.” He popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth and gave John's foot a firmer squeeze.

Ronon grunted his agreement from beneath John's shoulder. “He’s stronger now. Meaner. You can feel it.”

John tilted his head slightly to look up at him, a small smirk forming. “That’s the point. You’re supposed to watch him slide. It’s a slow fall. This show nails it.”

Rodney was already halfway through another mouthful of popcorn when he added, “Still doesn’t excuse him murdering children later. I don’t care how many visions he had about Padmé dying—therapy, again, would’ve fixed everything.”

John didn't even think. His free hand shot out and smacked Rodney in the arm, hard enough to make the popcorn bowl jump. Theo stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

“Dude!” John snapped in a harsh whisper.

Rodney flailed a little, holding onto the bowl. “Ow! What?!”

Ronon’s head turned, brows knitting. “Murdering what?”

Rodney blinked, looking between them. “Oh. Right.”

“He hasn’t seen Episode III yet, Rodney!” John hissed, eyes wide with exasperation.

Rodney held up a defensive hand. “I assumed he’d heard about it!”

Ronon crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “I don’t live in your galaxy, remember? I’m watching it in order, like you told me to. From the start.”

Rodney slumped back on the couch with a groan. “Oh come on. It’s been out for, like, decades. There should be a statute of limitations on spoilers.”

“It's been out for a year Rodney” John shot him a glare. “And NOT when we’re literally in the middle of the arc. You just spoiled a key turning point.”

Ronon turned back to the screen, expression unreadable. “So… the Jedi don’t make it?”

Rodney groaned again, louder this time. “Well now it’s ruined. Thanks, John.”

“You’re the one who said ‘murdering children!’” John said through gritted teeth. “What did you think was going to happen?!”

Ronon’s voice dropped, quiet and thoughtful. “He did seem weird around those kids in the temple scenes…”

“Great,” Rodney muttered. “Now he’s going to be watching every scene like it’s a murder mystery.”

“Just stop talking,” John said, burying his face in Theo’s hair. “We’ll watch Revenge of the Sith tomorrow and pretend you didn’t drop a thermal detonator in the middle of the narrative.”

A small grin curled the corner of Ronon’s mouth. “I’ll still enjoy it. Watching him snap is more interesting now.”

Rodney perked up. “See? Maybe I enhanced the experience.”

John’s voice went deadpan. “If you spoil Empire, I’m locking you out of the media server.”

Rodney raised a finger in mock indignation. “Like I’d ever—oh wait, does he know about—?”

“RODNEY!” both John and Ronon barked.

Rodney barely ducked in time as John flung a couch cushion at him. It smacked into the far end of the couch with a soft thump, narrowly missing the popcorn bowl.

Theo snuffled in his sleep, lips smacking softly, but stayed down. John gently rocked him back and forth, soothing without thinking. He glared at Rodney, silently blaming him for disturbing their child.

The three of them fell quiet again as the battle on screen intensified, the animation stylized and striking. Anakin’s face was sharper now. Shadows clung to his eyes. And even knowing where it was going, John felt a lump in his throat as the show threaded the needle between heroism and heartbreak.

Ronon shifted just slightly, pressing his cheek to the top of John’s head. Rodney reached over to rescue the cushion and passed it back without a word, his hand brushing against John's knee.

They were still figuring this out. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the wedding. Ronon had only been with them a year, and John knew the big man was still adjusting to the rhythm Rodney and John had long since settled into. But sitting there—Theo warm and snuggled on his chest, Ronon at his back, Rodney at his feet, Star Wars glowing in the quiet—it felt like they’d already built something that could hold.

The galaxy might fall on the screen, but theirs, for now, was still intact.

–

By the time the final credits of the Clone Wars animated series rolled, the soft hum of lightsabers and orchestral music faded into the background static of the room. The lights remained dim, and the room had grown warmer with the combined body heat of three adults and a feverish baby. John hadn’t moved in over an hour, the weight of Theodore solid and still on his chest. But now? Now nature was calling with undeniable urgency.

John shifted slightly and winced. “Okay,” he muttered. “I really need to pee.”

He gently swung his legs off Rodney’s lap, flexing his stiff ankles with a quiet groan. Before standing, he turned toward Ronon and gestured at the baby. “Can you—?”

Ronon was already moving, arms out to take Theo.

The handoff was delicate. John tried to lift the baby slowly, keeping the angle smooth, but as soon as Theodore was no longer resting against the familiar thrum of his mother’s heartbeat, he stirred. A whimper turned into a sleepy grunt. And then—

“MAMA!” Theo cried, his voice hoarse but rising fast.

John paused mid-rise and gave a rueful smile, turning back slightly. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m just going in there.” He pointed toward the bathroom with exaggerated slowness, hoping visual reassurance would help.

It didn’t.

Theo twisted violently in Ronon’s hold, his limbs flailing as he tried to crawl right out of his Papa’s grip. Ronon adjusted quickly, trying to cradle the boy to his chest, but it was no use. Theo wasn’t having it. His cries sharpened, becoming desperate, betrayed sobs.

It was the kind of sound that pierced right through John’s chest.

“He thinks you’re leaving him,” Ronon said, low and sympathetic, rocking gently as he tried to calm the boy.

“Maybe you should just take him,” Rodney suggested, tone a bit desperate as the volume of Theo’s wailing climbed. “I mean, you were the one who broke him by leaving in the first place.”

John huffed. “I have to pee. I’m not bringing a whole-ass baby in there just to—” he stopped mid-sentence, then flung an exasperated hand toward the bathroom. “What am I even saying? Fine. I’m taking our kid to watch me pee. This is my life now.”

Rodney, to his credit, didn’t gloat. Too much. “Eventually they all do,” he muttered. “Kids, I mean. They follow you into the bathroom like it’s a second living room.”

Ronon just added, “You’ll be begging him to go in there on his own when potty training starts.”

With a sigh that sounded like it came from the bottom of John’s soul, he stepped forward and took Theodore back. The effect was immediate. The crying stopped the moment Theo’s cheek hit his mother's shoulder. The toddler sagged into John’s body, sniffling as he rubbed his damp face warm and sticky with snot—right into John's shirt.

John looked down at the wet patch blooming on the fabric, then raised his eyes at his mates with a deadpan expression. “Fantastic.”

Cradling Theo against his chest with practiced ease, John padded into the bathroom. Inside, the quiet was only broken by the occasional snuffling noise from Theo. The bathroom light was soft, yellow-gold and kind on the eyes after hours of screen time.

John paused, scanning the room.

“How the hell am I going to do this?” he mumbled.

He spotted a hand towel hanging on a wall peg, grabbed it, and stuffed it into the sink basin. After gently maneuvering Theo into a sitting position, he tried to lower him into the padded towel like a makeshift nest. It almost worked. Almost.

The second Theo’s back touched the sink, his eyes popped open fully again. “MAMA!”

“I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,” John said, raising both hands like a hostage negotiator. “Just over here, okay?”

He pointed to the toilet.

Theo whimpered, blinking rapidly. He reached out once, then seemed to realize John was still visible and within arm’s length. That seemed to calm him—for now.

John made quick work of the bathroom break, then returned to find his son blinking sleepily in the sink, looking vaguely offended that he wasn’t being held. His cheeks were still blotchy, his lashes damp, but he wasn’t crying.

John smiled and leaned in. “Good job, buddy. Mama didn’t vanish into another dimension after all.”

Theo reached for him instantly, but John held up a hand. “Hang on. You’re a mess.”

He tugged the towel out from under his son—forgetting for a moment that Theo was on top of it. The towel slipped out but brought one of the baby’s legs with it. Theo squeaked in protest, his balance teetering for a second.

“Whoa—gotcha.” John caught him and tucked the towel back in place.

“Okay. This is why you’re not supposed to do things while holding a baby.”

He dampened a corner of the towel under the faucet, then gently wiped the crusty trails of snot and drool off Theo’s face. The little boy blinked up at him, eyes wide, mouth in a tiny ‘o’ like the betrayal was fresh all over again.

“I know, it’s terrible,” John cooed softly. “Your mama is so mean.”

After getting Theo somewhat cleaned up, John shifted him to one arm and washed his own hands with the other. It was awkward, but doable. Just another skill for the ever-expanding “Mom Life” resume.

Back in the main room, the lights were dimmed further. Rodney had pulled a blanket over himself, half-dozing. Ronon was scrolling through movie options with one hand, the other resting where John had been.

Theo, now back on his mother's shoulder, gave a great sigh—one of those deep, world-weary baby sighs like finally—and snuggled in again.

John returned to his spot and sank down between his mates. “Bathroom was an adventure,” he muttered.

Rodney cracked one eye open. “You mean he didn’t fall in?”

Ronon smirked. “Did you?”

John gave them both a dry look. “I will trade this baby for five uninterrupted minutes of bladder peace. Final offer.”

Theo snuffled once and snored gently against his shoulder.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” John murmured, brushing a kiss to his son’s head and settling in again. “Alright. What’s next in the galactic tragedy pipeline?”

Ronon smirked. “Revenge of the Sith.”

Rodney perked up, suddenly alert. “Ohhh, finally. Betrayal! Tragedy! John gets emotional and pretends he’s not.”

“Shut up,” John mumbled, but he was smiling.

The screen lit up once again.

And the Skywalker descent continued.

–

The flicker of the TV cast long shadows across the living room as the trio settled deeper into the couch. Anakin’s descent into darkness had begun in earnest now—his expressions tighter, his voice harsher, his actions more erratic. It was painful to watch, especially for John, who saw the telltale signs of someone trying desperately to protect what they love, even as the fear inside twisted into something unrecognizable.

John shifted Theo against his chest, one hand absently carding through the baby’s soft curls. “He thinks he’s saving them,” he murmured. “And he’s losing them the whole time.”

Rodney glanced over, his usual snark absent. “It’s brutal. They really did a number on him here.”

Ronon didn’t say anything, just watched with narrowed eyes. He always paid close attention to the broken ones.

But then, just as Obi-Wan walked away from a shaken Anakin, voices drifted through from the nursery—soft, muffled, then growing clearer. Doors opened. Padding footsteps. The rustle of blankets.

A moment later, Serin stepped into the room, Mila just behind her. In their arms—and strapped securely against their fronts—were the rest of the children: Kael, Eleanor, Shaela, and Logan. The babies looked sleepy but curious, blinking against the dim light.

The two oldest—Kael and Eleanor—caught sight of their parents immediately.

“Mama!” Eleanor squealed first, wriggling in Serin’s arms with enough excitement that the young woman had to readjust her grip quickly.

Kael, more stoic by nature, still let out a delighted sound and bounced in Mila’s sling.

The room filled with the familiar chaos of excited baby noises, arms reaching out, legs kicking. The nannies looked equally relieved and apologetic as they approached the couch.

“We heard the movie,” Mila said softly. “Didn’t want to interrupt, but…”

“But the babies woke up and got wiggly,” Serin finished, looking sheepish. “And, well… we figured you were back for a reason.”

She glanced down at Theodore, still perched securely on John’s lap. He was watching the newcomers with wide, tired eyes, his grip on his mother unrelenting. The guilt was written plainly on both nannies’ faces.

“We’re sorry,” Serin said quietly, looking between the three men. “We really tried with him. We just couldn’t calm him down.”

John smiled gently, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could. He just… needed us.”

Rodney, without a second thought, reached out for Eleanor, who practically leapt into his arms. “You mean he needed John,” he corrected, eyeing Theo with mock suspicion. “Stage five clinger. It’s fine. I get it.”

Ronon smirked and opened his arms, catching Kael as Mila carefully passed him over. “You can’t be mad. You abandoned him for a beach and sex,” he teased.

John rolled his eyes. “We were gone for less than a day.”

Ronon shrugged, rocking Kael easily in one arm. “You’re his entire sky. Twenty-four hours is a lifetime.”

John gave a tired chuckle, then shifted Theo in his arms to make room. Mila handed over Shaela and Logan, the younger twins curling instinctively into John’s shoulders like they knew exactly where they were supposed to be.

Theo immediately stiffened. He glared at his younger siblings, squinting at Logan in particular like you dare?

“I know, buddy,” John sighed. “But they’re babies too. They need Mama.”

Theo’s lower lip poked out, but he didn’t cry. He just radiated disapproval.

The younger three were starting to fuss—snuffling against John’s shirt, rooting blindly for dinner. With how long they'd all slept, they’d blown past lunch and were now approaching the edge of dinnertime. It didn’t take much to guess what they wanted.

John glanced down at the small pile of humanity he now held. “Okay,” he muttered, “this is gonna be a balancing act.”

He used his left arm to gently shift Theo from a cradled position to a sitting one on his lap. His body tensed as he was moved, but as soon as he realized he was still on John—still in contact, still close—he begrudgingly allowed it. But he didn’t stop watching. His big brown eyes followed John’s every move like a hawk.

“Alright, alright, you’re still on me,” John assured him. “I just need room.”

Lifting his shirt with his free hand, John carefully maneuvered Logan and Shaela into feeding positions, each tiny infant latching almost immediately with small, greedy noises. John adjusted his grip so that one arm supported each baby, his torso curved slightly forward to help them stay snug against him.

Theodore leaned back against his mother’s stomach, squished slightly between warm skin and now two wriggling siblings, and glared up at them both like they were intruders in his sanctuary.

“He’s furious,” Rodney commented, one arm around Eleanor while she babbled and played with the hem of his shirt.

Ronon, who now had Kael stretched out on his chest playing with a charm in his dreads, chuckled. “He’s thinking of ways to sabotage their naps tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” John muttered, glancing down at Theo. “I can feel the betrayal radiating through my liver.”

But despite the jealousy in his eyes, Theo didn’t move. He didn’t scream or claw his way back into John’s arms. He just… sat there, one small fist curled into John’s belly for reassurance, as if reminding everyone in the room whose lap this was.

The room was quiet again save for the sound of suckling, soft breathing, and the continued drama on screen. Padmé’s worried face filled the room with sadness. Anakin’s grim expression reflected something unspoken.

Rodney broke the silence, voice low. “I mean… how are we supposed to survive that scene tomorrow?”

John gave a dry laugh. “We already are the scene. Look at this circus.”

Ronon grunted in agreement. “Except we don’t end in fire and betrayal.”

John paused, then nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. We just end in spit-up and exhaustion.”

Chapter Text

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard strode into his office, looking every inch the commanding officer of Atlantis—at least at first glance. His BDUs were crisp and new, a rare luxury courtesy of the latest Daedalus supply run. For once, the knees weren't worn thin, and there was no suspicious stitching on the sleeves. His boots were broken in but polished, loosely laced in his signature fashion that screamed regulation-adjacent . His hair was still too long and defiantly unkempt, the kind of messy that said I’ve been busy keeping the galaxy from falling apart, thanks .

But that signature cocky smirk he usually wore? Nowhere in sight.

Instead, slung diagonally across his chest was a wide cloth baby sling with five-month-old Theodore nestled securely against his hip. The baby was dozing, one tiny fist bunched up against John’s collarbone, his cheek smashed adorably into his mother’s chest. His shock of dark hair stuck up at all angles, a clear match to John's own perpetual bedhead.

Over one shoulder, John carried a worn-looking backpack that had been stuffed full to near-bursting. Sippy cup peeked out the side mesh pocket, a soft blanket was clumsily wedged under the flap, and what looked suspiciously like a teething ring dangled from a carabiner.

As he walked into the shared office, the room fell silent. Major Evan Lorne, who’d been reviewing mission reports at his desk, looked up and blinked twice. It wasn’t just the sight of the baby that threw him—it was John, back early and carrying said baby like it was just another part of his gear.

“Sir…?” Lorne ventured, brow raised. “I thought you had three days off. It's only been two.”

He tactfully avoided mentioning the baby burrito strapped to the Colonel’s chest, though his eyes lingered there for a beat too long.

John sighed, already tired of explaining himself. “Yeah, well, sitting in our apartment watching Star Wars for the fifth time in two days got old. If we’d stayed on the mainland, at least there were places to hike and things to explore. But in the tower?” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “Just endless hallways and a crying baby.”

“Right,” Lorne replied, drawing the word out. He clearly didn’t understand. He looked like he was still computing why anyone would voluntarily give up extra time off. “So… did I miss some kind of ‘bring your kid to work’ memo?”

John gave him a flat look, then carefully dropped the backpack onto his desk with a thud that made the pens rattle. The baby stirred slightly, but John automatically jostled his hip in a soft rhythm, the practiced bounce of a parent who’d done this all night.

“It seems,” he said, tone clipped, “that someone—” he glanced pointedly down at Theodore, “—can’t handle even having a door between us. So, for now, he goes where I go. Until I can figure out how to get my own bodily autonomy back.”

“Can’t even handle a door?” Lorne echoed, skeptical.

“Nope.” John unzipped the backpack with force. “I am now not allowed to even pee alone.”

There was a long beat of silence. Lorne didn’t dare smile. Not yet.

“Even tried leaving the door open,” John added, pulling out a set of tiny socks and a burp cloth. “Didn’t help. He beelined into the bathroom like a tactical strike team. Cried the entire time I was in there, like I’d just betrayed him personally. He LERNED TO CRAWL JUST SO HE COULD GET TO ME!”

“You sure he’s not already trying to guilt-trip you like a teenager?” Lorne finally said, cautiously amused.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s got a PhD in emotional manipulation already,” John muttered, fishing out the sippy cup and inspecting it with the air of someone who wasn’t entirely sure whether it was full or not. “Won’t nap unless he’s on me, won’t eat unless he’s watching me, should have heard him scream when I tried to put him into his highchair for dinner. Oh and now there is sibling rivalry, every time I go to feed the new ones he glares or cries as I try to feed them.”

The Major watched as John continued to unpack what looked like a full day’s survival kit for a baby—two more cups, a stack of diapers, wipes, a pacifier, a soft toy shaped like a tiny jumper, and a onesie that read Little Flyboy.

“Didn’t you say you didn’t want to be one of those parents?” Lorne asked, barely containing the grin now. “You know—dragging your kid into work like it’s a daycare?”

“I did say that,” John agreed bitterly, rummaging for a receiving blanket. “Right before I had a clingy five-month-old who decided that I’m the center of his entire emotional universe. So now I’m this guy. The mom at the office. I’m living my own personal sitcom.”

Lorne chuckled under his breath. “Well, at least he’s quiet.”

“He is now,” John warned. “But make one loud noise or look at him the wrong way and he’ll scream like we’re back in the middle of a Wraith culling.”

As if on cue, Theodore shifted slightly, scrunched his face—and then, apparently reassured by John’s scent and voice, let out a sigh and tucked himself tighter into the sling. One tiny hand reached up and patted John’s chest twice before going limp again.

“Admit it,” Lorne said, watching the little interaction. “It’s kind of cute.”

John didn’t answer at first. He just stared down at his son, his expression softening by degrees.

–

The door swished open for John shortly after he rang the bell. Knowing what an open door meant, he stepped into Dr. Kate Heightmeyer’s office.

She looked up from her desk the moment she heard his boots cross the threshold. Her expression shifted into something soft and knowing the second she saw him—looking utterly wrecked. His BDU jacket was half-zipped, the sling across his torso clearly not medical, but cradling a five-month-old baby who was currently chewing contentedly on a teething ring, wide-eyed and curious about the unfamiliar space.

John looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days. His hair—usually a little wild—had crossed into truly chaotic territory. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of more than just the baby.

Kate smiled—a genuine, warm thing that reached her eyes. “John, it’s good to see you.”

She didn’t mention the state he was in. She didn’t have to.

She glanced at Theodore and resisted the urge to coo. She’d heard the rumors, of course—how the Lieutenant Colonel had been walking the halls of Atlantis with a baby strapped to him every day for the past week. Everyone had. Some people thought it was cute. Others were confused. Kate suspected the truth was a lot more complicated. She stepped out from behind her desk and gestured to the soft chairs in the seating nook of her office.

“What brings you to my office?” she asked gently. She had a pretty solid guess, but she always preferred her patients to start in their own words.

John didn’t even acknowledge the invitation. He moved with the same weary, single-minded determination as a man trudging across a battlefield. He headed straight to his chair—his usual spot—and dropped into it like the weight of the world had been holding him up and he’d finally escaped it. With a sigh that sounded more like a groan, he adjusted the sling and shifted Theo down onto his lap.

“This guy here,” he said flatly, patting Theo’s diapered bottom, “is what brings me in.”

Theo blinked up at him, then looked around again with interest. He was quiet—for now—but that didn’t mean much.

Kate sat across from them, calm and attentive. “I’ve heard some rumors,” she admitted, “but why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going on?”

John dragged a hand over his face. “He was already being clingy before the honeymoon. I figured, okay, he’s a little off—probably because of what happened.” His voice dropped slightly, referring to his near-death experience. “But I thought he’d be okay. We weren’t even gone a full day, Kate. Less than twenty-four hours.”

He looked up at her with a haunted expression.

“Carson had to call us back. Theo screamed until he gave himself a fever. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. And now—now it’s been a week. And he still won’t let me out of his sight.”

Kate nodded, her expression thoughtful.

“I’m not even joking when I say I can’t pee alone anymore. I tried leaving the door open—he beelined straight into the bathroom and sat there watching me like I was about to vanish into the damn walls.” John’s tone was only half exaggerated. “If I even step behind him, he panics. If he can’t see me, he cries. Like full-on meltdown crying. And it’s like... it’s like I broke something in him.”

Theo, completely unaware of the drama, was chewing happily on his toy and clutching John’s shirt.

“I’m losing my mind,” John admitted. “I love him. Of course I love him. But I need my arms back. I need to shower. I need to go on missions without strapping a baby to my chest like he’s part of the uniform.”

Kate gave a soft hum and nodded. “Being an Omega, he was already predisposed to a stronger bond with his carrier. Especially as an infant. That closeness is biologically encouraged—his instincts are driving him to stay close.”

John opened his mouth, but she held up a hand before he could protest.

“And then you almost died,” she continued calmly. “You may think your children are too young to understand but they did. Maybe not with words, but emotionally. Energetically.”

John frowned, still visibly frustrated. “What does being an Omega have to do with being clingy?” His tone was sharper than he meant, but the implication rubbed him raw.

Kate met his stare calmly, raising an eyebrow. “Omegas have a deeper tactile need, especially in early development. The womb provides the most constant contact an individual will ever experience. Once they’re separated from that, especially if there’s a trauma or stress event, they seek that contact out again—especially with the one they bonded to most.”

She gave a small smile. “It’s not about weakness, John. It’s about biology.”

He frowned, looking down at Theo, who was now gnawing on his toy with laser focus. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice any of this stuff with my brother growing up.”

“Your mother passed when you were, what—nine?” Kate asked gently.

John nodded.

“You were only just beginning to become aware of those differences,” she said. “And honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were more like Theo than you realize.”

Still frowning, John leaned his head back and groaned. “Okay, fine. Fine. Biology. Trauma. Pack bonds. Can we skip to the part where you tell me how I can shower in peace again? Or go on a mission without it turning into bring-your-kid-to-work day?”

Kate’s smile turned a little sympathetic. “Unfortunately, there’s no instant fix. But there are things you can do to help him. It’s going to take time, repetition, and reassurance.”

John raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Start with peek-a-boo,” she said matter-of-factly.

John blinked. “What?”

“Peek-a-boo,” she repeated, calmly as ever. “He’s at the developmental stage where he’s learning object permanence—understanding that things exist even when he can’t see them. When you disappear, even for a moment, he doesn’t know if you’re coming back. That’s terrifying for him. But peek-a-boo trains him to see that you always return.”

She picked up a pen and set it near Theo on the table, where he eyed it curiously.

“If I leave the pen visible, he stays interested,” she explained. “But if I cover it…” She pulled a tissue from the box on the table and draped it over the pen. “It’s gone. Out of sight, out of mind. He hasn’t learned yet that it’s still there under the tissue. Same with you. So peek-a-boo, silly as it sounds, is a way of showing him that you go away… and then come back.”

Theo stared at the cloth a moment, then lost interest and went back to his teething ring.

John rubbed his face again. “So… my ticket to personal freedom is literally baby hide-and-seek.”

Kate grinned. “For now? Yes. And once he starts to believe you always come back, the anxiety should ease. But until then… just remember, he’s not doing this to drive you crazy. He’s trying to keep safe the person he almost loves.”

John looked down at Theo, who had grabbed his fingers now. His tiny hands curled tightly around John’s thumb, as if he still wasn’t entirely convinced his mother was real.

With a sigh, John nodded. “Fine. Peek-a-boo it is. But if I go on a mission and he somehow stows away in my gear, I’m blaming you.”

Kate laughed. “Deal.”

John sat back, watching Theo gnaw contentedly on his ring. “Is there… anything else I can do? I mean, aside from playing hide and seek in my own house like a lunatic?”

Kate’s smile softened. “Yes. Actually, there are a few practical things that can help ease the separation stress, even in small moments.”

John straightened slightly, genuinely attentive now.

“Every time you need to put him down or walk away—even for just a second—tell him. Narrate it like you would with a toddler, even if he’s too young to understand all the words. The tone, the rhythm—it matters. Say, ‘I’m just putting you down for a minute, but I’ll be right back,’ or ‘I’m going to the bathroom, but I’ll be back soon.’ Then, most importantly… follow through. Every time. Show him that you mean it.”

John gave her a skeptical look. “You think he’s gonna get all that?”

“Not right away,” she admitted, “but he will. Repetition and consistency build trust. Right now, he’s terrified that if you’re out of his sight, you might not come back. You have to prove to him, over and over, that you do. And that when you say something, it’s true.”

John sighed, rubbing a hand over Theo’s soft hair. “So basically I’m giving a play-by-play of my every move now.”

“Exactly,” Kate said, smiling. “Babies feel safer when they can predict what’s going to happen next. Even if they don’t understand the words, your voice, your tone, and the pattern of behavior will start to reassure him.”

He nodded slowly, already filing the idea away. “Anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “Try using transitional objects. A blanket, a shirt that smells like you, a toy that you always hand him when you’re about to step away. Over time, that object becomes a kind of stand-in for your presence. You can gradually use it to help him self-soothe when you’re not there.”

John grimaced. “So I’m basically emotionally outsourcing myself to a stuffed bear?”

“Exactly,” Kate said cheerfully. “Welcome to parenting.”

John gave a tired, crooked grin, then looked back at Theo, who had now dozed off halfway through chewing on his ring.

“Thanks, Kate.”

“Anytime,” she said, her voice quiet and sincere. “And John? You’re doing a good job.”

He didn’t say anything to that. But his arms tightened just slightly around his son, as if the words had landed somewhere deep, even if he couldn’t say so.

Chapter Text

Flying the Jumper over the lush expanse of alien forest, John felt something he hadn’t in a long time—elation. The kind that rose like a pressureless balloon in his chest, lifting his spirits higher with each passing kilometer. The familiar hum of the controls beneath his hands, the sight of untouched wilderness stretching as far as the eye could see—it was the kind of off-world freedom he’d craved for weeks.

He couldn’t help grinning. His hands flexed on the Jumper’s controls.
God, I missed this.

But just as he drew in a deeper breath, it caught. His chest seized, throat tickling—then burning. He curled forward with a sudden fit of dry, hacking coughs that felt like they were ripping straight through his lungs.

“Ughhh—so not fair,” he rasped, throat raw. His voice sounded like it had been sandpapered by alien pollen and pure spite.

Finally. Finally, he’d clawed his way back to mission readiness.

First, he nearly died delivering surprise twins. Then, he’d been too feral—too keyed up and protective—to even leave them in their fathers’ care, let alone go off-world. Once he recovered enough to function without growling at anyone who got near his kids, there was the small matter of getting married.

Which had been… great, actually. Emotional. Messy. Long overdue.

But any hope of a honeymoon was completely hijacked by the fact that one of those babies—sweet, tiny Theo—had turned out to be so clingy, he couldn’t even tolerate being on the opposite side of a room from John without having a meltdown. They’d barely made it a few hours into the trip before Carson and Serin were calling them back because the baby had absolutely lost it.

Getting Theo to literally let go had taken time, patience, and more than one night of pacing with a howling infant.

But finally, finally, the baby had settled.

And John had gotten cleared for a mission.

Now?

Now he had a cold. A good, old-fashioned, misery-inducing cold. On his first damn mission back. His first time off-world since nearly bleeding out in the gateroom, and his immune system had picked now to betray him.

He sniffed hard, miserable.
So unfair.

“Colonel, are you alright?” Teyla’s voice floated in from the back seat, concern woven through her words like a taut thread. Eyes narrowing as another coughing fit racked his frame.

She had backed him when they’d left for the mission—argued that he was ready, that Ronon and Rodney were overreacting. But John hadn’t stopped coughing since they flew through the Gate, and now even she looked like she was starting to question her stance.

John cleared his throat, forcing his voice to steady. “I’m fine. It’s just a stupid cold. Annoying, that’s all.”

“Talk about annoying,” Rodney snapped from the bench seat behind them.

John’s head whipped around. “What?”

He already knew what Rodney was going to say—but he just didn’t want to have this argument. Not again. Not now.

Rodney threw his hands in the air. “I’m just saying, we should be focusing on harvesting viable space gates. You know, the actual point of this mission.”

“That is what we’re doing, Rodney,” John ground out, voice gravelly. “The MALP picked up signs of life. We have to check it out. That’s the protocol.”

Rodney rolled his eyes, arms crossed tightly. “I’m just saying that identifying potential Gate candidates for the intergalactic bridge should be our priority, not making friends with people whose biggest export is probably corn husk dolls.”

Flick.

“OW!” Rodney recoiled, rubbing the back of his head where Ronon had flicked him without even looking away from the viewport.

Teyla turned in her seat and gave him a sharp glare, her voice calm but edged with steel. “I did not realize you were so eager to return to Earth, Rodney.”

Rodney’s expression twisted. “What? No! It’s not like that—”

“You said reducing travel time to Earth was more important than strengthening ties with potential allies,” Teyla pointed out, arms now folded across her chest. “I assumed you were happy here, now that you have your family.”

Rodney looked immediately guilty and twisted to glance at John. “It’s not about that! It’s about efficiency. And logistics. And—chocolate. And not having to waste a ZPM every time we want to say hi to Earth.”

John arched a brow but didn’t push. He understood what Rodney was trying to say—clumsily, as always. Still, the tension in the Jumper didn’t ease until Ronon let out a low grunt of amusement.

“Backwater village, dead ahead,” John announced, his smirk returning as the cluster of structures came into view through the windscreen.

The Jumper set down just beyond the village’s outer path, nestled between two rows of tall, broad-leafed trees that looked vaguely like eucalyptus. John led the way out, boots crunching on gravel and sun-baked soil. A gust of wind tossed his already-messy hair back as he blinked against the glare. The air smelled faintly of spice and cooked grains, smoke curling lazily from chimney stacks deeper in.

The village was… humble.

Rough stone cottages lined a winding dirt path, their walls adorned with hand-woven fabrics and carved decorations. A few goats wandered freely, unbothered by the newcomers. Children peeked out from behind barrels and fences, whispering and pointing. Somewhere, a pot clanged, and the wind stirred dried herbs hanging from a windowsill.

John sighed softly. Yeah—definitely not a Stargate salvage site.

Still, Elizabeth had been clear. Atlantis needed to stand on its own feet. The Daedalus couldn’t be their lifeline forever. Even something as mundane as preserved vegetables or fresh grain could buy the city time. Especially with the addition of children.

“Let’s meet the locals, grab our souvenirs, and get out of here,” Rodney muttered, swatting at something glittery that might’ve been a bug. “This place smells like burnt oatmeal and sandalwood.”

John nodded absently, scanning the surroundings as they moved further in. No signs of Wraith worship, no Genii banners or military posturing. So far, so good.

Then she appeared.

A tall woman with rich auburn hair and sun-kissed skin skipped—skipped—into their path with an energy so rehearsed it had to be for show. Her dress was a swirl of layered fabric in jewel tones—purples, golds, and deep greens—that rippled as she moved. Bangles jingled at her wrists. She smiled like the sun had personally blessed her.

“Fair day to you!” she chirped.

John blinked, caught off guard, then remembered protocol. He mirrored her tone. “Fair day to you.”

He’d learned early in the Pegasus Galaxy: repeat the greeting exactly. It was usually the safest way to start an encounter.

The woman beamed and skipped off.

Then another woman arrived.

Then another.

All dressed in variations of the same elaborate style, with silver trinkets at their belts and fresh flowers in their hair.

“Fair day to you!”

“Fair day to you!”

“Fair day to you!”

Rodney scowled. “Did we just walk into a musical?”

Teyla’s brow arched slightly. “I believe it is some form of celebration.”

Ronon muttered, “They dress like bait.”

John opened his mouth, intending a quip—but dissolved into another coughing fit instead. “God,” he rasped, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Yeah. Definitely a cold.”

From up ahead came a loud, over-eager bellow.

“Hello! Hello, new people!”

John looked up just as a portly man came hurrying down the road, his arms waving like he was trying to flag down a parade float.

“Why didn’t anybody tell me the new people were here yet!?” the man called. His beady eyes never left John's team—not even when one of the colorfully dressed women ran up to him and clung to his arm.

“Lucius, I’ve missed you!” she gushed.

The man—Lucius, apparently—gave her a distracted pat on the shoulder, not even slowing. “Oh, please. I was just out for a walk. Have you met the new people yet?”

He skidded to a stop in front of John’s team, smiling like they were the answer to his prayers.

John offered a tight, polite smile, even as his instincts screamed. Something about this guy set his Alpha hackles up fast.

“We just got here,” he said cautiously.

Lucius clapped his hands together. “Oh, great! Great! Then I haven’t missed anything! I hate missing things.”

He spun slightly and gestured toward the woman still hanging off him. “This is my wife, Willa. Isn’t she gorgeous?” Then he gestured behind him. “My other wives are just making lunch.”

John blinked. Several women waved in unison from behind the village stalls.

Rodney leaned over and muttered, “Does this guy come with theme music?”

Lucius stepped in closer and grinned. “You haven’t eaten yet, right? Come, come—let’s get you something! We’re all friends here.”

John held up a hand, the kind of diplomatic pause he'd perfected over the last few years. “Why don’t we start with names? I’m Colonel John Sheppard. This is Dr. Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagan, and Ronon Dex.”

Lucius's attention immediately swung toward Teyla. His smile widened.

“Teyla,” he repeated, savoring the name. “Beautiful. Exotic. You must be from…?”

“Athos,” she said shortly.

Lucius clucked sympathetically. “Athos, yes. I’ve heard of that place. Shame what happened with the Wraith. Terrible business. Why don’t you let me cheer you up, huh? Little wine, little food…”

Rodney interrupted, unimpressed. “Do all the women here act like they’ve just won a trip to Disneyland?”

Lucius barely heard him. He was busy adjusting his tunic and calling toward a large common house in the center of the village. “Bring out the stew! The good stuff!”

John exchanged a glance with Teyla, then with Ronon, who gave a slow shake of his head.

Something was off.

The town was too clean. Too curated. It had the kind of neat, overly cheerful atmosphere that didn’t sit right in the Pegasus Galaxy. The villagers' smiles were too bright. The enthusiasm? Too rehearsed. The constant attention—especially toward Lucius—wasn't natural. It felt manufactured, like a school play where everyone had been cast to fawn over one self-appointed star.

John’s gut twisted.

There was no obvious tech, no strange readings from their scanners, but that didn’t mean nothing was going on. He’d learned to trust that feeling. And that feeling said: this guy’s dangerous in the most obnoxiously subtle way possible.

Taking one for the team, John sat beside Lucius at the long, food-laden table set up in the village square. He mostly did it to spare Teyla. Sure, she could handle herself—she could knock Lucius into next week without breaking a sweat—but she shouldn’t have to endure that kind of sleaze. Not when John could plant himself between them like a very cranky wall with military clearance.

Lucius was just as oily up close as John had guessed from a distance—maybe even worse. He gestured constantly, flapping his hands around like he thought the motion made him more charismatic.

“And of course, architecture!” Lucius was saying now, mouth full, crumbs falling. “I love architecture. It’s all a mystery to me, really—but, heh heh, that hasn’t stopped me from trying!”

He let out a high-pitched, self-satisfied chuckle that made John's eye twitch.

John poked at the food in front of him. With his head cold dulling his senses, even a decent meal would’ve tasted bland—but this stuff was especially flavorless. Vaguely sweet stew, something like mashed tubers, and bread that had the texture of drywall. He shoved it around his plate more than he ate it.

Teyla, ever the diplomat, kept her expression neutral and her tone polite. “I see,” she said evenly.

Unfortunately, Lucius took that as encouragement.

He leaned in toward John with a conspiratorial grin. “Is she taken?”

John stared at him, disbelieving.

Teyla dropped her fork with a loud clink against her plate. Her voice was sharp and icy. “No. Nor does he—nor anyone—speak for me.”

Lucius lit up like he'd just won a prize. “Oh yeah! Yeah, you are definitely wife material. Gotta love a woman with spirit. And a great body,” he added, eyes dragging across her like he owned her.

John’s jaw clenched. For a second, he seriously considered clocking the man right in his smug face. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that Teyla would be furious he’d robbed her of the satisfaction.

Rodney was still picking his jaw off the floor. “Okay, wow. Just… wow,” he muttered. “I mean, I have terrible people skills, but even I know that is not how you talk to someone unless you want to be slapped. Or tased.”

Finally, no longer able to take the awkward, condescending monologue, Rodney blurted, “Excuse me, um, Lucius. Please pardon my ignorance, possibly even my manners, but, uh… what is it exactly about you—?”

Lucius raised a hand, cutting him off. “Ah-ah! I know what you're going to say. So you don't even have to ask. I have gifts.”

The team exchanged a look. John barely moved his head, but they all understood. This was getting weirder by the minute. Something was wrong here, and they needed to get the hell out, now.

Still, John pressed. “What are those, uh… gifts, exactly?”

Lucius leaned back, draping an arm over his chair like he was holding court. “Exploration. Alchemy. Medicine! I have—if I do say so myself—some of the best ointments around.”

John coughed, hard, and leaned away. “That so?” he rasped, voice raw from the cold.

Lucius, annoyed at the interruption, suddenly saw an opportunity. “See? I could take care of that just—” he snapped his fingers “—like that.”

John grimaced. “It’s just a cold.”

Lucius wouldn’t be deterred. “Nevertheless! I have a potion that could get rid of that in six or seven days!”

Rodney groaned. “You mean the normal duration of a cold?”

“Impressive,” John deadpanned.

Lucius beamed. “You get used to it. So! Let’s do a trade. Where you all from?”

John didn’t like the glint in his eyes. He could see where this was going. “No place in particular. We move around a lot.”

Lucius nodded dreamily. “In that wonderful machine of yours. Yeah, I saw it. I was out walking, and I look up, and someone says, ‘They flew through the Ancestral Ring!’”

John subtly signaled his team—tight body language, slight eye movement: shut it.

“That was us,” Ronon grumbled automatically.

Teyla shot him a look. There was a thump under the table. Ronon jumped. John guessed she'd kicked him.

Lucius didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care. “How do you get it to fly?”

Rodney’s brain twitched at the opening. “It’s complicated. One has to—”

Lucius cut him off again. “No, no, no, I mean, where do you get a machine like that? I mean, it’s such a wonderful way to travel. Can I get one? Are they hard to fly?”

John smiled tightly. “Yes. They are hard to fly. And no—you can’t have one.”

Lucius pouted like a child. “But I want one. Please?”

“Sorry.”

The cheerful hum of the village suddenly shifted. The gathered locals began to murmur, glancing at one another in visible disappointment.

Willa piped up sweetly, “Well… perhaps a trade for some of his wonderful medicines?”

“Or perhaps not,” Rodney muttered.

Lucius looked wounded. “What? You come all this way and don’t even want to do a trade? Look, forget the ship! I don’t even want the ship. Okay? But you’ve got other stuff, right? Stuff you trade?” He pointed vaguely at John’s head. “Like… how do you get your hair to go like that?”

John stared at him.

He stood abruptly. “Lunch was great, but I just realized—we’re running late.”

Rodney blinked. “For what?”

John looked pointedly at him. “That important thing.”

Rodney caught on. “Right. That. Urgent.”

Teyla stood as well. “As much as we would love to stay, we really must go.”

Lucius shot to his feet. “No, no, no, no, no! I don’t want you to go. You just got here! Come on—we haven’t even had the second course. Please! I want you to see my medicines!”

He turned to Willa, barking, “Go get the ointments! The good ones! Go! Run!”

Willa ran off obediently.

John stepped back. “Another time, Lucius. We’ve got to go.”

Lucius pouted, his voice rising into a tantrum. “No! I don’t want you to leave!”

At his words, the villagers shifted again—blocking the path. Their faces still smiled, but it was hollow now. Cold.

The team turned back to Lucius slowly.

John held his ground. “Tell you what. When we get back, we’ll send our medical team. They can see what you’ve got to offer. Then we’ll talk trade.”

Lucius brightened again. “Later today, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll have everything ready!”

John gave him a nod and started moving. The others followed, quick but measured, slipping past the crowd that now parted just enough to let them through.

“You won’t be disappointed!” Lucius called after them.

John didn’t look back.

--

Dr. Weir matched pace with Rodney and John as they exited the control room and headed down the corridor toward the transporter. She hadn’t called a formal debrief—yet. Right now, she just wanted a quick download of the situation from the two of them before digging into the full report.

“You can give me the full rundown later,” Elizabeth said lightly, her hands clasped behind her back. “But humor me—what exactly was that place?”

John let out a tired groan, rubbing a hand over his face as they turned a corner. “I think the word we’re looking for is, uh…”

“Obnoxious?” Rodney offered immediately.

“Unctuous?” he added, raising an eyebrow like he was playing vocabulary bingo.

John grimaced. “Slimy,” he finally muttered.

Elizabeth’s lips quirked in amusement. “That bad?”

“Worse,” John replied, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Like if Gilderoy Lockhart and a used hovercar salesman had a love child.”

Rodney snorted. “With the ego of both and the hygiene of neither.”

John nodded grimly. “And somehow he’s the town hero.”

“Then again,” Rodney said, not entirely convinced, “the townspeople do seem to adore him. Practically worship him. Maybe there’s something to those ointments after all.”

“Or maybe he’s just really good at selling nonsense,” John said, folding his arms. “Still… could be worth having Beckett check the stuff out. There’s gotta be a reason the whole village is obsessed with the guy. It wasn’t natural.”

Weir frowned, picking up on the undercurrent in his tone. “You think he’s using something on them? Some kind of chemical influence?”

John shrugged, not quite ready to make it an official theory. “I’m not ruling it out. Nobody should be that… beloved. Not without something else going on.”

“Sounds like Pegasus Galaxy charm might come with side effects,” Weir muttered. “Well, I’ll ask Carson to run tests on any samples you brought back. He’s usually pretty quick at sorting through that kind of thing.”

They reached the transporter.

“So,” Weir continued, “I take it you're planning to head back out scouting once you're rested?”

Rodney perked up immediately, already turning on his heel. “Yes! Absolutely. Right away, in fact. We should get to the next planet now while we still have daylight. Relatively speaking. Come on, John—Jumper Bay's this way!”

John didn’t move.

He gave Rodney a flat look. “It’s not a race, Rodney.”

Rodney blinked at him, confused, half in motion.

John jerked a thumb toward the transporter. “Besides, I wanna go feed the babies before we head out again.”

Rodney opened his mouth like he might protest—but stopped. His expression softened slightly as he remembered who was waiting at home: little Theo, likely fussing; Shaela and Logan probably very hungry at this point. Kael and Eleanor demanding lunch

Rodney sighed, resigned. “Right. Okay. Feeding time.”

Elizabeth smiled, watching the exchange. It never failed to surprise her how quickly their squad could shift from military precision to domestic life—and back again.

“I’ll let you know what Carson finds,” she said, stepping back.

John gave her a half-smile.

–

The coughing had gotten worse.

It hit John in jagged, wheezing bursts as he and Rodney stepped into the Atlantis control room, drawing immediate attention from every technician within earshot. The sound echoed like a warning siren, cutting through the soft hum of consoles and overhead lights. Chuck glanced up from the main panel, subtly leaning back in his chair. One of the junior officers winced. Even Zelenka, who was mid-conversation with Dr. Weir, took a subtle step to the side as if illness could leap across a two-foot gap.

By the time John reached the platform where Elizabeth stood, his face was flushed and his breathing ragged. He held up a hand to stall any immediate questions, trying to clear his throat—but that only triggered another coughing fit that doubled him over, one hand bracing on the railing.

Rodney winced. “Seriously, you sound like a dying lawnmower.”

When he finally wrestled the cough under control, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, clearly biting back a comment. “How did the scout go?” she asked instead, giving him an opening.

John tried to speak, but what came out was a dry rasp. He cleared his throat—which just triggered another round of wheezing, hacking misery.

Rodney flinched. Chuck leaned visibly away. Zelenka took a not-so-subtle step to the side, frowning and mumbling something in Czech about "plague carriers."

Finally, John managed, voice hoarse and strained, “Well… we found an unused 'gate. Orbiting M3R-428.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, though her expression was equal parts interest and concern.

Rodney, arms folded and tone petulant, let out a loud groan. “One lousy 'gate. We’re never going to meet our quota at this rate!”

John blinked, eyebrows rising despite the sick haze fogging his brain. “What quota?” he asked, genuinely confused. No one had mentioned a timeline to him—not in the mission brief, not in the hallway, not once.

Rodney glared like it should’ve been obvious. “Mine!”

John might’ve groaned if he wasn’t terrified of triggering another coughing fit. Instead, he sighed through his nose and squinted at his teammate. “Rodney… the Daedalus is still under repair. We can’t even harvest gates until it’s spaceworthy again.”

Rodney huffed and crossed his arms with all the melodramatic flair of a teenager being denied concert tickets. “Well, maybe if those morons learned how to fly, they wouldn’t be grounded on Earth for a month.”

John gave him a withering look. Or he tried. He couldn’t be sure if it landed right—his eyes were watery from coughing and his head was pounding. “Did Beckett bring back anything useful from Lucius’ village?”

Elizabeth’s mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “No. He hasn’t returned yet. He radioed in earlier—said he’d like to stay a little longer. Apparently, he’s found something of interest.”

Rodney snorted. “Of course he has. Probably got suckered in by Lucius and his miracle foot cream.”

But John didn’t look amused. In fact, a rare flicker of anxiety passed over his face. He rubbed at his temple, half to ease the headache and half to refocus.

“That guy’s a con artist,” John muttered. “Or worse.”

He turned toward the gate console, coughing again as he moved. “Chuck, radio Beckett. I want another check-in. If he’s still playing nice with Lucius, we need to know why.”

Chuck nodded immediately, hands already flying across the controls.

“Right away, sir.”

John gave him a grateful nod and turned away, holding onto the railing a little tighter than usual. His legs felt like wet sandbags. He hadn’t slept properly in two days, and this cold was only getting worse.

Before Chuck had a chance to dial the gate it activated. The Stargate flared to life with a deep whoosh , the unstable vortex blossoming outward before settling into its familiar, rippling blue shimmer.

“Doctor Beckett’s IDC,” Chuck announced from the control station, eyes fixed on the data scrolling across his screen.

The guards stationed at the base of the ramp—two Marines—visibly eased, but only slightly. Protocol dictated that weapons remained at the ready until the incoming traveler was confirmed to be alone and not under duress. You never knew when someone would come flying through in a panic—or with hostiles behind them.

Dr. Weir stepped out of her office, heels sharp against the metal stairs as she descended. “It’s about time,” she muttered under her breath, scanning the active wormhole.

Carson Beckett stepped through a moment later, looking far too pleased for someone who had gone radio-silent for hours beyond the expected return window. A small satchel was slung over his shoulder and he had the easy gait of a man who thought he’d just done something incredibly clever.

Elizabeth was already halfway down the stairs, tension stiff in her posture.

“Carson,” she called, her tone halfway between relief and impending reprimand.

Before he could respond, another figure stepped through the event horizon—uninvited.

Lucius Lavin.

The guards immediately raised their weapons again, stance rigid. The wormhole collapsed behind the newcomer, locking him into the city whether they liked it or not.

Lucius didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause. He laughed, loud and too familiar already, like he owned the place.

“Oh my! When you said this place was a ten,” he called to Carson, spreading his arms theatrically, “I thought, okay, maybe it’s an eight and a half, but this…!”

Elizabeth’s steps faltered, her face darkening.

“Carson?!” she barked, disbelief and warning thick in her voice.

Beckett turned toward her with a wide grin, either oblivious or ignoring the rising tension in the room. “Oh, Doctor Weir, permit me to introduce Lucius Lavin,” he said brightly, like this was a scheduled meet-and-greet instead of an unapproved guest walking onto a military base.

Lucius turned toward Elizabeth, eyes lighting up with a look that made multiple Marines tighten their grip on their rifles.

“Speaking of stunning,” he said, his tone oozing with condescension and oily charm, “You didn’t tell me anything about her. Oh yeah. Yeah, I’m definitely going to like it here.”

Elizabeth didn’t flinch, but she didn’t dignify him with a response either. She turned to Carson with sharp authority.

“Guards,” she said, without looking away from Beckett. “Escort Mr. Lavin to Isolation Three. I want full biometric screening, atmospheric decon, and a medical quarantine set up immediately. He is not to have free access to the city.”

Lucius’s grin faltered for the first time. “Wait—wait, what? Isolation? You didn’t say anything about isolation. That sounds a bit harsh for a guest, don’t you think?”

Two guards had already moved in on either side of him, not rough, but firm. The officer gave him a flat look. “It’s standard procedure for all unscheduled off-world arrivals.”

Lucius looked to Carson for help, expecting him to step in.

Carson looked stunned. “Elizabeth, really—there’s no need—”

Weir cut him off with a single icy glance. “Doctor Beckett, you and I will be speaking. Later. In the meantime, your guest will be contained and evaluated—thoroughly.”

The guards began leading Lucius toward the corridor, but he kept turning around, still trying to charm someone—anyone.

“This is a mistake! I’m not sick! I’m special! Carson, tell her! I have ointments! You people like ointments, right?”

Elizabeth turned on her heel without another word.

Lucius’s voice trailed off as the doors to the gateroom hissed shut behind him.

--

Dr. Weir, Dr. Beckett, and Lt. Colonel Sheppard stood in silence as they stared at the main surveillance monitor. Down in Isolation Room Three, Lucius Lavin was admiring his reflection in the camera’s glass—running his fingers through his hair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles on his tunic, and occasionally flashing himself a practiced smirk. He’d even winked once.

“Still preening,” John muttered under his breath. “If he starts blowing kisses, I’m out.”

Weir didn’t respond. Her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, jaw clenched as she glared—not at Lucius—but at the man standing to her left.

“I cannot believe you brought him here without clearance,” she snapped, voice like ice cracking. “Without even asking.”

Beckett looked genuinely taken aback. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Elizabeth turned her full Alpha force on him then—calm, but dangerously controlled. “You didn’t think I’d mind?” she echoed, her voice low but thunderous. “You helped write the off-world visitor protocols, Carson. You enforced them on more than one occasion. Now suddenly they don’t apply?”

John shifted slightly beside her, tension rippling through him. That voice—weapons-grade Alpha tone—wasn’t aimed at him, but it still made his instincts twitch. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Carson, on the other hand, seemed utterly unbothered.

“There’s so much he can offer us,” he said simply, with a soft, faraway smile.

John blinked at him. “Is this the same guy who tried to sell me a cure for my cold? A cure in 7 days?!”

Rodney McKay turned from his console across the room, having clearly been listening in for longer than they’d realized. He leaned casually against the nearest workstation, arms crossed, one brow raised.

Beckett bristled at John’s skepticism. “I know my business, Colonel Sheppard. He’s created several compounds that exhibit genuine medicinal value. Potent, even.”

Weir didn’t back off. “Really? That guy?” she asked flatly, nodding toward the monitor just in time to catch Lucius picking his teeth and then inspecting what he found with scientific interest. Her disgust was not subtle.

Carson’s expression turned dreamy again, like he wasn’t even seeing what they saw. “Aye. He possesses a vast knowledge of natural healing. Valuable herbs, spices…”

He hesitated, as if this next item were somehow the clincher. “…and gourds.”

Rodney stood upright, all pretense of casual observation vanishing. “Did you just say gourds?”

Carson didn’t even blink. “Yes, Rodney, gourds. We don’t know everything, despite what you may believe. Lucius could prove to be a powerful ally.” The softness returned to his voice. “He’s a wise man. Kind. Charismatic.”

He grinned suddenly and looked straight at John, as if he expected the other Omega in the room to nod along knowingly. To get it.

John stared back, face blank. Was Carson flirting with that guy?

If Beckett had that look over Ronon, or Lorne, or hell—even Chuck—John would’ve chalked it up to chemistry or curiosity. But Lucius Lavin? That walking slimeball who’d just moments ago been digging in his nose and flirting with his own reflection?

Nope.

Elizabeth was watching Carson now with growing concern. The Alpha dominance had faded from her voice, replaced with something gentler. Wary.

“Carson…are you feeling all right?”

The doctor blinked at her, confused. “What? Of course. Why?”

She glanced at John, unsure how to phrase what she was witnessing.

“It’s just…you’re acting…uh…”

“Smitten,” John supplied, tone dry as a desert.

Elizabeth nodded gratefully. “Yes. That.”

Carson immediately turned defensive, wounded pride on full display. “This is not something to treat lightly!”

“You in pre-heat?” John asked bluntly, folding his arms. “Only explanation I can think of. He’s the first new male you’ve had contact with that you’re not treating medically. Maybe something’s firing off hormonally.”

Beckett’s jaw dropped. “NO! And you can bloody well mind your own business about my reproductive cycle, Colonel!”

The venom in his voice made both Elizabeth and Rodney blink. John didn’t even flinch. He was used to getting yelled at.

Elizabeth, ever the diplomat, stepped physically between them. “That’s enough,” she said firmly. “John’s theory is a reasonable one. It’s not an insult, Carson. It’s concern.”

She turned slightly toward the monitor again, her arms still crossed. “Because the fact remains: you brought an unvetted, unregistered civilian into our base. Into Atlantis. He now knows our Stargate coordinates. He’s seen our tech. We have no idea what his real intentions are.”

Carson scoffed with a light, airy laugh. “Lucius would never harm us. He came in peace, as a friend. You have his word…and mine.”

Weir and Sheppard exchanged a look.

Rodney muttered, “We’re doomed.”

–

Dr. Weir pinched the bridge of her nose as they exited the observation corridor above Isolation Room Three. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway, brisk and tense, betraying just how close she was to snapping. Beside her, John Sheppard let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his spine. Rodney McKay trailed behind them, rubbing at his face as though he could scrub away the last ten minutes—and maybe Carson’s starry-eyed babbling along with it.

They walked in silence for a few beats, the weight of the situation hanging in the air like fog. Finally, Elizabeth groaned and broke the silence, her voice tight with frustration.

“Do you think he poses a threat?”

John didn’t hesitate. His voice was thick with disdain. “Definitely a nuisance. And a sleaze.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders slightly, like just thinking about Lucius made his skin crawl.

Rodney grunted. For once, he wasn’t posturing or griping—just genuinely concerned. “Yeah, well... sleaze or not, if what Beckett said is even half true, some of those compounds he’s cooking up might be worth something. Medical value. Maybe even military.”

John groaned again, louder this time, stopping briefly to lean his head against the nearest wall. “I hate it when you're right.” He straightened, scrubbing a hand through his already chaotic hair. “Still doesn’t mean I want that slimeball roaming around Atlantis.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Agreed. I’ll have the security rotation updated. We’ll limit his movement, restrict his access to sensitive areas.”

“No,” John said firmly, glancing sideways at her. “Not just that. I don’t want any female or Omega personnel left alone with him. I don’t care how charming Beckett thinks he is—my gut says that guy’s dangerous. Maybe not with a gun, but emotionally manipulative? Absolutely.”

Rodney raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled out his tablet and began typing. “I'll flag his ID in the system, cross-reference it with personnel schedules. Keep an eye on who’s in his vicinity.” With a pause he looked at his mate. “You really think we need to protect the Omegas? Would he even know what that was?”

Returning his Alpha's gaze “He may not know, but what do you think he will do the second he does find out?” Rodney winced. “Also, I want two guards on him at all times—rotating in six-hour shifts. No exceptions. If he so much as sneezes funny, I want someone there to catch it.”

Elizabeth looked over at him. “You and McKay are still planning to head out?”

John nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got a window to scout a few more gates before the next solar interference cycle. We need to keep moving. But I don’t want Lucius unsupervised while we’re gone.”

“I’ll handle it,” Elizabeth promised.

“Tell Teyla and Ronon not to let him out of their sight,” John added as he paused at the corridor junction. “Especially Ronon. Lucius looks at someone the wrong way, I want a Satedan growl right in his ear.”

Rodney smirked. “I’ll grab popcorn.”

Elizabeth allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile, though the concern remained in her eyes. “You really think he’s that much of a risk?”

John hesitated. “I don’t know yet. But my instincts are screaming. And after all the crap we've dealt with out here, I’m done ignoring my gut.”

With that, he nodded and turned down the hall toward the jumper bay, McKay hurrying to catch up.

Elizabeth watched them go, then pulled out her radio. “This is Weir. Get me Teyla and Ronon. I have a new assignment for them.”

–

The clang of boots on metal echoed down the stairwell as John and Rodney descended from the Jumper Bay, their footsteps falling into the familiar rhythm of long-practiced banter.

“One tiny settlement on the entire planet?” Rodney’s voice pitched into a whine that could saw through steel. “Come on, it's not like we’d be displacing millions. Just a few tents, maybe a field generator—simple! Two hours, tops.”

John stifled another cough into the crook of his arm, his breath rasping in his throat. His voice, raw from the cold he hadn’t managed to shake, came out low and gravelly. “We’re not evacuating an entire planet just to steal their ‘gate, Rodney.”

There was no snap in his words, just weary exasperation—less the usual military edge, more like someone too tired to argue but too principled to let the idea go unchallenged. He’d been through too much lately to entertain shortcuts. Surprise babies. Near-death. No honeymoon. And now a sinus-clogged, hacking mess on his first proper mission back.

They reached the control room level, expecting the usual controlled chaos of Atlantis’s nerve center—technicians trading updates, consoles blinking with activity, the murmur of radio traffic. Instead, they were met with an unsettling stillness.

No movement. No voices. No hum of conversation or clatter of keyboards. Just… silence.

Rodney stopped short. “Okay. Did everyone go on lunch break at the exact same time?”

John frowned, scanning the room. Even the usual quiet whir of the Ancient systems seemed muted, like the air itself was holding its breath.

A cheerful voice broke the silence. “Hey! Welcome back.”

Both men turned to see Chuck sitting at his station, coffee in hand, smiling with the ease of someone lounging on his day off. The posture was all wrong—too casual, too calm. Behind him, the room was entirely empty.

Rodney squinted. “Where’s Zelenka?”

Chuck took a sip of his drink, unfazed. “Oh, he’s not here.”

“Yeah, we got that part,” John said, scanning the empty chairs. “Where is everyone?”

His hand drifted unconsciously toward his sidearm, the familiar weight of it grounding him. Every inch of him buzzed with unease, sick or not. Rodney had gone still beside him, tension tightening his jaw.

“This isn’t normal,” Rodney muttered. “Where’s Elizabeth? The entire control staff doesn’t just disappear.”

“Something’s wrong,” John agreed. He coughed again—harsh and deep—then braced himself briefly against a console before straightening. “Chuck. Why are you the only one here?”

Chuck blinked at them with the placid calm of someone sedated. “Don’t worry, Colonel. Everyone’s just… taking a break. Relaxing. It’s been a tense week.”

Rodney and John exchanged a look.

That tone. That vacant, too-easy calm. That wasn’t Chuck.

–

As the mess hall doors slid open with their familiar hydraulic hiss, John Sheppard and Rodney McKay stepped inside—only to be hit with a wall of noise. Not just chatter or the clatter of utensils against trays. This was laughter. Loud, rolling, unrestrained laughter.

John paused just past the threshold, frowning. Laughter wasn’t uncommon on Atlantis, sure. But this? This was something else. It had an unnatural edge to it, like everyone in the room had just inhaled helium and joy at the same time. It didn’t feel real.

Rodney muttered under his breath. “Okay. That’s… weird.”

They didn’t have to search long for the source.

Lucius Lavin sat at the heart of the room like a smug little king, holding court with all the grace of a sleazy used car salesman who thought himself a war hero. He leaned back in his chair, one leg draped over the other, arms moving animatedly as he told some grand, no-doubt-exaggerated tale.

“…So I’m standing there, right?” Lucius was saying, his voice a mix of mock panic and theatrical bravado. “I don’t know what to do—I ran! I ran! I ran! And mind you, I’m the guy holding the weapon, okay?”

His hands fluttered around dramatically, drawing the room’s attention like moths to a flame.

Around him, as if tethered to his gravitational pull, sat the people John trusted most: Elizabeth Weir, Teyla, Ronon, Carson Beckett, and Radek Zelenka. They were all leaning in—smiling, laughing, utterly transfixed. Their expressions weren’t just amused. They were enthralled.

“I step to the left,” Lucius pantomimed, standing partway to demonstrate. “I turn around, and just as this beast lunges for me, I draw my sword and—WHACK!—lop off its head! Just like that! Then I bend down, pick it up, and march back to the village—in triumph!”

The mess hall erupted into riotous applause and howls of laughter.

John felt a knot form in his gut. Elizabeth—usually composed, usually skeptical—was flushed with amusement, her eyes sparkling with what looked far too much like admiration. Carson chuckled with a dopey grin. Ronon looked like he was listening to a fireside legend, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Even Teyla giggled behind her hand, and Radek shouted something enthusiastic in Czech while clapping like a child.

“And let me tell you…” Lucius lowered his voice, drawing the group in tighter. “I had no trouble finding female companionship that night. If you catch my drift.”

More laughter, louder now, more raucous. Lucius raised a finger and added, “Repeatedly!”

Teyla turned red. Elizabeth giggled and leaned into Lucius, smiling warmly. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She, in turn, touched his knee without a second thought. Ronon gave Lucius a hearty pat on the back, like he’d just earned himself a medal.

It was grotesque.

From the edge of the room, John stood frozen. Rodney beside him looked horrified.

“This is very bad,” Rodney muttered.

John’s jaw was tight, his eyes locked on his team—his family—fawning over a man who was barely tolerable on a good day.

“What the hell is going on?” John said, voice low and sharp.

Rodney glanced around, then leaned closer. “Something’s affecting them. It has to be. This isn’t just… charisma. This is chemical. Pheromones or something. Look at Elizabeth—she just touched his knee, John.”

John didn’t say anything right away. He couldn’t. His brain was trying to reconcile the image in front of him with the people he knew. People who’d faced down Wraith, Genii, and unspeakable horrors together… now reduced to starry-eyed disciples hanging off Lucius’s every word.

“We need Beckett in the lab,” John finally said, voice tight, “not sitting on Lucius’s lap.”

Rodney grimaced. “If we don’t break this soon, they’re all gonna be lost in his personal fan club.”

They exchanged a glance. The situation was spiraling—fast. And the longer Lucius sat at the center of it all, the deeper his roots burrowed into Atlantis.

They needed a plan. And they needed it now.

Chapter Text

It took effort—and more than a few firm orders from John—to herd the key members of Atlantis’s leadership into Weir’s office. The fact that any of them had agreed to leave Lucius’s side at all was a small miracle. Getting them to focus once inside the room, however, was a different battle entirely.

The door closed behind them, but none of them looked especially present. Elizabeth, Teyla, Carson, Ronon, even Zelenka—all wore the same vacant, serene smiles. Like they’d just come from a spa retreat, not a briefing about a manipulative stranger with no clearance.

John rounded on them.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, voice sharp and cracking with frustration.

The group blinked at him, clearly perplexed. Their dreamy expressions turned quizzical, as if he was the one acting strangely.

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked, her tone light and utterly sincere, mirroring the same vacant confusion Carson had shown hours earlier.

John gestured furiously toward the general direction of the mess hall. “What do I mean?! We leave for a few hours and come back to find Lucius playing pied piper while you’re all following him around like he’s the second coming. You’re laughing at his awful stories, fawning over him, touching his knee for crying out loud. You look like a bunch of Stepford wives!”

Rodney, arms crossed and visibly trying to hold onto his composure, added with concern, “Seriously. What did he do to you?”

The group collectively smiled, like indulgent parents entertaining a child’s outburst. It was deeply unsettling.

Elizabeth tilted her head, voice taking on an airy tone that didn’t suit her at all. “Absolutely nothing. Carson was right about him. He’s brilliant.”

“I agree,” Teyla chimed in softly, her eyes shining with admiration. “He has much to offer us.”

John stared at her in disbelief. Teyla. Of all people, Teyla should have been immune to this. But there she was, voice gentle and wistful in a way that made his stomach turn.

Rodney, visibly done with worrying, snapped into sarcasm like a reflex. “Oh yes. Herbs and gourds. Enlightenment through produce.”

Carson gave him a dismissive wave, the kind of hand-flick he usually reserved for when Rodney was being particularly insufferable during staff meetings. “Please, Rodney. You don’t understand the significance of what he’s offering. The medicines alone are worth anything he asks.”

John scoffed. “You’re seriously telling me that ointment is worth something?”

“I haven’t actually tested it yet,” Carson admitted without a trace of shame.

Rodney spun on him, voice rising. “You mean you’re just taking his word for it?”

Carson nodded firmly.

Before Rodney could say more, Ronon stepped forward with a low glare, voice like a warning growl. “You got a problem with that?”

Rodney physically recoiled. It had been months—months—since Ronon had last threatened him. He’d almost forgotten how terrifying it was to be on the receiving end of that stare.

“Me? Uh… no. He might,” he said quickly, pointing to John.

John gave Ronon a look—one that was sharp and cutting and deeply disappointed. They had talked about this. Before they’d all gotten married, he’d made it clear that intimidation within the circle wasn’t going to fly. Ronon was supposed to be better than that now.

Still, there were more urgent problems.

He turned toward Teyla, hoping to shake her loose from whatever spell she was under. “Teyla, this is the man who asked you to be his seventh wife.”

Rather than reacting with the disgust or fury John expected, Teyla looked down in embarrassment, cheeks coloring faintly.

“I know,” she whispered, almost breathless. “I hope I didn’t upset him.”

John’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just disturbing—it was dangerous.

Beside him, Carson folded his arms. “You just haven’t taken the time to get to know Lucius.”

“He’s fascinating,” Elizabeth chimed in brightly, giving Carson a playful slap on the arm. “Carson is right. Again! Lucius could be a tremendous asset to Atlantis. He’s traveled extensively, gathered an incredible amount of intelligence.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Has he shared any of this supposed ‘intelligence’?”

“Well… not yet,” she admitted with a dreamy shrug. “But he did give me this.”

With a reverent smile, she bent slightly and retrieved something from her desk. It was a gourd—long, waxy, and vaguely candlestick-shaped.

She held it out like it was a sacred relic.

Rodney blinked. “That’s… a squash.”

The others leaned in slightly, gazing at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

Ronon’s voice was unusually soft as he added, “A very wise and kind man.”

Everyone nodded in solemn agreement, eyes locked on the vegetable like it was holy.

John felt physically ill. His stomach churned with secondhand embarrassment and something dangerously close to horror.

He looked at Rodney, who had gone visibly pale beside him. Judging by the slight twitch in his cheek, he was probably about ten seconds from throwing up too.

John leaned closer to his husband and muttered under his breath, “We need to fix this. Now.”

–

Once they were far enough down the corridor and the sound of Lucius's insufferable laughter was nothing but a faint echo, John grabbed Rodney by the arm and yanked him into an empty side hall. His voice dropped into a low, furious hiss.

“You get to your lab. Search every second of surveillance footage from the moment Beckett opened the damn ‘gate. I want eyes on Lucius from the second he stepped through. Check for anything—touches, aerosol sprays, whatever the hell could explain this mess.”

Rodney blinked, but before he could say anything, John was already turning away, jaw clenched and steps sharp with restrained rage.

“Wait—what?!” Rodney called, catching up quickly and grabbing his arm again. “Where are you going?”

John turned, eyes blazing with that particular kind of anger reserved for when his protective instincts were flaring red hot. His voice was a low growl now, almost feral in its possessiveness.

“I’m going to tell Serin and Mila to stay in the damn apartment. Lock the doors. No one—and I mean no one—gets near them or the babies unless it’s me or you. I don’t trust Lucius as far as I can throw him, and I sure as hell don’t trust anyone who’s now part of his drooling fan club.”

Rodney’s mouth opened for another protest, but then he shut it just as fast. John's voice had that edge to it—the one that said omega instincts were in full command. And more than that, Rodney knew John was right. This wasn’t just annoying anymore; it was dangerous.

Rodney swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay. Right. Good. That’s—yeah, that’s smart. I’ll check the feed. If Lucius so much as breathes funny, I’ll find it.”

“Good.” John nodded once, clipped and firm, then turned on his heel and strode off like a soldier marching into a war zone.

Rodney hesitated for just a second, watching him go, then ran in the opposite direction toward the labs. The tightening coil of dread in his chest hadn’t eased at all. If anything, it had sunk deeper.

Something was wrong—really wrong—and they were officially the only two left on the city who saw it.

--

John finally stepped into Rodney’s lab, dragging his feet like they weighed a hundred pounds each. He shut the door behind him with more force than necessary, the soft click sounding ominously final in the otherwise quiet space. The hum of equipment, the gentle clatter of Rodney's typing, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights filled the air.

With a sigh, John rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to shake off the invisible grime clinging to him since he'd watched Lucius play court jester to their entire command staff. “This is creepin’ me out,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Rodney barely looked up from his screen. “Yeah. It reminds me of this old Batman episode, actually.” He clicked his tongue thoughtfully as he scrolled through something on his monitor. “Catwoman used some kind of drug to put a spell on Batman, made him fall for her completely. Ended up doing all kinds of shady stuff just to make her happy. Honestly, it was kind of a turn-on. Julie Newmar in that catsuit—”

“Eartha Kitt was Catwoman,” John cut in, still not looking at him. He leaned his weight against the side of a nearby table, body tense and coiled like a spring.

Rodney finally glanced up, raising his eyebrows. “Well… yeah. Her too. But I was talking about the—wait, what?”

John didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, his arms still crossed tight around his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. When he did speak, his voice was quieter, rougher.

“I wasn’t thinking about campy TV villains,” he said. “I was thinking about fairy tales. And real stories too. You know how many times an Omega gets drugged, or put under some spell, or just straight-up brainwashed into worshipping some Alpha who turns out to be a total abusive prick?” He finally looked up at Rodney, eyes hard and tired. “I feel like we’ve stepped into one of those stories.”

Rodney had been about to defend his pop culture reference when he stopped, really listening for once. His mouth opened, then closed again, then opened—then closed. There was something raw in John’s voice, and even more so in his scent. Not fear, exactly—John didn’t do fear the way most people did—but distress. That terrible helplessness that came from watching people you care about lose control of themselves.

Rodney reached out without a word and rested his larger hand gently over John's. He didn’t squeeze right away, just laid it there like an anchor.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said softly. “We always do.”

John finally met his gaze, eyes softening around the edges. He leaned in slightly, resting more of his weight against the table, closer to Rodney. “I just hope we fix it before something happens.”

He didn’t explain what he meant by something, and he didn’t have to. Rodney’s brain had already made the leap. Fairy tales didn’t always end in magic kisses and true love. Sometimes they ended in coercion. In violation. And some of the worst ones were just called history.

Rodney gave John’s hand a firm squeeze before pulling away to return to his laptop. He had learned that not every problem required one of his endless rants or detailed explanations. Sometimes a hand squeeze, a shoulder nudge, or just sitting nearby meant more to John than any carefully crafted reassurance.

“So,” Rodney said, flipping the screen toward John, “I went through the surveillance footage of Lucius’s quarters. And found this.”

On screen, Lucius appeared, digging through his satchel like a raccoon going through a cooler. He pulled out a small glass vial and drank from it, just moments before his meeting with Weir. Rodney hit pause and zoomed in on the image, enhancing the frame to show the glint of the vial in Lucius’s hand.

John leaned forward, studying the still frame. “We need to find that vial. Maybe it’s laced with whatever he’s using to do…this.”

“I figured you'd say that.” Rodney reached into his pocket and held up a small, empty vial with a smug smile. “I swung by his quarters while you were checking on the kids. Spotted it on the bedside table before the creep had the chance to toss it.”

John’s face lit up in visible relief, and without even thinking, he leaned down and pressed a firm, grateful kiss to Rodney’s lips. It wasn’t passionate—it wasn’t about that. It was about trust. Partnership. About knowing your Alpha had your back even when the world went off the rails.

Rodney’s ears flushed red instantly. “Oh,” he said breathlessly. “Okay. That was—uh, you're welcome.”

John pulled back just enough to smirk at him.

Rodney cleared his throat and carefully set the vial on the table between them. “There’s some residue left inside—probably enough to analyze. It'll take time to isolate the compound, break it down, and then figure out a counter-agent. I could’ve used Carson's help, but…” He trailed off, the weight of that betrayal hitting all over again.

“Yeah, well, he's too busy picking daffodils for his hopeful heat partner,” John muttered darkly.

Rodney paused mid-scan, shooting his mate a surprised look. “Wow. That was… surprisingly mean. Even for you.”

John shrugged. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Rodney considered that, then turned back to the equipment. “Right. Moving on.”

The two men fell into a rhythm then—John pacing slowly, guarding the lab like a sentinel, while Rodney bent over his screens, determined to crack the science behind the spell. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. And for now, progress was enough.

–

John stormed back into Rodney’s lab like a thundercloud with boots. If the door had been one he could slam, it would’ve rattled the walls. But alas, Atlantis’s sliding doors—efficient, quiet, maddeningly gentle—denied him even that small satisfaction.

Rodney looked up from his workstation, brow furrowed as he carefully placed a thin slide of residue into the molecular scanner. He raised a single eyebrow at his mate’s dramatic entrance but said nothing. He didn’t have to.

“Elizabeth wants to send a team to check out a ‘gate at a suspected Wraith outpost!” John exploded, voice echoing off the walls. His whole body radiated frustration, fists clenched at his sides like he was trying to hold in the urge to punch something—or someone.

Rodney’s jaw dropped. “Is she NUTS?!”

“Yes! Yes, she is!” John growled, beginning to pace furiously in a wide circle near the central lab table. “Everybody’s nuts, Rodney! Haven’t you noticed?! They’re all acting like they’re in some sort of Lucius-worshipping cult.”

He turned sharply and jabbed a finger toward the air as if punctuating every syllable. “She’s talking about sending people into Wraith territory—an actual likely ambush—because of a suggestion from that walking oil stain!” He dragged a hand down his face, pulling at the skin like he could erase the tension crawling under it. “I don’t want to do this. I really don’t. But she’s not thinking straight. She’s sending people into traps, Rodney—death traps. Over him.” Paused to look his mate in the eyes. “I might have to declare her unfit.”

Rodney’s mouth moved but no sound came out for a few seconds. Then he blinked. “You’re talking about a coup,” he said, incredulous.

John stopped pacing and rounded on him, eyes blazing. “No. I’m talking about keeping people alive. If she were in her right mind, she’d never approve this. She’d see how reckless it is. The minute this crap wears off, she’ll thank me for stopping it.” He paused, rubbing his neck with a scowl. “Or she’ll punch me. Honestly, either would be fine.”

Rodney still looked stunned. “So what now? What do we do?”

John exhaled sharply through his nose and gestured toward the workstation. “We keep working without drawing too much attention to ourselves. Figure out what this crap is and how to counter it.”

Rodney turned back to his analysis, lips pursed. “I am working on it, but it’s not going well. There’s barely any of the compound left in the vial. It’s degrading fast, and I can’t synthesize an antidote without more of the base.”

John’s jaw tensed. “Then I’ll go back to Lucius’s village. He’s gotta have more stashed there. I’ll find it and grab what I can.”

Rodney stood up so fast his stool screeched backward. “What?! You’re leaving me here alone?!”

John was already halfway to the door, pausing with a look that was half exasperation, half apology. “You said you needed the liquid, Rodney.”

“Yes, but the place is turning into a nuthouse! You saw what Ronon said to me! Ronon! I haven’t been on the receiving end of one of his death glares in months!”

John turned fully around and strode back a step, leveling a serious look at him. “Exactly. Which is why someone has to stay behind and keep a grip on the sanity that’s left. You’re the only one I trust right now to do that.”

Rodney’s mouth opened again, clearly ready to launch into a spiral. “Oh great, no pressure! Just me, the creep cult, and a bunch of brainwashed colleagues!”

John crossed the lab and grabbed Rodney’s upper arms, steadying him. “Listen to me. You need to disable the DHD the second I’m gone. If anyone dials out while I’m off-world, we could lose more people. And for the love of god, keep the Lucius fan club away from the kids.”

That stopped Rodney cold. His breath hitched, and his gaze darted to the corner of the lab as if expecting to see someone lurking. “You think they’d…?”

John didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what they’ll do. And that’s the problem. They’re not acting like themselves. You know what happens when people start thinking someone like Lucius walks on water. Obsession turns ugly real fast.”

Rodney swallowed hard. “Okay. Right. Yes. Protect the babies. Disable the ‘gate. Avoid the nuts. Got it.”

John gave him a half-hearted smile. “You’ll be fine. Just pretend they’re all interns with head trauma.”

Rodney stared at him flatly. “That is not reassuring.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” John stepped back toward the door, drawing himself up into his usual ready stance. “If I’m not back in a few hours—”

“Don’t say it.”

John winked. “Then come rescue me.”

Rodney rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He just nodded, tight and quick. “Be careful, okay? You’ve got people who can’t lose you.”

John met his gaze and gave a small nod of acknowledgment, the meaning understood.

The door slid open with its usual soft whoosh, and John disappeared down the hallway, leaving behind a very tense, very alone, and very determined Rodney McKay.

–

Still coughing—this time like he was about to rip something vital out of his chest—John stumbled slightly as the fit subsided. His lungs burned, his throat felt raw, and his head pounded behind his eyes like a war drum. He braced himself on his knees, gasping for air, trying not to throw up from the dizziness.

It was only when the ringing in his ears lessened that he noticed something else: everyone looked just as awful as he felt.

The village, which had once been lively and colorful, seemed drained of life. People moved slowly, like ghosts wearing their own skins. They had dark circles under bloodshot eyes, hair stuck to clammy foreheads or in disarray, and their clothes were rumpled, dirty, and hung off them as though they hadn’t changed or washed in days. No one spoke. No one smiled. They walked with their eyes downcast, shuffling across the dusty paths, and visibly flinched when they noticed him.

Like they were ashamed. Or afraid.

John straightened slowly, ignoring the lingering tightness in his chest, and spotted a familiar figure approaching—Willa, the first of Lucius’s many wives they’d met. She was walking toward him but not looking up, distracted as she rifled through the large patchwork bag slung over her shoulder.

“Willa,” he called gently, voice still hoarse.

She jumped at the sound, eyes wide. At first she stared at him blankly, like she couldn’t place him, but then recognition flickered across her face.

“Sheppard?” she gasped, voice cracking with emotion. “Sheppard!”

Her exclamation drew attention. Within moments, a small group of villagers converged around him, eyes hopeful and haunted. It was as if a beacon had gone off—and he was the closest thing they had to a rescue.

John looked around at them all, unease prickling the back of his neck. “Are you all right?” he asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.

Willa stepped closer, desperation written across her face. “Where is he?”

John blinked. “Lucius?”

Her hands clutched her bag tightly, knuckles pale. “Did you take him?” Her tone shifted quickly to pleading, apologetic. “Of—of course, if you did, we’re not angry. We understand. He does things. Important things. But please—please tell me where he is.”

A groan escaped John. “He came to my planet on his own,” he admitted, trying to keep his tone calm and neutral.

Another woman stepped forward—Heleen, one of Lucius’s other “wives,” if the creepy introductions from before had been accurate. Her voice trembled. “Please… please send him back. It hurts us to be away from him for so long.”

That got murmurs of agreement from the others—quiet affirmations, nods, soft gasps. It was eerie. A chorus of people suffering from the same affliction, and none of them seemed to realize just how unnatural it was.

John looked around, unease crawling up his spine. “Have you always… felt this way about him?”

Willa looked down at her feet, shame radiating from her like heat from sunbaked stone. “No. Not at first. I used to find him… irritating. Even… repulsive.” Her voice quivered. “But one day, he returned from trading with some distant people, and he told me a story. A beautiful, wise, funny little tale… about something he accidentally stepped in.”

Heleen chimed in eagerly, nodding. “And from that moment on, we saw him for what he truly is—a kind, compassionate man. A genius. A blessing.”

John’s stomach turned.

Trying to keep his voice level, he pressed gently, “And before that…?”

Willa’s cheeks flushed, eyes wet with embarrassment. “I am ashamed to say—I refused to share his bed. More than once. He was so… not to my taste. But I didn’t see clearly then. None of us did.”

John swallowed hard and tried not to let his horror show too clearly on his face. His skin crawled. The pieces were snapping into place like a puzzle he really didn’t want to solve.

Willa’s voice broke. “But now that he’s gone, we’re all getting sick. And it’s only getting worse. Like… our souls are cracking without him.”

He could see it now, really see it—their sunken cheeks, their trembling hands, the listlessness in their eyes. Withdrawal. Addiction. They weren’t in love—they were chemically bonded. Enchanted. Poisoned.

“Take it easy,” John said, lifting his hand in a calming gesture, trying to head off what was beginning to look dangerously close to a mob.

“Have you ever seen him drink anything?” he asked. “Like a… a liquid. From a small vial?”

That made Willa brighten slightly, the haze in her eyes flickering with hope. “Oh—his daily medicine?” she said, as if that explained everything.

Heleen nodded fervently, a spark of purpose in her sickly frame. “Does he need more? We can send it! I can bring it!”

Willa cut her off, irritated by the intrusion. “We both can!”

The others nodded eagerly, desperate for a task, for direction, for something—anything—that might reconnect them with their absent drug of choice.

John tried not to wince. “I—I can handle it,” he said quickly, trying to placate them.

But Willa was already trying to barter. “If we get you some of the medicine… will you bring him home?”

John blinked. The question, the pleading look in her eyes, the ragged edge in her voice—it made him want to scream. But instead, he nodded slowly.

“Sure,” he said, voice flat. “No problem.”

And he would. But not in the way they thought.

Because he wasn’t just taking the sample back to Rodney for analysis. He was going to put an end to this—all of this—before it got worse.

Before it got them.

–

Colonel John Sheppard stepped through the Stargate and into the gateroom, his boots striking the floor with sharp, purposeful weight. The usual bustle of Atlantis surrounded him—technicians moving between consoles, soldiers standing idle—but something was off. Too casual. Too cheerful. People were smiling like they didn’t have a care in the world, like they weren’t stationed in a galaxy filled with things that wanted them dead.

His gaze swept the room, instincts bristling. He couldn’t quite place it, but everything felt wrong.

And then he heard the voice.

High up in the control tower, laughter drifted down. A smooth, self-satisfied voice—saccharine and oozing smugness.

Lucius.

John’s stomach clenched. His head snapped upward, and what he saw made his blood boil.

Lucius Lavin. Sitting in Elizabeth Weir’s office like he owned the place. Legs crossed, wine glass in hand, utterly at home behind a desk that wasn’t his.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Rodney was there too.

His mate. His Rodney—sitting in front of the desk, laughing like Lucius was the most entertaining man in the galaxy.

John saw red.

He stormed up the stairs, each footfall growing heavier with fury. As he reached the top, Atlantis' cheerful hum blurred beneath the pounding of his heart. The doors slid open—and if there had been any doubt left about how far things had gone, the sight inside erased it completely.

Elizabeth was nowhere in sight.

Lucius lounged on the desk like it was a throne, gesturing as he talked, the picture of arrogant relaxation. And Rodney—his Rodney—was sitting across from him, eyes wide and bright with laughter.

“You are a scoundrel, you know?” Rodney said, chuckling. “That’s what you are.”

John’s stomach flipped. He coughed—not to clear his throat, but because he was choking. On disbelief. On disgust. On heartbreak.

Rodney looked up at the sound, and his face lit up with joy.

“John! Come here, you’ve got to hear this. Lucius was just telling the most hysterical story. You know they have marmots on his planet? Well, not exactly marmots, but rodents that are very similar—”

“I thought you said you were gonna stay away from the nuts,” John said, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And what happened to keeping our kids safe?”

Lucius blinked, caught off guard. The smugness faltered for a moment, his eyes flicking between them.

Rodney, oblivious, kept talking. “Yes, well… I tried to keep to myself, but Lucius here was concerned for me. So he came down—Ronon held me against the wall—and Lucius and I had a nice long talk.”

John stared at him, mind racing. Ronon held you against the wall? He could barely focus through the rising fury.

“So you did, huh?” he asked, voice like ice.

Rodney grinned. “And let me tell you, we have nothing to worry about with this guy. He’s just a big knucklehead, aren’t you, you big knucklehead?” He leaned forward and punched Lucius lightly on the arm, both of them laughing.

John clenched his fists.

It took everything he had not to lunge across the room and rip that smug bastard off Elizabeth’s desk.

“Where’s Elizabeth?” he asked instead.

Lucius beamed, utterly unfazed. “Oh, she’s out making me something to eat.”

John’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

“I don’t know,” Lucius said casually, glancing at his hand. “She said it was a surprise. So Rodney and I were waiting here for the team to return. We thought that was you coming through the gate.”

He said it like it was a pleasant afternoon. Like none of this was insane.

Then Lucius had the nerve to stand and step toward John, smiling like they were friends. He leaned in, invading John’s space, and John immediately leaned back, giving him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Lucius faltered, catching just enough of the warning to back off—slightly.

Rodney suddenly snapped his fingers. “Oh! Teyla, Ronon, and Beckett. They, uh, volunteered to check out M6H-491.”

He said it like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t been the exact mission John told him to shut down less than an hour ago.

John turned on him, his whole body vibrating with rage. “I told you—”

Rodney held up both hands quickly. “To disable the DHD, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t. But come on… Teyla and Ronon. I mean, they can handle themselves.”

He said it like it was reasonable. Like John wasn’t seriously considering if 'til death do us part had a more immediate application.

“And Beckett,” John growled.

Rodney blinked. “Oh—he… now he can walk on his hands. Did you know that? He was showing Lucius just before he left. You should’ve seen it. He was down on his hands, he had—”

Rodney began to demonstrate, arms flailing, miming some absurd handstand trick.

“RODNEY!”

The word exploded from John’s chest like cannon fire.

Rodney straightened instantly, eyes wide. For the first time, real awareness crept into his face. A flicker of guilt. Of confusion. Like maybe something wasn’t quite right.

Lucius, standing just behind him, looked uneasy. Not scared. Just... annoyed. Annoyed that John wasn’t laughing. That he wasn’t playing along.

Rodney swallowed and tried to smooth things over. “Oh! We don’t even know there are Wraith on the planet. You know? But we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

Lucius gave another infuriating grin. “We sure will.”

Rodney turned back to John, smiling. Like that would fix it. Like approval from Lucius would somehow smooth the jagged edges in John’s fury.

Lucius joined in the smile, standing beside Rodney like they were a team.

John didn’t smile back.

He stood silent, seething, glaring at the two of them with a look that could’ve cracked glass. His hands shook. His chest ached.

The man sitting at his mate’s side was not Rodney. Not his Rodney.

And the man in front of him—Lucius—had somehow turned this entire city into a stage for his delusions.

But John Sheppard wasn’t about to play his part.

Not anymore.

--

The Stargate whooshed to life in a thunderous burst of blue. Alarms flared, lights flickered, and John jogged over to Chuck’s station, tension rolling off him in waves.

Please let it be them. Please let them be okay.

They’d been overdue. Not long enough to panic, but long enough for that low pit of dread to curl in his gut.

Chuck was squinting at the screen when a voice cut through the control room speakers like a firecracker.

"Atlantis, this is Beckett! We're coming in hot!"

John didn’t hesitate. He bolted down the stairs, still in his tac vest and dusty offworld gear—he hadn’t even thought to take it off. Not after what he walked in on earlier: Rodney, starry-eyed over Lucius like a lovesick teen. If John hadn't still been seething, he'd probably be more terrified.

Around him, the room shifted gears. Guards scrambled into defensive positions. The shield was still down, but someone had enough sense left—thank God Chuck still had half a brain—to tighten security protocols. More personnel poured into the gate room, weapons drawn, eyes locked on the puddle.

John reached the base of the stairs and raised his P-90, heart pounding.

They came through in a blur of movement—Carson, Ronon, Teyla—laughing. All of them. Like they’d just walked out of a pub instead of off a potentially hostile world.

John blinked, hard.

Each of them held a plastic bag filled with bright green herbs. They looked smug. Victorious. High.

The shield flared to life behind them as the last of the team cleared the event horizon. Chuck's hand hovered over the controls, mouth a tight line. At least he still had the presence of mind to throw up the iris.

John didn’t lower his weapon.

“You all right?” His voice was rougher than intended. He'd yell later—once he was sure none of them were bleeding.

Ronon smirked and shrugged, like they’d just tripped over a tree root and not stormed a Wraith-infested planet.

“Yeah. Bit rough. But we’re good.”

John used to find that smirk charming. Used to.

“It was all terribly exciting!” Carson gushed. He was practically glowing with delight, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. He held up his bag of herbs like it was a damn trophy.

Ronon gave his own bag a light squeeze, the way you might affectionately squish a favorite pillow. John stared at the gesture, baffled and increasingly alarmed.

He forced himself to focus. “Well, I guess we can assume there are Wraith on that planet.” His tone was flat. Dull. The implication unspoken: and you still went?

And then he stepped forward—Lucius.

That smug little weasel, standing with his arms spread and his grin practically carved into his face.

Teyla smiled. Smiled. And said, “Yes. Many.” Her eyes were soft, voice dreamy as she gazed at Lucius like he hung the stars.

Weir stood near the control room steps now, brow slightly furrowed—not at Carson, or Teyla, or Ronon—but at him . Her expression was somewhere between concern and chastisement. Like she was watching a toddler about to throw a tantrum.

“Now, don’t overreact, John,” she said gently, patronizingly.

John snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” He advanced toward her, voice rising with every syllable. “You send a team—led by Beckett—to a planet crawling with Wraith?! What exactly would you consider a proper reaction?”

Elizabeth just nodded serenely, as if he were speaking in static. The others smiled at her— smiled. Lucius gave him a side-eye like he was an unruly houseguest.

“Firstly, they volunteered,” Elizabeth said with a shrug, brushing his concern aside like lint on her sleeve.
“Secondly…” Carson beamed, raising his bag like a prize again. “We got the herb!”

John felt his stomach twist.

Lucius turned to Carson with a syrupy tone. “Carson, I will tell people the tale of your bravery for years to come.”

Carson’s jaw dropped. His bag tumbled to the floor. “You will?” he asked, almost breathless.

Lucius opened his arms. Carson fell into them.

John choked on bile, coughed, and nearly lost it right there.
What the hell was happening to his city?

Lucius rubbed Carson’s back like a snake coiling around prey. “Yes, I will.”

John blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

“You sent them to get… an herb?” His voice was void of emotion now. A blank slate. Yelling clearly wasn't cutting it.

Teyla stepped forward, eyes big and innocent. “We wanted to go.”

His eye twitched.

Oh, that’s it.

“Okay. I’ve just about had enough—” He stepped toward the bag on the floor.

Ronon beat him to it.

A blur of motion. A click of a safety. John froze.

Ronon’s pistol was in his hand, aimed straight at John's chest. Cold. Steady. No hesitation.

John stared at his husband—his mate , the father of his children—and felt the floor fall out from under him.

“Whoa. Don’t touch it.” Ronon’s voice was a low growl, the kind he only used on Wraith—and enemies.

John took a slow, measured step back. His eyes flicked to the catwalks. The gate room.

Guns. All pointed at him.

His men. His security. His city.

He held his hands slightly out at his sides. His voice didn’t shake.

He didn’t let it.

Inside, he was screaming.

Elizabeth stepped between the weapons and John, face twisted in offended confusion. “What is wrong with you, John? We’re just helping a friend. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She stared at him like he was the one who’d lost his mind.

Lucius leaned toward Rodney—John’s Alpha. His safe place. His anchor.

“I think there’s something wrong with him.”

For one second, John dared to believe Rodney would defend him.

“Hmm.” Rodney nodded.

John’s stomach hit the floor.

That was it.

Fight or flight.

He chose neither.

He forced a laugh. Shaky. Hollow.

“You know what? I’m just tired. Five kids. Two still breastfeeding. Caught a cold. Sleep’s been more of a luxury than chocolate around here.” He threw in a lopsided grin, the one that usually worked on Genii warlords and angry Ancients.

He turned to Lucius. It almost physically hurt.

“I apologize.”

Lucius gave a pleased hum, basking in the attention.

Elizabeth softened. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

John nodded slowly. “You’re probably right. Just need a good night’s sleep.”

He backed away step by step. He didn’t turn until he was far from the center of the room.

When he did glance back, what he saw nearly stopped his heart.

The guards had formed a protective circle— not around him.

Around Lucius.

–

John slipped into the stairwell, the door hissing closed behind him with a finality that echoed in his bones. The relative silence of the corridor was a sharp contrast to the chaos in his chest. He reached out, grabbing the cold metal railing with a white-knuckled grip, leaning into it as though it could somehow hold him up—hold everything up. His weight, his will, the cracks forming behind his ribs.

He took a breath.

It shook.

Not from the cold.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the tears threatened to rise. A sob clawed at his throat, desperate for escape, but he swallowed it down hard. He couldn’t. If he let go—if he cracked—he wouldn't be able to stop. He’d fall apart completely, and it would be hours before he could pull himself back together.

And his people didn’t have hours.

His family didn’t.

Another breath—this one deeper, but it scraped through his lungs like glass. He coughed harshly, bent double for a few seconds as the fit tore through him. It was only when the spasms faded and his chest stopped rattling that he forced himself to breathe again. Controlled. Steady. In. Out. In. Out.

He needed to think.

Focus.

Discipline wasn’t optional. It was survival.

He stood there in the stairwell, body still trembling slightly, and forced his mind into a soldier’s framework. If emotions were a tide, then a situational report was a dam. So, he started his mental SITREP—clinical, calm, methodical.

Enemy: Lucius Lavin. Smarmy bastard. Overconfident, manipulative, and now firmly entrenched at the center of Atlantis like a parasite in the brainstem.

Tactics: He used some kind of substance—possibly airborne, possibly ingested—that induced intense feelings of affection and loyalty. Manufactured charisma, chemically enforced. He made people love him. Made them laugh with him. Obey him.

Even Rodney.

The name struck like a blow. It wasn’t just the betrayal—though that hurt in a way nothing else had—it was the ease with which it had happened. The way Rodney, brilliant and stubborn, had caved to that smug con artist’s smile. The way Elizabeth had left her office to play housemaid.

The way everyone had turned.

Except him.

John’s jaw clenched, his hands curling slowly into fists. He wasn’t just reeling anymore.

He was angry.

And more than that—he was ready.

He drew in one more breath. This one didn’t shake. It burned.

The last time Atlantis had needed him alone—truly alone—was when the Genii had staged a coup. He’d snuck through his city like a ghost, working in the shadows, turning the tide one strike at a time until the city was his again.

And if he had to do it again?

So be it.

This wasn’t the first time he'd had to act without backup. Without allies. Without even the comfort of being understood. It wasn’t the first time the city he loved had become a battlefield around him.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Whatever came next, he’d handle it. He didn’t need to lay the pieces out yet—not for anyone else. Not even for himself.

He just needed to move.

The tears were gone now. The ache still pulsed low and steady, but it was dulled, redirected. Hardened into something sharp and cold and dangerous.

A weapon.

He pushed off the railing, the resolve settling into his bones like armor.

He didn’t look back.

And this time, he didn’t stumble.

Chapter Text

John Sheppard moved through the corridor like a ghost, shoulders hunched, steps soft and hesitant. He kept his gaze low, not making eye contact with anyone. It wasn’t how he normally carried himself—not as a military commander, and certainly not as someone used to commanding a room with little more than a glare.

But today?

Today, he wore the mask of a meek, docile Omega. And it made his skin crawl.

It had to be convincing.

He let his body language do the work—timid posture, shallow breaths, the occasional uncertain pause in his step. People barely looked at him as he passed. A couple of glances his way, but no one stopped him. No one questioned him.

Good. That’s exactly what he wanted.

He slipped into the infirmary, careful not to draw attention. The room was quiet. A few medical personnel moved about, cataloging supplies or reviewing data pads. None of them paid him more than a cursory glance. That, too, suited him just fine.

He found Carson Beckett tucked away in one of the smaller labs off the main floor, speaking softly with a nurse. From the angle, they seemed to be reviewing lab samples or scans. Carson’s voice had its usual warm cadence—kind, soothing.

John leaned silently against the doorframe, waiting.

He didn’t want to make a scene. Couldn’t make a scene.

Normally, Carson would have noticed him the second he entered the infirmary. The man was like a hawk when it came to his patients—especially the more “troublesome” ones, which John had long since accepted himself to be. But today? Nothing. Not even a glance. Not until John cleared his throat.

“Umm… Doc?” he said, pitching his voice just right—soft, a little nervous, submissive.

Carson looked up, surprised. That alone sent a cold ripple down John’s spine.

Then Carson’s expression shifted—softening, brightening, like someone seeing a wayward lamb finally come home. The change made John’s stomach twist.

Still holding his false meekness like a shield, John gave a small, hesitant smile. “Can I… talk to you for a second?”

Carson turned to the nurse and gave a gentle nod. She didn’t question it, just smiled politely and exited, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss.

That left the two of them alone in the lab.

John glanced over his shoulder as though making sure no one was nearby, giving the impression of paranoia. Not hard, considering how raw he still felt. Carson seemed to take the gesture as nerves rather than strategy.

“Don’t ye worry, son,” Carson said gently, taking a few steps closer. “No one will bother us here.”

He rested a hand on John’s shoulder. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been a comfort. Today, it made John want to recoil.

“So,” Carson continued, his voice warm and almost… triumphant. “You finally came around, did you? Aye, I knew you would eventually. You see, once you get a chance to really know Lucius, he’s actually a very wise, very kind—”

He didn’t finish.

John moved in one smooth motion, pulling a Wraith stunner from the pocket of his BDU pants. Before Carson could react—before even the words fully left his mouth—John fired.

The blue burst of energy lit the small lab like a flickering storm.

Carson dropped like a stone.

John darted forward, catching the doctor before he could hit the floor too hard. Cradling his friend’s unconscious form with a mix of regret and grim determination, he gently lowered him the rest of the way. Carson’s head lolled against John’s shoulder, and for a moment John just sat there, holding him, letting the weight settle.

The betrayal in Carson’s eyes—just before the stunner hit—still lingered in John’s mind.

He couldn’t help but think how well it mirrored his own feelings. That look. That hurt. That deep, disbelieving shock.

It was what he’d felt when he saw Rodney laughing with Lucius.

John swallowed hard, forcing it down.

He couldn’t afford the luxury of emotion right now. Not if he was going to save them.

Poking his head out of the lab, he scanned the corridor. No one nearby. No one watching.

Perfect.

He returned to Carson’s side, carefully dragging the unconscious doctor toward the back supply room. He didn’t have much time, and he still had work to do.

This was just the first step.

–

The Puddle Jumper settled into a quiet clearing, far removed from any place John Sheppard had ever landed on the mainland. He’d picked the most remote area he could access without tripping alarms—somewhere wild, forested, and utterly deserted. There were no trails, no signs of human or Athosian traffic, not even the faintest whiff of Wraith activity. Just trees and sky.

Exactly what he needed: space and time.

Fortunately, the Ancient tech still liked him—more than anyone else left in the city, anyway. Maybe the city itself could sense what he was trying to do. Maybe it was just responding to his gene the way it always had, with a little extra luck thrown in. Whatever the reason, he'd been able to disable the tracking beacons both in the Jumper and the control tower without setting off alerts. It wasn’t a permanent solution—if Rodney got his head on straight, he could probably trace John eventually—but it would take hours. More than enough time.

The only searches Atlantis could conduct now would be visual ones—manual sweeps over the vastness of the mainland.

Let them try.

Behind him in the Jumper’s small cargo bay, Carson Beckett was still sulking—loudly.

“I need tae get back,” the doctor said for the fourth time since takeoff, his voice cracking slightly as emotion overtook him. He looked like he was about to cry. Again.

John ignored him for most of the flight, focusing on piloting and not crashing. Arguing with a drugged-up Omega who was convinced he was in love with a con man was not on his to-do list right now.

Once they were safely on the ground, John finally turned to face Carson, coughing hard before he could even form a response. He winced as the fit rattled his lungs. The cold was getting worse.

“I need tae get back,” Carson repeated, more desperate now, his voice thin and reedy. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy—not with illness, but with something far more dangerous. Withdrawal.

“No, you don’t,” John rasped, trying to catch his breath. The words came out hoarse and sharp, each syllable scraping like sandpaper. It was concerning—he was concerned—but Carson hadn’t even blinked at the coughing. That alone confirmed how far gone he was.

This was the same man who had once grounded John from duty for a mild cough during a morning briefing.

Now? Nothing. Not even a twitch of medical concern.

That, more than anything, told John he’d made the right call.

Carson’s face twisted with anger. “Lucius needs me! Ye had nae right tae abduct me like this!”

John wheezed, holding back another cough as he reached for the small gear pile behind the pilot seat. “Call it an intervention,” he said flatly. “You probably don’t realize it right now, but what you’re going through is… kinda like a detox.”

Carson opened his mouth to argue again, but John had already started tapping on Rodney’s tablet, bringing up what files remained intact—notes and partial logs from before Rodney joined the Cult of Lucius.

Another coughing fit tore through him before he could continue. He gritted his teeth, swallowing the burn in his throat. “Rodney did some digging before he… lost his mind,” he managed. “That tea Lucius keeps pushing? It’s not just some nice local brew. It’s laced with a chemical compound that causes the body to produce pheromones. Then something about brainwave activity in the… gamma… thingy… cortex. Or whatever.”

John made a face as he purposefully butchered the terminology.

Carson twitched. “Prefrontal cortex,” he corrected automatically, voice snapping with irritation. “The part o’ the brain responsible fer decision makin’ an’ positive emotions.”

John gave him a thin, humorless smile. “See? That’s why I need you.”

Carson still didn’t look convinced, but he was listening now. Not fully—but something had cracked through.

“Apparently, exposure to the pheromones in close quarters makes people… suggestible,” John continued. “And the longer you’re around the guy, the more hooked you get.”

Carson blinked. “Ye mean literally… an addictive personality?”

John nodded. “That’s what it looks like.”

Carson’s accent thickened with disbelief. “That’s a load o’ bollocks, that is!”

There it was. The voice of the drug, not the man.

John exhaled through his nose. “Check for yourself,” he said, tapping the tablet and holding it up. “I’ll bet you a year’s pay that the stuff in that vial is made from the herb you collected for him. He made you his mule.”

Carson hesitated—then took the tablet.

Progress.

As the doctor scrolled through the data, his brow furrowed, tension mounting. Still, he clung to disbelief. “If this is true, then why weren’t you affected?”

John stared at him. Hard.

“Because I’m sick,” he growled. “My sinuses are clogged up. I haven’t been able to smell anything for two days. Plus, I’ve barely been near him.”

He looked away, jaw clenching. “Look… if I could just kidnap him and haul him off to some cave until it wore off, I would. But the people back on his planet are already starting to get sick. Like, really sick. I’m not putting our people through that. Not again.”

Carson’s face twisted with realization. “Ye’re doin’ it tae me right now,” he whispered, hurt creeping into his voice.

John didn’t hesitate. He reached over and punched Carson in the arm. Hard.

“OW!” Carson yelped.

John grabbed the front of Carson’s jacket, pulling him up until they were nose to nose.

“Look,” he growled, his voice low and deadly serious, “I need you to figure out a way to counteract this. There’s gotta be an antidote. Some kind of blocker. You’re the best we’ve got.”

Carson shrank slightly under the intensity of that glare, his mouth opening, then closing. He looked so lost. Like he was being torn in two.

“I cannae,” he whispered.

“Yes, you can,” John said, more fiercely now.

“But… he needs me!” Carson cried, and now his voice cracked, the brogue thicker, his distress more raw. “He needs me, John!”

John’s voice cracked too. “I need you.”

He let go of Carson’s jacket and took a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Everyone on Atlantis needs you. My—” His voice hitched. “My babies need you.”

That last part… it broke something.

Carson stared at him. Guilt rippled across his face, followed by something more painful. A sob bubbled up in his throat, and before John could brace for it, the doctor began to cry. Not just a few tears, but a deep, gut-wrenching breakdown as the withdrawal began to fully take hold.

“Bloody hell,” Carson wept, covering his face with both hands. “What’ve I done?”

John didn’t move to comfort him. Not yet. He couldn’t afford to.

But inside, his heart cracked. He hated that it had come to this. Hated the look in Carson’s eyes—like he’d failed some unspoken vow. He hadn’t. Not really. This wasn’t his fault.

But it was his problem now.

John turned back to the Jumper’s console and began making plans for the next phase.

There wasn’t time for comfort. Only action.

–

The campfire crackled softly as the sky began to dim into twilight. John sat cross-legged on one side of the fire, coughing occasionally into his sleeve, exhaustion and illness eating away at his strength. On the other side, Carson Beckett sat hunched, wrists loosely tied—not tight enough to cause injury, but enough to appease caution. John had made sure he could still hold Rodney’s tablet, which the doctor now tapped away at methodically.

Carson’s expression was unreadable, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes flicking over lines of data. Suddenly, his fingers froze mid-tap.

“Wait just a minute,” he said sharply, his accent noticeably thicker.

John stirred, pushing himself upright with a tired grunt and rising to his feet. He limped toward the fire, hopeful despite the ache in his bones. “What is it?” he asked, voice rough.

But before he could reach the other side, the sudden, unmistakable whine of Ronon’s blaster charging filled the air. John froze mid-step and shifted his weight slowly, just enough to see Ronon step from the shadows, weapon raised and aimed squarely at John’s head.

The gut-punch of betrayal hit John hard—worse because this was the second time today his mate had turned a weapon on him.

Then came Teyla, emerging from the trees like a ghost. Her P-90 was raised, her eyes cold and unreadable as she joined Ronon in surrounding the fire. That hurt worse than the blaster. Ronon might act on instinct and emotion, but Teyla… Teyla thought before she acted.

That she had chosen this?

It broke something inside him.

John slowly lowered his hands to show he wasn’t a threat, keeping his body loose and non-aggressive. His gaze locked on Ronon.

“That thing’s set to stun, right?” he asked quietly, holding his mate’s gaze—no sarcasm, no challenge. Just a reminder. A plea. I’m still your mate. I’m still their mother.

Ronon gave him a tight, mirthless smirk. “Yeah.”

John nodded once. “Good.”

And then he lunged.

Ronon was ready. The stunner went off before John had moved more than a foot.

The Colonel collapsed instantly, dropping like a marionette with its strings cut. He hit the forest floor hard and didn’t move.

Silence followed, heavy and unmoving.

Across the fire, Carson’s face twitched—not with surprise, but something far more complicated. There was no joy in his expression. No smug satisfaction. Just a flicker of something unreadable as he stared at John’s still body.

Teyla stepped closer, weapon still up. “Carson, are you all right?” she asked softly.

Carson startled, as if shaken from a trance. He turned toward her with a small, relieved smile—but it was tight, too controlled, and didn’t reach his eyes.

“I will be… once I get back to Lucius,” he said with just the right amount of breathy longing in his voice. His Scottish brogue was thick, but not as frantic now. More… resigned.

Teyla seemed satisfied. She lowered her weapon but stayed alert.

Moments later, Rodney came bumbling out of the underbrush, brushing twigs from his jacket.

“Hey! What’s going on—oh.” He blinked, taking in the sight of John unconscious on the ground. “What’d you shoot him for?”

Ronon only glared.

Rodney huffed. “Aw, come on. Now we’ve gotta haul him back to the Jumper? You couldn’t just tackle him or something?”

Carson didn’t say anything.

He just sat there quietly, watching the others scramble around John's limp body. His expression remained neutral, eyes blank—just another helpless addict too deep in withdrawal to be a threat.

He had what he needed. He’d already broken free of Lucius’s influence hours ago. The tremors, the sobbing, the helplessness. He needed to get back to Atlantis. He needed to work. And if acting like a broken man meant no guards, no suspicions, and full access to the labs?

Then he’d play his part just a little longer.

Because Carson had seen what this drug could do. And now that his mind was his own again?

He was going to fix it.

Quietly.

Before anyone else realized just how far things had gone.

That was it.

That was all they had to say.

Carson’s skin crawled. A cold, nauseating realization twisted in his chest: **If they were willing to do that to John—**their mate, the mother of their children—what would they do to him?

They didn’t see an unconscious Omega on the ground.

They saw an obstacle.

That could’ve been anyone. That would be him, if he made one wrong move. If they realized he was no longer under the drug’s influence. If he didn’t play this right.

He lowered his gaze to the tablet again, fingers trembling—but not from withdrawal. From rage. From fear. From the burning knowledge that he was now the only person in this clearing who wasn’t lost to Lucius’s control.

So be it.

He would play the part. He would nod and smile and pretend to fawn like every other drugged-up fool on Atlantis.

And then he would burn it all down from the inside.

Because someone had to save them.

And the only person left who still could… was him.

–

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard paced the confines of the cell he’d been dumped in. The cell in his own damn city. His steps were uneven, both from the pounding in his head and the persistent ache in his lungs. His cold had taken a turn for the worse—fever, congestion, and now a splitting headache—but he refused to lie down. Not when they were in control of Atlantis. Not when the people he trusted were turning against him.

He’d started to come around during the transfer from the jumper to the brig. He’d tried to fake unconsciousness longer, but someone elbowed him in the ribs mid-hand-off, and the sharp pain had made him hiss. After that, it was pointless to pretend.

Now he paced—watching, thinking, waiting.

The door to the holding area slid open, and John froze mid-step, his gaze locking onto the smug bastard entering.

Lucius.

The slimiest piece of garbage in two galaxies strolled in like he owned the place, grinning with an infuriating mix of smugness and feigned sympathy.

“Good morning, Colonel. I want to apologize for this harsh treatment. I hate that Elizabeth had to do this to you,” Lucius said cheerfully, voice oozing fake concern like syrup over rotten fruit.

John scowled and wiped a bit of sweat from his brow. “Cut the crap,” he snapped hoarsely.

Lucius chuckled as if John had just made a charming joke. Unbothered, he leaned casually against the bars of the cell, arms folded, expression smug. “Feisty. You always this feisty when you're sick? No wonder your mates are so obsessed with you.”

John ignored that. He tilted his head, feigning interest. “So that herb of yours…?” he asked. He needed information, anything to pass along—if he ever got the chance.

Lucius perked up like a preening bird. “Ah, yes. One of my greatest discoveries. Well… okay, my only great discovery. But still—you gotta admit—it’s pretty great.”

“How’d you get by before that?” John asked, tone neutral.

“I was a baker!” Lucius said proudly. “Bread mostly. The occasional muffin around festival time.” Even discussing bread, the man managed to sound smug and oily.

“So that herb pretty much changed everything.”

“Oh, completely!” Lucius laughed and dropped onto the bench outside the bars, lounging like he was recounting a bedtime story. “I baked it into my own bread at first—like a little experiment, you know? And suddenly people started to like me. Or at least hate me less. Eventually, they wanted to help me. So I refined it into a potion. Worked like a charm. Life was good.”

He shrugged dramatically. “Then the Wraith set up shop on the only planet I could find the herb on. I knew I couldn’t go back there.”

John felt his stomach sink. “Then we showed up,” he deadpanned.

Lucius flashed a greasy grin. “Exactly! I’m telling you—it was fate. And everybody wanted to help, so I let them. That’s the great thing about my herb—nobody gets hurt. They just want to help me. All the time. What’s wrong with that? I’m a nice guy. I never make them do anything they don’t want to do.”

John arched an eyebrow. “Six wives?”

Lucius actually preened. “Sometimes all at once.”

Bile surged in John’s throat. He swallowed hard, breathing through his nose to keep it down. His hands curled into fists.

Lucius stood and wandered back toward the bars, leering openly now, giving John a slow, predatory once-over. John had never wanted a shower more in his life. His skin crawled.

“You know,” Lucius said casually, “once you’re over this cold, you and I are gonna have a little chat. Face to face. I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna be great friends. You’re gonna want to help me too. And you’ll love it.”

John stepped forward, glaring. “Just a warning, Lucius—get too close, and it'll be the last thing you do.”

Lucius raised his eyebrows. “So you are descended from the Ancients, huh?”

John stayed silent, but his eyes narrowed. That was supposed to be classified. How the hell did he know that?

Lucius grinned wider. “See, I got a bit confused. You mentioned your kids with Rodney, then later said you had five, and then something about breastfeeding—and after you left, Elizabeth was just gushing about you. I wanted you gone, but she kept saying, ‘He’s usually such a well-behaved Omega. Don’t worry, the Omegas on our home planet are much more mannered.’ I mean, Omega? What is that?”

John tensed. Every instinct screamed danger, but he kept his face blank.

“I got the whole history lesson. How the Ancients altered their genetics so men could bear children. Figured it would help rebuild the population. Then they either moved to—or back to—your planet, started mingling with the locals. And bam! Alpha, Beta, Omega dynamics. Pretty fascinating stuff.”

John didn’t move.

Lucius leaned in like he was sharing a secret. “Apparently, Omegas have stronger access to Ancient tech. Something about the ATA gene being more active. And you? You’re something extra special. Turns out you're the grandchild of a full Ancient. A real one. Instead of building weapons, he traveled to the future, met a woman, started a family. Your great-grandma is the one who introduced you to your mates.”

John’s blood ran cold. That secret was buried deep. How did he—?

Lucius chuckled. “She had taste, clearly. Rodney, Ronon, Teyla—all very attractive. But I have to say, you’re the most tempting.”

John gritted his teeth.

“I was even offered the chance to… try out the Omegas here,” Lucius added, waggling his eyebrows grotesquely.

John glared.

Lucius sighed dramatically. “The women didn’t interest me much. And the men? Not as cute as you.”

“I’m married,” John snapped. “With kids.”

Lucius waved that off. “Yeah, yeah. Your mates were so accommodating, though. Said if I wanted to experience an Omega, they’d be willing to share.”

John’s breath caught. He coughed to hide it, but it didn’t mask the heat in his chest. Were they really that far gone?

Lucius leered. “So, after a little soup and some rest to get you back on your feet, you and I are going to become very acquainted.”

John stepped closer to the bars, eyes ice cold. “Just know—the last man who touched me when I didn’t want it lost the part that made him an Alpha. His body wasn’t found for a week.”

Lucius didn’t flinch. “That’s all right, Colonel. I’m in no rush.”

The radio on his hip crackled, interrupting the moment.

“Lucius?” Carson’s voice came through, too calm.

Lucius picked up the device, eyes still locked on John. “Yeah, go ahead, Carson.”

“I’ve finished preparing the inoculation.”

Lucius smiled wider. “All right. I’ll be right down.”

He clipped the radio back to his belt. “Gotta go get my inoculation. We’ll talk after.” He winked.

John’s lips curled. “Getting the ATA therapy?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucius said, full of smug satisfaction. “Isn’t that great?”

He turned and strutted out, leaving John standing in the cold cell, heart hammering, stomach heaving.

As soon as the door hissed shut, John leaned against the wall and let out a slow, shaky breath. His fists were trembling. His head was burning. He could still feel the weight of Lucius’s gaze, the threat behind the words, the violation already hanging in the air.

But he didn’t break.

Not yet.

Because no matter what Lucius thought—John Sheppard was no one’s toy.

And he would burn this city to the ground before he let that bastard lay a hand on him.

Chapter Text

The swarmy bastard was sitting in the pilot’s seat of Jumper One.

Jumper. One.

John’s jumper. The unspoken—but absolutely enforced—rule among the gate team and senior staff was that this specific jumper was reserved for the Colonel. No one else used it unless it was an emergency or John said so. And this greasy little troll had made himself at home like it was his personal golf cart.

Lucius was grinning like a kid who’d just found the keys to a Ferrari, poking at buttons with all the finesse of a raccoon trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. Fortunately, Atlantis’ systems were idiot-resistant—and John had set custom override locks on this jumper long ago. So while the lights blinked and the console chirped cheerfully in response to random button mashing, nothing of consequence was actually happening.

“Go for launch! That’s so exciting!” Lucius chuckled to himself, giggling like a lunatic.

Carson stood awkwardly beside him, visibly cringing as Lucius pretended to know what he was doing. He had tried—repeatedly—to explain the controls, but Lucius hadn’t listened. Rodney had also tried, with significantly less patience and significantly more swearing. But Lucius had tuned them both out, too entranced by his own imagined genius.

Now, as Lucius patted Carson’s shoulder like they were still old pals, he chirped, “Thanks, Rodney! All right, here goes!”

Lucius squared his shoulders and placed his hands dramatically on the controls—then winced, as if he were about to crap his pants rather than fly a spacecraft.

And that’s when John made his move.

From the dark corner near the rear hatch, John stepped out like a shadow coming to life. He’d been crouched there for a while, waiting for the moment. Carson had done a damn good job keeping everyone's attention elsewhere—another thing John mentally noted for later. The good doctor might not be a soldier, but he could play the game when he needed to.

John’s voice was ice-cold. “I’ll take it from here.”

Lucius screamed. Actually screamed. He shot two feet into the air and nearly toppled over the console in pure shock.

John used the idiot’s momentum against him, surging forward, grabbing Lucius by the collar, and yanking him off the pilot’s seat like a sack of garbage. Before the man could reach for his radio, John snatched it clean off his belt and slammed it to the floor with a crunch of plastic. With practiced precision, he twisted Lucius’s arm behind his back, flipped him around, and slapped zip cuffs on him so fast it made the bastard whimper.

By the time Lucius was standing—well, barely standing—John was gripping his arm tightly enough to bruise and had spun him back around to face him.

“Wha—?! You’re supposed to be in jail!” Lucius gasped, flailing uselessly. “Carson…?!” He turned to the doctor with betrayal in his eyes.

Carson just smiled thinly. “Save your breath. Your charm no longer has any effect on me.”

With that, Carson stepped forward—accidentally-on-purpose stomping right on Lucius’s foot with a combat boot as he passed. Lucius yelped in pain, practically hopping on one leg, and John couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. Carson’s face stayed neutral, but his eyes sparkled with righteous satisfaction.

“Oops,” Carson said without an ounce of sincerity.

John hauled Lucius over to the co-pilot’s seat—Carson’s seat—and threw him into it without ceremony. The man flailed, whined, and finally slumped, shoulders hunched and ego bruised.

Lucius looked between the two of them, face flushed with humiliation, foot throbbing, wrists bound, and finally real confusion dawning on his face.

“No. No, but… Carson! We’re supposed to be the best of friends!”

John took his rightful seat in the pilot’s chair and casually began flipping the real startup sequence for the jumper.

“Carson didn’t give you the ATA gene,” he said, voice flat.

Lucius blinked. “WHAT?!”

Carson finally allowed a full smirk to spread across his face as he crossed his arms. “I’m afraid the serum I gave you wasn’t ATA gene therapy. It’s something I developed to neutralize the chemical compound in that herb of yours. Took a dose myself, actually.”

John gave him a sideways glance and matched the smirk. “Nice work.”

Lucius’s face fell, eyes darting between the two men in dawning horror. “Oh.”

It was such a pathetic sound that Carson actually chuckled under his breath. He turned and started walking out, mission complete. There was a citywide detox to manage, after all.

Lucius stared at him helplessly. “I don’t even know what that means.”

John shifted the jumper smoothly into takeoff mode, hands steady, jaw tight. He turned just enough to look at Lucius, who now sat wide-eyed, panic setting in fast.

“It means,” John said coolly, “we can finally have that face-to-face conversation you always wanted.”

He pulled the jumper into a slow hover, the soft hum of the engines growing.

“And the only thing you’re going to catch from me,” he added with a smirk, “is my cold.”

Lucius paled.

John didn’t look at him again.

He had a city to take back.

–

The jumper sliced through the pale afternoon sky, smooth as glass beneath John’s practiced hands. Atlantis shimmered behind them in the distance, sunlight catching on its towers. Ahead lay the rolling green of the mainland—far enough to be isolated, but close enough for John to return quickly once the city was clean.

Lucius sat strapped into the co-pilot seat, silent for once, wringing his fingers around the cuffs digging into his wrists. Despite being inside a flying machine for the first time in his life, the creep couldn’t stop staring at John. Not the controls. Not the window. Not even the incredible view of open sea and unspoiled wilderness. Just John.

Like he couldn’t believe the Omega he had mocked, imprisoned, and attempted to prey upon was now piloting a warship—and doing it like it was second nature.

It was second nature.

Finally, Lucius swallowed and tried to speak. “Where are you taking me?”

His voice had lost all of its usual slime and swagger. There was real fear in it now. Real, pitiful dread.

John didn’t even glance at him. His voice stayed cool, clinical.

“A little vacation,” he said flatly. “Just long enough for Doctor Beckett to administer the serum to the rest of my people without you interfering.”

Lucius shifted uncomfortably. “And then what?”

John kept his eyes forward, gaze focused on the horizon, hands steady on the controls.

“Then maybe I’ll take you back home,” he said, tone completely unreadable. “I’m sure your people will be thrilled to see you again.”

Lucius perked up like a dog hearing the food bag crinkle. “You… you would do that for me? Without even being under the herb’s effect? After everything I did to you?” His voice trembled with pathetic hope.

John finally turned his head, just slightly—just enough to let Lucius see the glint in his eyes.

“Well,” John said, with a tight, dangerous smile, “I’m a nice guy.”

Lucius lit up. “Oh, Colonel, I can’t thank you enough. You won’t regret this. I—”

John cut him off. “I just can’t decide if I should send all of you back.”

Lucius blinked. “…All of me?”

“There’s a certain bit,” John continued smoothly, eyes flicking downward with razor precision, “that I think this galaxy could live without. Might make the women of half a dozen systems very happy.”

Lucius paled. His knees clamped together reflexively. “Wait, wait, now let’s not be hasty—”

“But don’t worry,” John said, his voice suddenly sharp, cold steel under velvet. “I will be sending you back. Just as soon as Carson finishes purging every last drop of your poison out of your village.”

Lucius slumped in the seat, horrified, his mouth working uselessly. “…Oh.”

John didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the low hum of the engines and the wind rushing past the jumper’s hull.

Lucius didn’t look out the window anymore.

He didn’t dare.

–

John and the rest of AR-1 climbed the steps to the control room, moving slower than usual—tired, sore, and still a little on edge. The atmosphere of Atlantis felt noticeably lighter now. The air no longer buzzed with that strange, stifling tension. People were talking again. Smiling even. It felt like the city had been holding its breath and had finally exhaled.

At the top of the stairs, Dr. Weir was already waiting for them.

“So,” she said, hands clasped in front of her, “how was Lucius’s homecoming?”

John let out a raspy chuckle and smirked. “Well… they didn’t kill him. Although I do see a string of divorces in his future.”

Everyone winced at the rough, grating sound of his voice—still hoarse from the cold and everything else he'd been through.

“That’s if they haven’t strung him up first,” Ronon added, arms crossed, still clearly pouty that no one let him do the stringing himself.

“Well, the townspeople are over their withdrawal and on the mend,” Rodney supplied quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from homicide. “So I doubt that’ll happen.”

They had, after all, just had that conversation on the jumper ride home—again. “No, Ronon, you can’t lynch the sleaze, even if he deserves it.”

Teyla quirked a brow, lips twitching into a smile. “That is… unless we discover he’s revealed the location of Atlantis to anyone.” She didn’t have to say it, but her eyes slid toward Ronon with mock innocence.

“In which case,” Ronon said eagerly, picking up the thread, “I did say I would track him down, hang him by his feet, and cut off his—”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth held up a hand, cutting him off mid-threat. “We get the idea.”

The group exchanged tired smiles. It felt good to laugh, even a little.

John’s smirk faded as his eyes swept the room. “So… everyone here, uh… back to normal?” he asked, voice dropping to something more serious, more raw.

Elizabeth turned slightly and nodded toward Carson.

Carson gave a solemn nod. “Aye. We’re clear. All the affected personnel have been treated, and I’ve secured the remaining supply of the herb.”

Elizabeth looked back at John. “We’re still fine, John. But maybe it’s time you got some rest.” She said it gently, but her tone brooked no argument.

John managed a weak grin, one side of his mouth pulling up. He hated the mother-henning—but after days of being hunted, beaten, locked up, and nearly assaulted—it was actually kind of nice.

He chose to deflect instead. “No lingering… desires? Secret longings for his touch?”

The glare that followed could’ve powered a generator. Even Chuck, off to the side at his station, gave him a flat really, sir? look.

“It’s embarrassing enough without you constantly reminding us, thank you,” Carson snapped, his cheeks tinged pink with lingering humiliation.

John tried to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough instead. He waved them off. “All right, all right,” he wheezed between coughs.

Carson folded his arms, already switching into Full Doctor Mode. “That’s it. You’re on bed rest until further notice.”

John rolled his eyes dramatically, turning to his Alpha. “Hey, buddy… you should probably get back to your lab and sanitize everything. Before anyone else gets in there.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, but the mischief still lingered behind it.

Rodney blinked at him, caught off guard. “Right. Yeah. Good idea.”

John turned to go, trudging down the hallway like someone who had just remembered how good a hot shower and a soft bed sounded.

Rodney started to follow—only to be intercepted by both Teyla and Ronon, stepping neatly into his path.

“Rodney,” Elizabeth snapped warningly, eyes narrowing.

He turned back, eyes wide. “It was for research! Just a—one teeny-tiny taste!”

“Burn it,” Elizabeth barked.

“All of it,” Carson added, his glare brooking no argument.

Rodney threw up his hands. “Fine! Story of my life,” he muttered, already sulking as he turned back toward the lab.

Elizabeth arched a brow, arms crossed. “Yes, says the man who has the military commander of Atlantis as his spouse and several children with him. Yes, Rodney. Your life is so very rough.”

Rodney stopped, considered that, and sighed dramatically. “I’ll call Miko.”

Everyone nodded in silent agreement.

Everyone knew Miko’s cleaning prowess. Plus, she hated attention. You couldn’t even wish her a happy birthday without her blushing and bolting out of the room. She would have that lab decontaminated and scrubbed of evidence by dinner.

Rodney paused again and looked toward the hallway John had vanished down. “Make sure he actually goes to bed,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone.

Ronon nodded and stepped away, already moving to find their mate.

Chapter Text

When Rodney and Ronon stepped into their apartment, John was nowhere in sight. Instead, the warm, savory scent of something bubbling on the stove filled the air, wrapping around them like a welcome-home hug. Mila was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, focused on stirring a steaming pot with practiced care.

Serin sat cross-legged on the living room rug, surrounded by brightly colored building blocks and three very busy babies. Eleanor, Kael, and little Theodore were all giggling as they stacked and knocked over towers with shrieks of delight. Above the nearby crib, Logan and Shaela cooed at the mobile spinning lazily overhead—tiny models of planets from the Lantean system dangling and orbiting in quiet, hypnotic circles.

Rodney paused, his gaze lingering on the mobile. He recognized the tiny representations: Lantia at the center, orbited by Belkan, M5V-801, and even tiny saturn-like Hallona with its rings exaggerated for flair. One of the moons had even been painted with swirls to match images from a MALP scan. The whole thing was scientifically accurate… mostly. Rodney had built it himself for the baby shower, after all.

“Where’s John?” he asked, glancing around as he finally shook off the daze of returning home.

Serin didn’t look up from the block tower. “In your room. Said he needed a shower. Mila’s making him some Sali’nen broth—his voice sounded like gravel and fog.”

“Soup?” Ronon perked up, already making his way toward the kitchen with interest.

Serin chuckled. “Sali’nen is an Athosian recipe. Clears the sinuses. Kicks whatever’s in your lungs straight out.”

“And it helps the people around the sick person from catching it,” Mila added from the kitchen, not looking up.

Ronon gave a pleased grunt and turned back, loping over to the rug where the children played. He dropped down beside them, picking up a block like a warrior ready to construct a castle. Kael immediately tried to climb him.

Rodney stretched, rolling his shoulders. He glanced toward the kitchen, tempted to check the soup, but he knew better. Mila didn’t let him near a stove anymore—not after The Incident with the Rice and the Fire Suppression Foam.

He thought briefly of the unfinished lab reports, of his waiting research and dozens of blinking alerts. But then Logan let out a soft coo, reaching with tiny fingers toward a model of M7G-677 spinning above.

Rodney’s expression softened. The mobile he’d made wasn’t just decoration—it was a constellation of memories, places they’d survived together, threads of home spun in stars.

He walked over to the crib and scooped up the twins, one in each arm. Their warmth, their soft gurgles and curious hands, made his chest ache in the best possible way.

“Let’s go rock for a bit, shall we?” he whispered, easing into the chair.

Outside, the ocean murmured against the piers of Atlantis, but inside, there was peace.

–

John emerged from their shared bedroom much later than usual—long enough that Rodney had checked the clock twice and debated sending Ronon in after him. His damp hair clung in uneven strands to his forehead, the ends curling slightly at the nape of his neck. Despite the shower, he somehow looked worse.

The shadows under his eyes had darkened dramatically—two bruised crescents that gave him the look of someone recovering from a boxing match rather than a cold. His skin had lost its usual golden undertone, leaving him almost Rodney-pale, but with a faint sickly yellow tint that made Ronon wince just looking at him.

He shuffled forward, not so much walking as dragging himself from one foot to the next. When he reached the threshold of the living room, he stopped short like he'd forgotten why he'd come out. His bloodshot eyes blinked slowly at the cozy domestic scene in front of him, the gears visibly turning behind his fever-hazed expression.

Rodney was rocking gently in the corner chair with Logan and Shaela nestled against his chest. Serin and Mila were still on the rug, now trying to keep Theo from throwing blocks with the force of a catapult. Kael was gleefully watching from Ronon’s lap, utterly delighted.

John’s mouth opened slightly, and the whole room could hear it: the raspy, wet sound of him mouth-breathing, trying and failing to get air through a stuffed-up nose.

The soft whoosh of the door had drawn Mila’s attention. She turned, immediately brightening when she saw him. “Oh, good!” she said, wiping her hands on a towel as she stood up. “Food’s ready—we were just waiting for you.”

John didn’t move. “Not hungry,” he croaked. His voice sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to his throat and then soaked the result in misery.

“It’s soup,” Ronon said matter-of-factly, rising smoothly to his feet with Kael slung over one shoulder and Theo tucked under the other arm like they were lightweight gym bags. “There’s always room for soup. Mila made it special to help with your cold.”

John eyed the steaming pot Mila was setting on the table with the same expression he’d used to size up alien death traps. “Oh yay,” he muttered darkly, “medicinal soup.”

Rodney, still swaying lightly with the twins, gave John a narrow look over the top of Shaela’s soft curls. “Aren’t you the one who’s always yelling at me to be more grateful when someone does something nice? When they do it just because they care?”

John shot them both a tired, red-rimmed glare that could’ve curdled milk—but his feet betrayed him by shuffling toward the table anyway. He dropped bonelessly into one of the chairs like it was gravity’s idea, not his.

Then—something happened.

He leaned forward, dragging himself upright with slow, aching effort, and paused above the bowl Mila had set gently in front of him. For a moment, he just sat there, blinking blearily into the steam.

Then his eyes widened.

He could smell it.

Not faintly. Not distantly. Not the way you remember the scent of something you can’t quite detect anymore. No—he could actually smell it. Spiced roots and herbal heat, a rich broth, and something sharp and earthy that made his sinuses prickle.

The realization hit him like a surprise gift he hadn’t dared hope for. Something as simple as scent returning felt like a miracle.

Without ceremony, John grabbed the spoon and shoveled the first mouthful in. It was too hot, and his sense of taste was still dulled, but it didn’t matter. The heat slid down his throat and for the first time in hours, maybe all day, it didn’t feel like swallowing glass. His shoulders sagged—just slightly—with the faint relief.

He ate slowly, spoonful by spoonful. He wasn’t really hungry, not with the lingering nausea that came with being unable to breathe properly. But he forced it down anyway. The warmth helped, and the act of eating gave him something to focus on besides the noise in his head.

Behind him, Ronon and Rodney had finally wrangled the kids into some semblance of order. The youngest twins were tucked back into the cot under the hanging planets of their mobile, tiny hands batting lazily at Lantea’s moon. Theo, Kael, and Eleanor were settled into their high chairs, eating distractedly between watching the grownups and babbling to one another.

As Ronon came to sit beside John, he reached out—a familiar gesture by now, instinctive and unconscious. He meant it as comfort, as connection. His big hand reached to rest on John’s shoulder, something he’d done a dozen times just that week alone.

But the second his palm made contact, John flinched.

It wasn’t a subtle twitch. It was sharp, immediate, like he’d been struck. He hunched lower over his bowl, spoon scraping the ceramic, and said nothing. Didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge it.

Ronon froze, his hand suspended in the air for a breath too long before he slowly let it drop. He blinked down at the place where John’s shoulder had been, confusion flickering across his face.

Across the table, Rodney had seen it too. His brow furrowed deeply. He glanced at Mila and Serin, but neither seemed to have noticed—both women still chatting softly between spoonfuls, unaware of the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere.

The silence settled in. Thick. Stagnant. Even Rodney, usually so ready with sarcasm or snark, found himself saying nothing. There was nothing to say. The whole day had gone to hell. The debrief was going to be a nightmare.

And yet… he still wanted to offer something. Even if it wasn’t words. Even if it was small.

Rodney reached out slowly, gently—less obvious than Ronon’s attempt—and laid his hand over John’s, which was resting on his knee beneath the table.

Again, John flinched.

Not violently. Not the same sharp recoil. But it was still a pull away. His hand slipped free, subtle and slow, like a retreat he didn’t want to admit to. Without looking up, he used that same hand to steady his soup bowl, curling his fingers around it tightly.

Rodney pulled back, confused and stung. He didn’t understand. Not fully. But he didn’t miss the way John’s shoulders stayed hunched, as if holding in more than just a cough.

Ronon caught his gaze from across the table. They shared a look over John’s bowed head—equal parts concern and unease. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both felt it.

Something wasn’t right.

Something inside their mate had cracked.

And for the first time in a long while, neither of them knew how to reach him.

–

The rest of dinner passed in silence—tense, heavy, brittle.

The children chattered, cooed, and babbled through bites of soup and crumbled soft bread, oblivious to the thick tension strangling the air. But the adults said nothing. Each clink of spoon on bowl, each soft gurgle from a baby, only served to highlight how strained the atmosphere had become.

John didn’t speak. He didn’t look at anyone. Not his mates. Not his children. His posture stayed hunched, defensive, like a man trying to curl into himself and disappear.

When he finished the soup, he did feel marginally better. The warmth had soothed the raw ache in his throat, and the congestion that had turned his skull into a pressure chamber was beginning to loosen. Still, the emotional weight pressing down on his chest made breathing feel harder than any cold.

Without a word, he stood. His limbs ached from more than illness as he shuffled across the living room to where the twins lay drowsing in their shared cot beneath the hanging Pegasus system mobile.

He paused over them, watching their tiny faces shift and twitch in half-sleep. Shaela’s hand was curled in Logan’s blanket, her fingers twitching. Logan’s mouth made soft sucking motions. For a moment, something inside John softened, uncoiled.

Then the moment passed.

Bending over with a cough he barely managed to muffle, he scooped the twins into his arms—one practiced motion, fluid despite the rasp in his lungs and the shaking in his arms. He cradled them against his chest, ignoring how heavy his legs felt. Ignoring the sting behind his eyes.

He left without looking at anyone, slipping quietly into the nursery and straight to the bed.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think. He just built.

Blankets were rearranged, pillows stacked, everything shifted until the nest felt right. Not just soft, but safe. The instinct—old, primal, deeply embedded—drove his hands with mechanical precision. He made the most protected hollow in the center and gently, reverently, lowered the twins into it.

They didn’t stir.

He exhaled through his nose, then turned, slipping back into the main living area.

His mates were still at the table, starting to clean up Kael and Eleanor. Mila and Serin had moved to the kitchen, chatting in low tones and rinsing dishes. As soon as the older babies saw John return, they squealed in delight.

“Ma-ma!”

John offered them a small smile—thin, but real. Then he moved.

If he could lift his feet properly, he might’ve stormed across the room. As it was, he shuffled—but there was purpose behind the drag of his feet. His gaze was locked on Ronon, who had Kael in one arm and was struggling to unbuckle Eleanor from her high chair with the other.

John stepped in and took over without a word. Eleanor squealed with delight and latched onto his shirt. With his free hand, he tugged Kael toward him; he wriggled and laughed, clearly thrilled to be in his mother's arms. Ronon, caught mid-motion, had no choice but to let Kael go or risk one of the kids falling. He complied without protest, but the look of confused hurt on his face was impossible to miss.

John didn’t even glance at him.

With two of the babies on his hip, he turned to Rodney, who was holding Theo. Their firstborn looked between them, little brows furrowing. He knew something was off—everyone knew something was off—but Theo felt it most acutely. His mother hadn’t said his name all evening.

Rodney’s arms tensed slightly, as if he didn’t want to give him up. “We can help give them a bath before bed,” he offered softly. His voice wasn’t defensive—just hopeful.

John only glared.

Theo whimpered, confused. He glanced at Rodney for reassurance, then reached toward John, his little arms opening up. John stepped closer and accepted him without a word. Cliging tight to him, burying his face in his mother’s neck.

Now holding all three of his children, John turned and walked away.

Back to the nursery. Back to the nest. Back to the only thing that made sense right now.

When the door slid shut behind him, he thought the locks engaged. Not even consciously—just instinctively, like his body made the decision before his mind could catch up. The soft click of the locking mechanism sounded louder than it should have in the stillness.

He exhaled shakily and sat down, curling protectively around the babies. They nestled in beside him without question, small bodies warm against his.

He didn’t cry. He wasn’t angry.

Not in the surface kind of way.

He was hollow.

In the shower earlier, he’d tried to wash away the panic. He’d told himself over and over again that they’d been drugged. That none of it had been real. That his mates didn’t mean it when they offered to share him like a gift. That they hadn’t meant to hand him over to Lucius like a thing to be borrowed.

He knew it, logically. Understood it, even. But his logical brain wasn’t in control right now.

His body remembered. The part of him that had grown and birthed children remembered. The part of him that had felt the muzzle of Ronon’s weapon pointed at his head remembered. The part of him that had been handed over like currency to a leering, smug manipulator remembered.

And that part?

That part wanted to run. To lock the door. To build a nest and keep his babies close, where no one else could hurt them. Or him.

He buried his nose in Theo’s hair and breathed in the warm, milky scent of his son.

Out there, he didn’t know who he could trust.

But in here?

In here, there were only his children.

And they were enough. For now.

–

Rodney stared, open-mouthed, at the now-locked nursery door. It had closed with a hiss and a finality that left the entire living room in stunned silence.

Ronon just glared, jaw tight, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he might crush his own biceps. His eyes remained fixed on the sealed door like he could will it open through sheer force of will—or maybe rip it from its track, given the right excuse.

Mila and Serin had the good sense to keep their heads down, suddenly very interested in wiping stray crumbs off the dining table and herding bowls into the sink. Neither woman said a word. Neither looked at anyone. They acted like they hadn’t seen what had just unfolded before them, like it was something domestic and forgettable. But the tension in their shoulders said otherwise.

Rodney’s jaw snapped shut. With a huff of indignation—or maybe panic—he stomped over to the door. His stride was quick, almost too quick, like he could undo what had just happened by sheer momentum.

The door didn’t open.

He didn’t hesitate. He hit the panel next to the frame, his fingers slamming against the interface harder than necessary. Still nothing. No flicker. No welcoming swish.

Rodney blinked, confused, then jabbed the panel again. Nothing.

From behind him came a low, rumbling growl. Ronon.

Rodney didn’t turn around. He already knew what it meant. John had locked the door. Locked them out.

Panic twisted in his gut. He rang the doorbell once—twice—three times in rapid succession. It chirped cheerfully each time, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Next, he banged his fist on the door with escalating force, his voice raising in pitch and panic.

“John? John, open the door!”

Silence. Not even the sound of shuffling or a cough. No movement from inside.

He turned around, flushed and frantic. His eyes found Ronon’s. They stared at each other for a long moment, unspoken worry crackling in the space between them.

Rodney tried to cover it up the only way he knew how—by talking. Too fast. Too much.

“Well clearly this cold has gotten much worse than we thought. Feverish. Delirious, even! He’s probably exhausted—completely irrational, right? He’s not thinking clearly. His immune system is compromised, that’s what this is. Fever and fatigue. It’s medical. Medical.” He gestured wildly at the door, then flapped his hands as if trying to wave away his own spiraling thoughts.

Ronon said nothing. He didn’t have to. The muscle ticking in his jaw, the rigid tension in his shoulders, the barely restrained impulse to break something—it all said enough.

With a short growl of frustration, Ronon turned and stalked across the apartment, his boots heavy against the floor. He moved to the side table near the charging station, where their radios were lined up in their docks. One by one, little green lights blinked gently in the low evening light.

He grabbed his own, shoved it against his ear, and hit the call button with a thumb.

“Beckett,” he snapped.

There was a brief pause, then the doctor’s voice crackled through, puzzled and professional. “Beckett here.”

“There’s something wrong with John,” Ronon said flatly.

That earned a beat of silence on the other end.

“Wrong how?” Carson’s tone shifted immediately—more alert, more clipped.

“He’s acting weird,” Ronon replied, blunt as ever.

The pause that followed felt heavy, filled with restrained judgment and disbelief, and yet underneath it… genuine concern.

“Right,” Carson said finally, sighing through the radio. “I’ll be there in five.”

Rodney exhaled loudly, dropping into the nearest chair. He raked both hands through his hair, then scrubbed at his face. The kids were still being noisy in the background—soft giggles from Kael, a babbled question from Eleanor—but he couldn’t focus on any of it.

His brain was still stuck on the look in John’s eyes. The way he’d flinched. The way he hadn’t said a single word as he took their children and locked them out of the room.

Something was wrong.

And Carson had better hurry.

–

John heard the banging.

It echoed faintly through the walls—dull thuds followed by the mechanical chime of the doorbell, again and again. He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew Rodney well enough to picture him shouting. Probably pacing. Probably flailing his arms in frustration the way he always did when things didn’t make sense, or when someone didn’t listen.

But John didn’t move. He didn’t answer. Instead, he curled tighter around his children.

The twins had been asleep already, nestled in the pillowy center of the nest John had built atop the big mattress. By the time he came back with their older siblings, the younger ones hadn’t stirred. But Kael and Eleanor had blinked up at him, confused, their little bodies tense with uncertainty. They’d flopped into the nest, unsure whether to sit or lie down, their instincts telling them something was off even if they didn’t understand what.

The moment John joined them, dropping heavily onto the nest in his threadbare sweats, the change was immediate.

Theodore had spotted him and let out a soft, keening sound—a tiny cry of recognition and relief. The little omega crawled straight into John’s arms and burrowed into his chest like he couldn’t get close enough. John wrapped one arm around him automatically, heart clenching at the heat of his tiny body and the rapid flutter of his breath.

Kael and Eleanor hesitated, watching, then began to fidget. The banging started again—louder this time. The chime followed, too cheery, too mechanical. It didn’t match the dread pooling in John’s chest. He reached out with his free hand, brushing gentle fingers over Kael’s hair, then over Eleanor’s curls. Reassurance without words.

They whimpered, then followed Theo’s lead, crawling into their mother’s arms and pressing close. Kael clutched at the fabric of John’s shirt. Eleanor twisted her tiny fingers into his sleeve.

John tried to hum to them. Tried to sing like he used to when they were smaller, when Theo’s separation anxiety was still new and raw, when the only thing that helped was the sound of his voice. But the moment he tried, his throat seized. His voice came out cracked and rough, barely more than a whisper. The words dissolved into a harsh cough that rattled deep in his chest.

The children flinched.

John stopped. Regret settled like a stone in his stomach. His fingers trembled, but he shifted tactics. He closed his eyes and focused—on his chest, his diaphragm, the small, instinctive trick he hadn’t used since his first heat back on Earth.

He began to purr.

It wasn’t loud, not at first. A soft, thrumming vibration that started deep in his chest and radiated outward. A sound meant to soothe, to calm, to reassure. A sound that didn’t require words. It filled the quiet space around them, washing over the nest in gentle waves.

It worked.

Kael let out a small sigh and went limp against him. Eleanor shifted once, curling her body against his side, her face pressed into the crook of his arm. Theo was already asleep, his little hand curled loosely in John’s shirt. The twins, in their padded corner of the nest, hadn’t stirred once.

John stayed still, his whole body wrapped around them. One hand tucked around Theo’s back, the other stretched far enough to rest gently on the twins’ blankets. All five of his babies within arm’s reach. All of them breathing slow and even.

The banging continued outside.

He ignored it.

Every knock, every chime, every call of his name—it all pushed him further inward. Further into the protective instincts that were overriding everything else. His logical mind knew Rodney and Ronon hadn’t meant to hurt him, knew they’d been drugged, manipulated. But the image of Elizabeth smiling as Lucius touched her knee, of Carson’s dazed expression, of Ronon’s hands on Lucius’s shoulders, of Rodney standing by while it all happened...

It was burned into his mind like acid. A betrayal his body couldn’t shake, even if his brain could explain it.

So he stayed.

He curled tighter around his children. His eyes heavy, throat sore, heart raw. He focused on the feel of their tiny breaths, the soft rise and fall of their chests, the quiet safety of the nest.

And when the pounding finally stopped, replaced by silence… he didn’t relax.

He just kept purring.

–

The banging had stopped.

The room was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the mobile and the rhythmic, low purring that filled the space like a blanket. John didn’t relax—couldn’t. His body remained curled protectively around the children, his hand still sweeping in slow, steady passes over their tiny heads. The repetition soothed them. It soothed him.

But his eyelids were growing heavy. The adrenaline that had kept him upright and functioning all evening was fading, burned away by fever and exhaustion. Each blink took a little longer to recover from. He could feel himself slipping.

Then the door hissed open.

A beam of cold white light spilled across the floor, slicing through the low, golden glow of the nursery’s nightlight. It hit John in the face like a slap, and he blinked against it, startled and disoriented.

How?

His thoughts were sluggish, but one thing registered immediately—he’d locked that door. Not just locked it, sealed it. Every Lantean system recognized his biometric authority, especially when he reinforced it with intent. And he had intended. Atlantis didn’t normally override her Omega’s will.

So how the hell had the door opened?

John’s muscles tensed, and the purring shifted—deepened into a low, warning growl. A sound more instinct than choice. He squinted into the light, shielding his eyes as a figure filled the doorway.

“Ach, none of that now,” came the familiar brogue, calm but firm.

The door slid closed behind the man, cutting off the light and returning the room to its gentle twilight. John blinked until his vision adjusted, heart pounding, his growl tapering off into breathless silence.

Carson Beckett stood just inside the door, medical bag slung over one shoulder, concern written plainly across his face.

“The door was locked,” John rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. It scraped raw against his throat like sandpaper.

Carson didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, unbothered by the defensive posture or the wild, protective gleam in John’s fever-glazed eyes. “Aye, it was,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I used medical override. Atlantis will let me in if I think you’re in danger.”

John scowled, but didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. His body was still coiled protectively around his children, muscles aching from holding tension too long. Sweat clung to his hairline and soaked through the back of his shirt. His breath wheezed softly in and out.

Carson approached the bed slowly, not quite tiptoeing, but clearly conscious of the nest and its occupants. He stopped at the edge, peering down at John with a practiced eye. “Your mates are worried sick,” he said gently. “They said you flinched when they touched you. Took the kids and locked yourself in. Haven’t said a word since.”

John didn’t respond. His jaw clenched.

Carson let out a slow breath. “You look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out, lad.” He crouched beside the bed and reached out without asking—not out of disregard, but because he knew John. Knew that, beneath the protective snarl and maternal instinct, there was still trust between them.

Carson pressed a cool palm to John’s forehead, his fingers resting just long enough to gauge the heat radiating off him. The burn of it made the doctor suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

John didn’t flinch at the touch—he was far past reacting like that. But he didn’t lean into it, either. He stayed curled protectively around his children, eyes half-lidded and dark with fatigue, shadows under them like bruises. His whole body remained tight, coiled—not with alertness, but with bone-deep weariness. Too exhausted to fight. Too raw to surrender.

“Burning up,” Carson muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Aye, figured as much. That’s a proper fever, all right.”

He pulled his hand back and dumped his medical bag onto the nightstand with a soft thud. The zipper rasped open, and he began to rummage through its contents with the steady efficiency of a man who’d done this more times than he could count.

John stopped paying attention. His instincts had already categorized Carson as a non-threat. He lowered his head, nuzzling into Theo’s soft curls, his free hand stroking absently down Kael’s back. The repetitive motion seemed to calm all of them—even John. He was retreating into the quiet rhythm of caring for his children. It was the only thing that made sense right now.

But Carson wasn’t about to let him stay in that cocoon of exhaustion.

“Alright there, lad,” he said gently, his voice cutting through the haze. “Let’s get ye up for a bit. See if we can ease some of those cold symptoms.”

John didn’t move.

“Come now, I need ye upright.” Carson’s tone took on a firmer edge as he reached out, trying to coax John away from the nest of pillows and blankets.

John responded with a weak grunt and a half-hearted swat of the hand, as if Carson were an annoying fly.

“Ach, don’t be like that.” Carson’s Scottish patience was thinning now. “Ye’ll feel better once we clear out that head of yours—unless ye like not being able to breathe.”

That, more than anything, got a response. With a weary groan and a stiff shuffle, John began to shift. His muscles trembled with the effort. He unwrapped himself from around the children, every motion sluggish, reluctant, but still protective—he was careful not to disturb the padded center of the nest where Logan and Shaela still slept like warm little bundles. Theo gave a soft, protesting whimper when John moved, but settled again once his mother placed a calming hand on his back.

Carson stepped in quickly, helping John sit up without toppling over. His grip was steady, professional. John didn’t thank him, but he allowed it, which was saying something.

The movement triggered another round of wracking coughs that doubled John over, his hand coming up too late to catch the worst of it. Carson frowned, eyes scanning him critically.

When the fit passed, the doctor offered a bottle of water—already opened, condensation slicking the outside. John took it with both hands, the plastic crinkling softly in his grip. It was alarming how heavy even that small bottle felt. His arms trembled slightly as he lifted it to his lips.

He drank deeply. The cold liquid soothed his raw throat a little, though it didn’t stop the ache behind his eyes or the pounding in his sinuses.

Once he’d finished, Carson set the bottle aside and handed him a few small white pills resting in a bottle cap. John gave him a baleful look but didn’t argue. He swallowed them down with another gulp of water.

“Good lad,” Carson murmured, watching closely as John settled back against the wall, visibly drained.

Then Carson reached for the next item on the nightstand—a slim, opaque plastic bottle. When John saw what it was, he recoiled slightly, nose wrinkling in instinctive disgust.

Carson caught the look and rolled his eyes. “None of that now,” he said, the faintest trace of amusement creeping in. “This’ll help the decongestants do their job. We need to get your sinuses cleared, lad, or those pills won’t do a lick of good.”

Before John could protest further, Carson cupped the back of his head with one hand, steadying him with gentle but unyielding pressure. With the other, he administered a sharp squirt of the nasal spray into one nostril.

John jerked slightly, coughing and choking as the stinging mist hit its mark. Carson didn’t flinch.

“Here,” he said, passing him a cloth handkerchief. “Blow.”

John obeyed, reluctantly. The first blow cleared a shocking amount. He blinked, slightly dazed, and realized—he could breathe out of his left side again.

“Asshole,” he muttered hoarsely.

Carson smirked. “Aye, that I am. Now the other side.”

The second squirt made his eyes water. Another round of hacking and blowing followed, leaving the handkerchief saturated and John looking even more drained than before. Carson had already dragged the laundry basket closer and gestured for him to toss it in.

With a grunt, John obliged, aiming vaguely and dropping it in.

Without missing a beat, Carson pulled a glass jar from the bag and cracked the lid open. An herbal, pungent aroma wafted out immediately—sharp and bracing.

John winced. “The hell is that?” he rasped, eyeing the jar suspiciously.

“It’s like Vick’s vapor rub,” Carson explained, scooping a thick glob onto his fingers. “But this one’s Athosian. They use herbs from the mainland. Works wonders for congestion.”

John had no energy to argue.

Carson reached out, tugged the collar of John’s shirt down, and smeared the cold, minty salve across his upper chest. John hissed and recoiled slightly at the temperature shock, but Carson worked quickly, massaging it in with practiced hands.

Almost immediately, the vapors began to take effect. The sharp herbal scent sliced through the fog in John’s sinuses, helping to open up his head like a beam of light cracking through storm clouds.

He breathed in carefully, almost disbelievingly. For the first time in hours, maybe longer, his nose wasn’t completely blocked. It still burned and ached, but at least he could draw in enough air to soothe the edges of the tightness in his chest.

“Better?” Carson asked softly.

John didn’t answer. But he didn’t glare, either.

When he sank back into the nest, it wasn’t with the same rigid tension he’d carried before. His spine no longer arched in silent defiance. His jaw unclenched. His body—still wrapped protectively around his children—no longer bristled with that wary edge. It wasn’t comfort exactly, but the hostility had softened into something quieter, more fragile. Less brittle.

Carson sat carefully on the edge of the bed, just outside the boundary of pillows and blankets that defined John’s makeshift sanctuary. His presence was calm, deliberate. He didn’t intrude. But the look on his face was serious—brows drawn, mouth pressed in a thin, thoughtful line. It was the look of someone preparing for a hard conversation.

“Now, lad,” Carson began gently, “ye wanna tell me why yer shutting yer mates out?”

His voice was quiet but firm. Not confrontational, not yet—just patient, concerned.

“I know this isn’t just from the cold,” he continued. “They told me ye flinched when they touched ye. Then took the bairns and locked yerself away in here.” He tilted his head. “That’s not like ye.”

John let out a low grunt as he curled tighter around his sleeping children. The effort to ignore Carson tempted him—just close his eyes and pretend—but the other Omega’s gaze was steady and unyielding. He could feel it like a weight pressing into his shoulder.

He held his children closer, resting his cheek on the top of Kael’s head. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper, raw and ragged. “They planned on pimping me out to that shit-stain.”

Carson blinked. There was a beat of heavy silence, then his hand moved, slow and deliberate, to rest on John’s shoulder. He squeezed gently, a gesture of comfort rather than restraint. “Oh, John…”

“Guess the sludge wanted to try out an Omega,” John went on, tone hollow. “Decided I was the ‘cutest’ of the lot. Figures.”

Carson’s breath hitched, just enough for John to hear it. “Did he… did he try anything?” His voice had dropped too, nearly inaudible.

John shook his head, just once. “No. Said he’d wait till the cold passed. Probably thought I’d catch a whiff of his cologne and fall head over heels, like everyone else.” His lips curled in a bitter half-smile. “Like hell.”

Carson let out a slow breath. He didn’t remove his hand from John’s shoulder, instead rubbing small circles with his thumb. “Ye do know—ye must know—that Rodney and Ronon would never do that to ye in their right minds. Right?”

John swallowed. “I know that. Logically.” His voice cracked, and he pressed a kiss to Kael’s temple to cover it. “But I can’t… I can’t even look at them right now, Carson.”

There was a long pause. His hand never stopped petting Kael, and his body curled tighter around his children, as if shielding them from thoughts alone.

“I guess… I guess some part of me hoped that even drugged to hell and back, they’d still recognize me. Still know who I was to them. That they wouldn’t betray me.” His voice broke then, trailing into silence.

Carson didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was with a soft sigh and that knowing tone he always used when he had to say something no one wanted to hear. “Aye… I understand where you’re coming from, lad. I do. But that kind of hope—that’s the stuff of cheap airport romance books. The kind where love conquers all, even mind control.” He shook his head. “Real life’s a touch messier than that.”

John made a low sound in his throat and clutched his babies tighter, as though he could hold his heart together through them.

Carson shifted his hand to John’s back, rubbing in firm, slow circles. “I know you’re hurtin’. And I know you're sick. But ye need your mates right now, even if ye don't want them. And they need access to the bairns.”

John didn’t respond, but he didn’t recoil either. That was progress, in Carson’s book.

“I’m not sayin’ let them back into your bed,” the doctor added, soft but insistent. “But I am sayin’ you can’t keep tryin’ to do this alone. I don’t have the time or the staff to be checking in every hour. Serin and Mila are good girls, but they’re still teens. Five bairns and a sick mother? That’s too much.”

John exhaled slowly. His head dropped slightly. He didn’t like it—but he knew Carson was right.

Finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod.

Carson patted his back gently, a warm, grounding touch. “Good lad. I’ll tell them to check in every few hours. I’ll leave instructions on what to watch for and what meds to give you.”

He stood with a quiet grunt, beginning to clean up the remnants of his visit. The nasal spray, the cream, the handkerchiefs. The bottle of water stayed within reach, and the pile of clean cloths was neatly stacked on the table beside the bed. The jar of Athosian salve was tucked into the edge of the pillows for easy reapplication later.

As Carson zipped up his bag, he hesitated. “Do ye want me to tell them why ye’re upset?”

John was quiet for a long moment, gaze fixed on the sleeping faces of his children. His fingers gently stroked Theo’s fine hair, combing through the dark strands.

“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “Do what you think is best.”

Carson nodded silently. John didn’t see it—his eyes had drifted shut, lashes fluttering with exhaustion.

The older Omega lingered just a second longer, watching the rise and fall of John's chest, the peaceful sprawl of sleeping children, the fraying edges of anger and heartbreak settling into weariness.

Then, as quietly as he’d come, Carson left. The door whispered shut behind him.

John breathed in—shaky but deep. His sinuses were clearer. His chest ached less. His fever still burned, but the pain in his heart dulled just enough to let sleep slip in.

He didn’t resist it. Not this time.

With his babies nestled against him and the soft purr in his chest like a lullaby, he finally let the darkness take him.

–

When Carson stepped out of the nursery, the door barely had time to close behind him before John’s mates were on him like wolves catching a scent. They rushed him—Rodney already mid-question, Ronon looming close behind with a look of tight-jawed concern that was rare for the usually implacable Satedan.

“Is he okay?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“How are the babies?”

“Is the fever that high? Is he delirious—he’s not thinking straight, right?”

The questions came fast and frantic, fired off like panicked pulses of static. Rodney’s hands gestured erratically as if trying to grasp an answer out of thin air. Ronon, while not as visibly chaotic, radiated tension—shoulders hunched, jaw set, his voice low but urgent. Even he wasn’t calm, and that said more than words could.

Carson raised a hand sharply, halting the barrage.

“Enough!” he said firmly, though not unkindly. “One question at a time, lads. Let me speak.”

They both stopped immediately. Rodney fell silent, his mouth twitching, fists clenched at his sides. Ronon folded his arms but said nothing—watching Carson like a hawk, waiting.

“He’ll be fine,” Carson reassured them, his voice calmer now. “He’s running a proper fever. That cold of his? It’s been building for days. Likely from pushing himself too hard.”

He gave them a moment to absorb that before continuing.

“Now it’s caught up with him. He’s sick, and his body’s demanding he stop for once.”

Rodney let out a sigh—but it wasn’t relief. It was frustration.

“Okay, but why is he being so weird?” Rodney asked, arms flailing again. “He locked us out of the room. He flinched when we touched him. He took the kids like—like we were strangers! That’s not John. He has to be out of it. His fever’s cooking his brain or something!”

Carson’s eyes narrowed, and he slowly rubbed his temple with two fingers.

“No, Rodney,” he said, voice clipped. “His fever’s not that high. He’s lucid. He’s not confused. And he’s not acting weird.”

Rodney blinked at him like he hadn’t heard right. “He—what?”

Carson sighed again, a tired sound that carried more than just physical exhaustion.

“He’s not being irrational. Not considering everything that’s happened today.”

He let that hang in the air, heavy and pointed. But it was clear from their confused expressions they weren’t connecting the dots.

Rodney shook his head. “How is this normal behavior?”

Carson raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight slightly. “I suppose ye both forgot the part where ye promised to hand him over to Lucius?”

Both men froze.

Rodney opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. “But—we didn’t—we were drugged! That wasn’t us!”

Ronon’s frown deepened, his posture shifting in subtle discomfort.

“Aye. And John knows that,” Carson said. “He said as much. Logically. But emotion doesn’t always follow logic, does it? Especially when betrayal’s involved. Especially for an Omega whose instincts are already heightened from being sick and overwhelmed.”

Rodney’s face was pale now, eyes wide, mouth working but no sound coming out.

Carson softened slightly but didn’t let them off the hook. “He’s not shutting ye out because he wants to. He’s hurt. He’s trying to process something he never thought he’d have to. And on top of that, he’s sick, feverish, and physically run-down.”

Silence stretched for a beat before Carson cleared his throat and switched to a more clinical tone.

“Right. Now. In two hours, he’ll need another dose of the decongestants.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Make sure he takes them. Use the nasal spray again. It’s not pleasant, but it works. Rub a little of the Athosian ointment on his chest—aye, I know he’ll complain, but it’ll help open his airways.”

Ronon nodded, absorbing every instruction like it was gospel.

Rodney was still processing—jaw slack, gaze flicking toward the closed nursery door with visible remorse.

Carson noticed but didn’t comment on it yet.

“Make sure he drinks,” Carson added. “Even if it’s just half a bottle of water. And when ye check on him again the second time, try getting him to eat. That soup smells hearty enough—just a cup or even half.”

He paused, then looked at both of them—really looked.

“I know this isn’t easy. Not for either of ye. But right now, he doesn’t need explanations. He needs support. Even if he can’t bear to look at ye.”

Rodney nodded slowly, looking shell-shocked. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll—yeah.”

Ronon let out a deep breath and simply said, “We’ll take care of him.”

Carson offered a small nod, satisfied for now. He glanced toward the couch, where Serin and Mila were studiously pretending to be focused on tidying up the toys. But he’d seen the way they’d been listening.

Good. Someone in the room had a clear head.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Carson said as he slung his bag back over his shoulder. “With more meds.”

He gave them one last look—pointed, meaningful—before heading for the door.

And then he was gone.

The door closed with a whispering hiss, and the apartment fell quiet except for the soft hum of the ventilation system and the faint babble of the toddlers in the background.

Rodney turned to Ronon slowly, his voice hoarse.

“Did we really promise to give him to Lucius?”

Ronon didn’t answer right away. He stared toward the nursery.

Then, quietly, “We said he’d be… cooperative.”

Rodney’s face crumpled. “Oh no.”

Ronon finally looked at him, grim and steady. “We broke his trust.”

And neither of them had a clue how to fix it.

Chapter Text

Rodney had set an alarm for two hours. The moment it went off, he shot off the couch like a rocket, bolting toward the nursery faster than Ronon had ever seen him move—even faster than the time they'd been chased by that acid-spitting creature off-world. Ronon was right behind him, his long strides easily keeping up.

The nursery door swished open automatically for Rodney. As they stepped inside, they were instantly met with the unmistakable sound of rasping, labored breathing. It came from the bed, harsh and wet and wrong.

Even with the faint glow of the nightlight, they could barely make anything out beyond a shadowed lump tangled in the blankets. It wasn’t moving much—just the shallow rise and fall accompanied by that awful sound.

Ronon crossed the room in two steps and thumbed the wall panel, dimming the overhead lights up just enough to see clearly.

The sight made him stop short.

“The Wraith hell…” Ronon muttered under his breath. His eyes swept the chaotic scene in disbelief. The entire bed was buried in a mess of tangled pillows, blankets, a few of the baby’s soft toys, and even a few of the cushions off the chairs in the room. It looked like a soft barricade, built up with quiet desperation.

Rodney stared. “It’s a nest,” he said, stunned. “He built a nest.”

Ronon glanced sideways at him. “Like a bird?”

“Like an Omega,” Rodney corrected, his voice low. “It’s instinct. Comfort, protection… sometimes when they’re really sick, stressed, or… scared.”

Ronon didn’t say anything, but the worry in his eyes deepened. Carson had given him all the basic rundown of Alpha-Beta-Omega dynamics, but even those lectures hadn’t gone into much detail about nesting. They’d never needed to. Until now.

They moved cautiously toward the bed, instinctively lowering their voices and softening their steps like they were approaching a wounded animal.

Rodney reached out and gently tugged back a corner of a fuzzy blue blanket near the edge. The pile shifted slightly, revealing a tangle of tousled hair and the curve of John’s shoulder. Ronon leaned in behind him to get a better look.

John was curled around the kids, arms wrapped protectively over the tiny bodies of Theo, Kael and Eleanor. Shaela and Logan, who were huddled together in a smaller nest within the larger one. The children were sound asleep, faces soft with trust and peace, completely unaware of their mother’s condition.

John, however, looked worse than when they’d left him.

Even in sleep, his face was drawn and pale, with sickly yellow tones in his complexion that hadn’t been there earlier. His eyes were dark and sunken with deep, bruised circles beneath them, like he hadn’t really rested at all. His mouth was open slightly, drool trailing from the corner and crusted in places. His breathing was uneven and wet, a faint whistling sound coming from his throat with each inhale. Dried snot clung around his nostrils, and a deeper flush across his cheeks hinted at a fever spiking higher.

Ronon didn’t hesitate.

John hadn’t moved an inch. Neither had the children.

Ronon crouched, carefully reaching out to sweep John’s sweat-matted hair from his face. The moment his fingers touched skin, his hand jerked back like he’d touched an open flame.

“Shit,” he muttered, low and fierce.

John was burning.

Behind him, Rodney surged forward, alarm flaring in his eyes. “What? What’s wrong?”

Ronon didn’t speak—he just moved aside enough for Rodney to press the back of his own hand to John’s forehead.

Rodney’s eyes widened comically, his jaw falling open. “Oh God—he’s boiling.”

And then he was gone—spinning around and bolting from the room in a flurry of panic and speed. Ronon could hear him in the bathroom almost immediately—slamming open cabinets, knocking things over, the crash of something heavy hitting tile. Swearing. Clattering. A loud thunk that might’ve been the trash bin tipping.

Ronon stayed where he was, crouched beside the nest, eyes flicking between John’s flushed, sweat-dampened face and the small, sleepy bodies still curled protectively against him.

John was limp.

His arms had slackened around the children, though his body still curved in that instinctive protective arc. His breaths were shallow, strained. His lips were dry, cracked. A faint wheeze escaped him on every exhale. The babies—blissfully unaware—were all deeply asleep, Theodore’s little hand curled around the collar of John’s shirt.

The twins had the warmest spot in the nest, tucked into the center where the padding was deepest. Logan was making soft, contented sounds in his sleep. Shaela’s tiny mouth moved in a dream-suckling motion.

Ronon’s gut twisted.

He made a decision.

Leaning forward with deliberate care, he slid his arms beneath Logan and Shaela first, lifting them from the nest in one smooth, practiced motion. John didn’t even twitch.

Ronon stood and strode out of the nursery with the infants held securely to his chest.

In the living room, Mila and Serin had moved from their mending to folding laundry. They looked up the second he entered. When they saw the babies—and the look on Ronon’s face—they dropped everything.

Mila rushed forward. “What’s wrong?”

“Fever,” Ronon rumbled. “Bad.”

She nodded, gathering the twins into her arms, already moving toward the cot by the wall. Serin brushed past without a word, instincts snapping into place. By the time Ronon returned to the nursery, she was already lifting Kael and Eleanor from the nest.

John didn’t stir.

Serin cradled the older ones close to her chest as she turned to go. Ronon stepped in and reached for Theodore, who whimpered softly but stayed asleep.

Rodney returned then, breathless, clutching the digital thermometer in one hand.

“Got it,” he announced, pushing into the room.

Ronon held Theo as Rodney leaned over the nest, brushing John’s hair aside again before inserting the thermometer into his ear. They waited.

John didn’t move. He didn’t resist. He didn’t even blink.

The device beeped.

Rodney yanked it free, stared at the number—and his face went white.

“Fuck!” he barked, loud enough to make Serin freeze in the hallway.

He didn’t wait. He turned and sprinted into the living room, Theo forgotten in Ronon’s arms as he made a beeline for the radios still charging on the side table.

“Carson!” he shouted into his mic. “Beckett! Answer!”

Silence.

Rodney snarled and mashed the transmit button again. “McKay to Beckett, respond, dammit!”

Finally, a voice came through. Calm. Tired. Annoyed. “Sir, if this is an emergency, you should contact the infirmary directly—”

“Who the hell is this?!” Rodney exploded. “I don’t want the B team! I want Carson! Mind your own business!”

Then, at last—Carson’s voice, dry as sand. “Rodney, ye’re shouting over the open line.”

“CARSON!” Rodney all but screamed. “Thank God. John’s got a fever—forty degrees! Forty!”

There was a pause. Then an explosion of Gaelic, fast and furious, followed by the telltale sound of Carson scrambling to throw on clothes.

“Right,” Carson snapped. “Start fillin’ yer bathtub with room temp water. Not cold, not hot. Just neutral. Now. And start movin’ him there. I’m on my way.”

Rodney was already gone, sprinting toward the bathroom, the sound of water rushing echoing a second later.

Ronon watched it all unfold. Slowly, he turned the thermometer in his hand and looked at the display: 40.0°C.

He didn’t know Celsius.

But now, holding baby in his arms and knowing John had stopped reacting altogether, he didn’t need to understand the number.

He just knew it was bad.

–

Ronon followed Rodney into the bathroom attached to the nursery, his long strides quiet but tense. The door swished shut behind him with a faint click. The lights were on full, bright and sterile. Steam hadn't even begun to rise from the tub—it was barely lukewarm, just as Carson had instructed.

Rodney was hunched over the Ancient-designed tub, frantically checking the readout on the control panel every few seconds. “It’s filling fast,” he muttered, barely glancing back. “Thank God for Ancient tech. But we need to get him in here now. Can—can you get John?”

Ronon nodded without a word and turned on his heel.

Back in the nursery, the nest looked empty without the children. Just a mess of tangled sheets and blankets, but still John hadn’t moved—hadn’t shifted or made a sound. His body was curled in the exact same position Ronon had left it in, except now it looked even more unnatural, like a man shaped around his absence.

Ronon crouched down and reached under John’s shoulders and knees, carefully lifting him.

The moment John’s weight settled into his arms, Ronon’s alarm deepened.

He was limp.

Dead weight.

No flinch, no resistance. His head lolled back against Ronon’s arm, exposing a throat slick with sweat. His body was hot—far too hot. Heat radiated from him in waves, so fierce it made Ronon grit his teeth. He adjusted his grip, gently tucking John's head to rest against his shoulder, trying to keep the man’s airway clear.

He carried his mate quickly back into the bathroom.

Rodney was pacing when he returned, then froze when he saw John. “He didn’t even move?” Rodney asked, eyes wide, voice tight with panic.

Ronon shook his head. “Didn’t even twitch.”

Rodney swore under his breath. “Okay. Right. We need to get his temperature down, fast. We should probably—uh—his pajamas...”

Ronon moved past him and knelt beside the tub. “Too slow. Just the pants. Shirt can wait.”

Rodney nodded quickly, already stepping in to help. He fumbled with the waistband of John’s sweatpants, his fingers trembling as he worked them down over John’s hips and legs. It took longer than it should’ve—John’s skin was damp, his limbs uncooperative—but they managed.

Ronon shifted John in his arms and slowly lowered him into the water.

John groaned—his first sound in nearly twenty minutes—but it was faint. His head lolled again, and if Ronon hadn’t been cradling him tightly, it might’ve hit the side of the tub. Ronon sank to one knee outside the bath, behind to keep John propped upright, bracing his back against his chest. The water sloshed gently around him, and John let out a weak, rattling breath.

Rodney moved in to tug off the sweat-soaked top. It clung to John like a second skin, and between the awkward angles and their panic, it was nearly impossible to peel off without jostling him. Rodney huffed, muttering curses, his fingers fumbling. Ronon adjusted his hold, shifting John just enough for the cloth to peel over his head and off his arms.

The moment the shirt came free and hit the tile with a wet slap, the bathroom door hissed open.

“Out of my way,” Carson barked, storming into the room like a hurricane.

He froze only long enough to take in the sight before him: John slack in Ronon’s arms, submerged chest-deep in the wide, Ancient bathtub. Rodney crouched nearby, pale and breathing fast.

Carson moved straight to them, all business.

First, his hand went to John’s forehead. “Bloody hellfire,” he muttered under his breath. “He’s a furnace.” His tone had shifted from clinical to urgent.

Without hesitation, Carson dipped his other hand into the water.

“Too warm,” he snapped, reaching over to the control panel.

He adjusted the settings and turned on a stream of cooler water, which poured into the tub in a quiet rush.

Carson adjusted the settings on the panel, lowering the target temperature a few degrees. The tub responded immediately, and a quiet rush of colder water streamed in from a spout near the base, disturbing the surface with a gentle ripple.

The cooler water flowed around John’s body, and Ronon instinctively tightened his grip, making sure the shift in temperature didn’t cause him to slip. John's skin, flushed and feverish, looked stark against the pale blue sheen of the Ancient tub. His chest rose and fell in short, ragged gasps, every breath rattling like dry leaves in the wind.

Carson's eyes scanned the room and landed on the stack of towels and cloths Rodney had laid out. Without wasting a second, he grabbed a soft gray washcloth from the top, moved to the stream of cold water, and plunged it under the flow. The fabric darkened immediately, water dripping from the edges as he wrung it out just enough to keep it from soaking.

Crossing back to John, Carson knelt beside the tub and gently folded the cloth. His movements were quick but careful, practiced. He dabbed the cloth across John's damp brow, then down his temples and cheeks. The fever had made John's skin slick with sweat, but the moment the cold cloth touched him, John let out a low, pained groan.