Chapter Text
Dinner that night had the strange, unsettled feel of an aftershock—everything technically intact, but no one quite trusting the ground beneath their feet yet.
All of AR-1 was there, crammed around the long table with the additions—five babies, which somehow still sounded unreal even after months of sleepless nights. The twins had reached the milestone of being weaned and now sat in their own highchairs, each with a tray of mashed vegetables they explored with intense seriousness. Food was smeared everywhere: hands, cheeks, hair, the tray, the floor. It looked like a small agricultural disaster zone.
Nira and Senna were present as always, hovering in that half-helpful, half-watchful way of extended family who loved the children fiercely and trusted none of the adults entirely. Ronon had learned early that the only way to get them to take their mandatory days off was to physically shove them through the Stargate and lock it behind them. He hadn’t done that this week. Yet.
Janus—Poppy—had taken over baby duty without being asked. He moved with an ease that would have startled anyone who remembered him as a sharp-tongued, world-altering Ancient. He handled spoons delicately, wiping chins, murmuring softly when one of the twins scowled at the texture of their mash like it had personally offended them. It allowed Nira and Senna to sit back and actually eat their own meals, something they rarely got to do.
At first glance, Janus looked normal.
But John noticed.
He always did.
Janus was usually animated during meals—teasing, dry commentary, smug observations about how “we tried that once, it failed spectacularly.” Tonight, he was quieter. Still attentive, still present, but like part of him was elsewhere, replaying something he hadn’t quite sorted yet.
Teyla had joined them, which John counted as a small relief. She ate with them less and less often now, ever since they’d returned from their banishment. At first, John had worried—worried she felt excluded, or worse, that she believed he should have asked her people to fight or help with the children.
But that wasn’t it.
She was seeing someone.
And apparently it was serious.
John had tried, gently, to pry. Teyla had smiled serenely and given him nothing. He could have found out—he knew that—but some boundaries mattered. So he respected it, even if it gnawed at him a little.
Rodney, for his part, was doing what Rodney did best: talking through ideas faster than anyone could interrupt.
“If we can stabilize the output long-term,” he was saying, gesturing with his fork dangerously close to spilling gravy everywhere, “the drilling platform could supplement city power during peak usage, take pressure off the ZPMs, give us redundancy—real redundancy, not the theoretical kind—”
“Just to confirm,” Ronon rumbled, cutting in. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, eyes locked on Janus. “Using that thing won’t kill us.”
Janus sighed, long and weary, and glanced over at his grandson-in-law.
“No. It won’t kill anyone.”
Ronon nodded once, satisfied.
“Okay,” John said, not quite letting it rest. “Not killing anyone is good. But what about… I don’t know—side effects? Structural issues? Cascading failures?”
“No,” Janus replied again, already turning back to his plate. His tone said I have answered this question to the best of my legally permitted ability.
“So you really stopped using it,” Rodney pressed, “because it didn’t make sense when you had essentially unlimited ZPMs?”
“Yes,” Janus said, poking at his meat like it had personally disappointed him.
Conversation drifted. Rodney launched into three more ideas. The babies banged spoons. One of the twins dropped food deliberately and watched gravity do its thing with fascination.
Teyla watched Janus.
She’d been doing that since they’d returned from the ocean. Since the holding room. Since the Wraith Queen. When the queen made her comments about the Alterian.
“Is everything all right, Janus?” she asked gently.
The table stilled, just a little.
Janus paused, then set his utensil down carefully. He looked at her, expression thoughtful—uneasy.
“So… that was a Wraith.”
It wasn’t a question.
John blinked. He’d never heard that tone from Janus before. Uncertain. Almost shaken.
Senna stared openly, mouth hanging ajar, a bit of chewed vegetable clinging to her lip.
“You’ve never seen a Wraith?” she asked, blunt and unfiltered. A small fleck of food flew when she spoke.
Janus shook his head slowly. “No. They didn’t exist before I ascended. At least… not in this galaxy at that time.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers threading through in a very John-like gesture. “When I was on Earth, I suppose they must have existed by then. I just didn’t know.”
Nira gaped at him as if he’d just announced the sky was green. “So you never lived through a culling? Never saw refugees? Never saw what they leave behind?”
Janus shook his head again.
Teyla inhaled softly and reached out, resting a calming hand on Nira’s arm. “I still struggle with that,” she admitted. “That our friends from Earth never grew up with the fear of the Wraith.”
The girls looked genuinely shaken, like they were reassessing the very structure of reality. The idea that someone—anyone—had lived without that shadow was destabilizing.
The table fell quiet.
Those from Earth didn’t quite know what to say. Those from Earth pre-humans were trying to reconcile timelines in their heads. Those from Pegasus sat with a weight they’d carried since childhood, suddenly realizing it wasn’t universal.
“But it’s coming in handy,” Ronon said, smirking into the silence.
His cousins blinked at him. “How?” they asked in perfect unison.
“Yeah,” John added, mirroring the smirk. “I’m curious too.”
Ronon shrugged, unapologetic. “We’ve got all these myths and rules about the Wraith. What they can do. What weu can’t do. Earthlings never had that.” His grin sharpened. “It’s like they were never told ‘no,’ and now they don’t even understand the word.”
Janus snorted softly.
“How many Hive ships have been destroyed because of them?” Ronon finished.
John grinned. Teyla rolled her eyes. Janus actually chuckled.
Rodney spoke around a mouthful of bread soaked in gravy. “There’s a whole group of psychologists studying this, actually. Comparing humans from Earth to humans from other Milky Way worlds.” He swallowed and continued. “Since our ancestors overthrew the Goa’uld and buried the Gate, we didn’t grow up under constant oppression. No generational slavery. No gods demanding worship.”
He gestured vaguely with his fork. “So we evolved differently from even the rest of the Milky Way. More stubborn. More willing to push back. More likely to say ‘that’s impossible’ and then do it anyway.”
He paused, then added more quietly, “It’s probably similar here. We fear the Wraith, sure—but not the same way. Not in our bones. Not passed down for ten thousand years.”
The table absorbed that.
Generational trauma versus generational defiance.
Janus looked thoughtful again, gaze distant—but this time, there was something else there too.
Respect.
Maybe even awe.
--
Janus rapped his knuckle lightly against the doorframe of Dr. Elizabeth Weir’s office—just enough sound to announce himself without demanding attention.
Elizabeth looked up from her tablet, already halfway into a memo for her next meeting. The words died when she saw who it was, replaced by a genuine smile. “Janus,” she said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
So far, Janus ranked solidly among the least stressful variables in her day-to-day life on Atlantis. Yes, he was snarky—irritatingly so, and increasingly reminiscent of John the longer he stayed—but he didn’t bury her in paperwork, didn’t push boundaries she couldn’t legally allow, and didn’t make unilateral decisions that caused explosions. In fact, he actively prevented explosions, which automatically placed him in her good graces.
Unlike his grandson.
Janus stepped into the office and dropped into the chair opposite her desk, sprawling into it with casual familiarity, one arm slung over the back, posture loose and infuriatingly comfortable. Elizabeth bit back a smile. The resemblance really was uncanny—same careless confidence, same way of taking up space like the room had been built for them.
“I was wondering,” Janus began, brow furrowing in mild concentration, “how one goes about getting photos into a… print form?” He paused, waved a hand vaguely. “Hang-on-the-wall form.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You need to print photos?”
Janus nodded once.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I thought there were printers in the labs—”
“Oh.” Janus shook his head. “No, I’m looking for something higher quality. Framing quality. Something you’d put on a wall and not feel embarrassed about.”
Elizabeth leaned back slightly, reassessing. “May I ask what you’re looking to have printed?”
“Oh, just some family photos.” He shrugged, smile easy, deceptively casual. “I know how Earth did it thirty years ago, but your technology’s changed. Cameras don’t even use film anymore.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “And I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be allowed to roam Earth freely even if I was permitted back.”
“You’re correct about that,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Cheyenne Mountain would have opinions. But I wasn’t aware you were taking photos while you’ve been here,” she added carefully. “Anything sent off-world would need clearance to make sure it doesn’t include classified material.”
“Oh no,” Janus said quickly. “These aren’t new. They’re old.”
He sighed then, the sound of someone resigning himself to an explanation he’d hoped to avoid.
“After John was disowned by his father,” Janus continued, voice flattening, “he was thrown out with barely the clothes on his back. No personal effects. No keepsakes. Certainly no family photos.” His jaw tightened. “With his birthday coming up, I thought I’d have some of the better pictures I have of his mother printed and framed. Something he should have had years ago.”
Elizabeth stared at him.
Disowned.
Her mind snagged on the word like a hook.
“I—” She stopped, tried again. “Disowned?”
“Yes,” Janus said, the word clipped and sharp. “His father is an ass, to put it politely.”
Elizabeth remained slack-jawed, the implications rippling outward. John—who carried responsibility like second skin, who led without complaint, who never once leaned on his past as an excuse—had been disowned.
Janus waved a hand, brisk now, clearly done with the emotional portion of the conversation. “Anyway. How do I get them printed?”
Elizabeth blinked, refocused with effort. “Right. Umm. One moment.” She paused, then frowned. “Wait. How do you even have photos? John doesn’t. And you certainly didn’t bring physical copies with you.”
Janus smiled.
It was the kind of smile that usually preceded a headache. “They’re in the database,” he said lightly.
Elizabeth stared. “How?”
“Because I put them there,” Janus replied, as if explaining gravity.
“But you were on Earth,” she said slowly, “a million years after Atlantis was abandoned.”
“Yes,” Janus agreed. “But I went back and forth.” He tilted his head, thinking. “I spent time on Earth in the mid-1900s, then time-traveled to when Atlantis was active here. I brought pictures with me and uploaded them. I liked having my family around me.” He smiled faintly at that last part, something soft and private in his expression.
Elizabeth’s mouth opened again. “Wait. Are you saying there are photos of John as a child in the database?”
Janus nodded, utterly unbothered.
Elizabeth stared at her tablet, then back at him. “So when the city already had extensive information on John… it wasn’t just because Atlantis—the person—uploaded it?”
“Probably both,” Janus said with a shrug. “The database would’ve had his basic file, plus the photos. Once he arrived, the city updated things. My mother likely… added context.”
Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling deeply. She officially retracted her earlier assessment of Janus as low headache potential.
“Send me the photos,” she said at last, tired but resolute, “along with the sizes you want and any preferences for frames. I’ll make sure it’s approved, printed, and back before John’s birthday.”
Janus smiled, satisfied, as though he hadn’t just casually rewritten her understanding of the city’s archives—and John’s childhood.
“Right,” he said simply.
He pulled out his tablet, tapping through files with practiced ease. A moment later, Elizabeth’s tablet chimed with an incoming message. She opened it.
There they were.
Images neatly cataloged. Sizes specified. Frame preferences listed—not styles he wanted, but a short, pointed list of things he absolutely did not want. Too ornate. Too military. Too cold.
Elizabeth looked up at Janus again, heart unexpectedly heavy.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said.
Janus inclined his head once in thanks, already rising from the chair, mission complete.
–
Janus stood just off to the side of the bustling mess hall, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he observed the controlled chaos. The new recruits scurried about, nervously hauling trays, stacking dishes, and trying not to bump into the older Marines who were silently judging every misstep. Sergant Cooper was in the middle of it all, barking instructions and sharp reminders to a young private who had neglected to set out the plates for the kids’ table. The boy shrank under Cooper’s intense gaze as Janus watched with mild amusement, his green eyes flicking between the Marine and the trembling recruit.
When Cooper finally spun around, having finished his reprimand, he caught sight of Janus standing expectantly a few feet away. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Ya… need somethin’?” he drawled, his voice carrying the authority of someone used to getting obedience but tinged with curiosity. He didn’t often interact with Janus, aside from the occasional polite nod when the Alterian passed through the food line.
“Yes, I do,” Janus said smoothly, a small, hopeful smile playing on his lips as he stepped closer. “I was wondering if it would be possible to either get supplies for a cake or have one made by the end of this month?”
Cooper’s expression flickered with surprise, then softened. “A cake? Why? Someone’s havin’ a birthday?”
“Yes. John,” Janus replied as though it were the simplest fact in the world.
Instantly, the big Marine’s face shifted. His stern demeanor relaxed, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh… didn’t realize the Colonel’s birthday was coming up so soon,” he said, his voice losing some of its usual gruffness.
“Yes,” Janus said, frowning faintly. “John prefers his birthdays to go by quietly, without much attention.”
Cooper chuckled. “Heh… sounds like him,” he said with a smirk. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that. You got any idea what his favorite flavor is?”
Janus paused, considering carefully. “He used to really love my wife’s lemon-raspberry cake… but with Rodney…” His eyes flicked briefly.
Cooper’s face twisted into a knowing grimace. “Yaaa… the man’s got a citrus allergy. Noticed the Colonel stopped touching lemon bars once he started his relationship… or at least he’d snag one only when heading back to his office.”
Janus nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he recalled a mischievous memory. He remembered when David had tried to prank John with a fresh-cut lemon when he was barely two—John had simply eaten it with wide-eyed delight, no grimace, no complaints. Sour things had always thrilled him, though he now avoided citrus in general.
“Well,” Cooper said thoughtfully, leaning back slightly, “we do have a berry here that’s similar to Earth raspberries. They’re in season too. Thanks to our latest trades, and the Colonel does seem to enjoy them. I can experiment a little—see what works best with what we have.”
Janus’s expression brightened. “Yes, he does like them. He really loved sour-tart flavors. Maybe pair it with chocolate—if it’s the more bitter kind, he hates milk chocolate, far too sweet.”
Cooper hummed in thought. “Unfortunately, chocolate is a premium commodity here. It’s so valued for trade that most people hesitate to use it themselves.”
Janus laughed out loud, a deep, genuine sound. He’d noticed the same thing—chocolate here was practically a luxury, treated like currency.
“I happen to have a brandy from off-world,” Cooper continued, his eyes lighting up, “that would pair well with the berries. Let me experiment a bit… I’ll make something worthy of the Colonel by the end of the month. What day exactly?”
“By the 26th,” Janus supplied calmly.
“Leave it to me,” Cooper said, nodding firmly, before pivoting and disappearing into the fray to oversee dinner preparations.
Janus watched him go, a faint, satisfied smile on his lips. The major pieces of his plan were in motion. He knew John had endured lonely, muted birthdays after his mother’s passing—a month shy of turning ten, abandoned by his father to the care of manor staff for years. Janus wanted to make sure this one, at least, would be different. He wanted John to feel remembered, celebrated, and—just for one day—unburdened by grief or resentment.
–
“Hey!”
Ronon walked into Rodney’s lab without slowing. The place was a mess of half-finished projects—open panels, scattered tools, and glowing Ancient interfaces layered over Rodney’s laptop.
“You know anything about John’s birthday?”
Rodney was still typing, hunched over his computer, muttering under his breath as lines of code scrolled rapidly across the screen.
“Huh?” He sputtered to a stop, fingers hovering over the keys like they’d forgotten what they were doing. “John’s birthday?” He looked up, blinking like Ronon had just spoken a different language.
“Yeah. Chuck just asked if we had any plans for John’s birthday?” Ronon explained, stepping further into the lab and glancing around.
“I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
Rodney frowned, clearly confused, then turned back to his laptop and furiously started typing again—pulling up personnel files, logs, anything that might confirm or deny this sudden nonsense.
Ronon glared, thinking he was being ignored.
The typing got faster.
More frantic.
Then—
“CRAP!”
Rodney shot upright so fast his chair rolled back and hit a console.
“His birthday is in 2 weeks!” he exclaimed, horrified.
Across the room, Radek snorted. He was seated at the back desk, sleeves rolled up, carefully soldering a delicate connection inside an open Ancient device. A small lamp cast focused light over his workspace, and a neat line of tools sat within easy reach.
Rodney turned to glare at his coworker like this was somehow his fault.
Radek finally looked up over the edge of his glasses, expression dry.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, setting the tool down with deliberate care. “I’m not the one who doesn’t know the birthday of their own husband.”
He went right back to work.
Rodney turned back to Ronon, scandalized.
The large Satedan had moved to the edge of the lab table near the door, arms crossed, watching this unfold with clear amusement.
“How does Chuck know John’s birthday?” Rodney demanded.
“Apparently Poppy asked Elizabeth for help to get a gift. He thought we were in on it and wanted to know what we were going to do so he could add in,” Ronon explained.
Rodney blinked, clearly letting the words sink in.
Then he glared.
“OF COURSE HE’S IN ON IT!” Rodney yelled, throwing his hands in the air as he shoved away from his workstation. “Of course the control room knows! They probably have it logged and color-coded and—ugh!”
He didn’t finish the thought—he was already moving.
Rodney stormed out of the lab at full speed.
Ronon followed a few paces behind, entirely unbothered and clearly amused.
Rodney charged into the lab that Janus had been given—more like claimed as his own, since no one was particularly interested in arguing with him about it.
“So when were you going to tell us about John’s birthday?!” Rodney yelled at the Alteran—who also happened to be his grandfather-in-law.
Janus only glanced up at the two of them.
Then went right back to the Ancient console he was working on, fingers moving lazily over the interface like he had all the time in the world.
“Well,” he said casually, “considering John is here and he was born and not made out of clay or anything, I figured you knew he had a birth-day.”
He emphasized the word just enough to make it sting.
Rodney sputtered.
Ronon snorted—they had both walked right into that one.
“But why didn’t you remind us?” Rodney spat, stepping closer to the console and glaring.
Janus actually paused this time, looking up properly.
He blinked at them. “Did you really forget John’s birthday?”
Rodney tried to maintain his glare, but his shame showed through just enough to give him away. Beside him, Ronon suddenly found the floor very interesting.
Janus watched their reactions carefully.
Then his expression shifted. “Wait…” he said slowly. “You didn’t know when it is, did you?”
Rodney finally looked away.
Janus just stared at them, mouth slightly open.
Then he groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “Oh wow… okay, that’s bad,” he muttered, shaking his head. He slipped into Alteran under his breath for a moment—fast, sharp words that neither Rodney nor Ronon understood, but the tone made it very clear he was not being complimentary.
“God, you two are helpless. Seriously.”
He let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair.
“I already got started on a gift,” Janus said, waving a hand like he was the only competent one here. “And I talked to the cooks—Cooper’s working on a cake.”
“What are you getting him?” Ronon asked.
“CAKE?!” Rodney asked at the exact same time, suddenly much more interested.
Janus shot Rodney a look.
“Yes, cake. Not sure what flavor yet. Something John will actually eat—so not too sweet…” He paused, then added pointedly, “and also not his favorite lemon cake.” He gave Rodney a look like this was a personal offense.
Rodney bristled slightly but didn’t argue.
“For the gift,” Janus continued, tone shifting just a little, “I found some photos. Of my daughter… John’s mother. There are a couple family ones from before things went to hell.”
Rodney looked very confused.
“Okay—couple questions. How do you have old family photos when you ascended and brought nothing, and what do you mean John doesn’t have any photos?”
Janus quirked an eyebrow. “As for the first—when I was alive the first time, I uploaded them onto the database. Pictures, files… I liked having my family around.”
“WHAT?!” Rodney interrupted immediately, stepping closer. “There are pictures of John in the database? Is that why the system seemed to know him before we even uploaded anything?!”
He started rapid-firing questions without pausing for breath.
Janus sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling like he was reconsidering all of his life choices.
“When I came back here,” he said, “I’d bring updated photos. Upload them into the system so I could pull them up in my quarters.”
He looked back at Rodney. “So yes, the system probably recognized John as soon as he got here. Even older. And yes—my mother might have helped that along a little.”
“So there are pictures of John as a kid in there?” Ronon had stepped up to the console now, a thoughtful look on his face.
“Yes,” Janus said simply. “And no, I won’t help you find them,” he added immediately, glaring at both of them.
Ronon frowned slightly but let it go. “Why doesn’t John have any pictures of his family?” he asked instead.
Janus looked back at his work, expression closing off just a bit. “That’s for John to tell,” he said dismissively.
Both men glared at their in-law.
Rodney snapped first, turning sharply toward the door.
“Come on, Conan, we need to figure out something soon.”
He led the way out of the lab, already muttering to himself again.
Ronon followed a step behind, quieter this time.
Thinking.
–
“Co-nan?” Ronon echoed flatly as he followed Rodney out into the corridor.
Rodney didn’t even slow down. “Yes, yes, barbarian, brooding warrior, whatever—focus! We have two weeks to pull together something meaningful, thoughtful, and preferably not life-threatening.”
“Life-threatening?” Ronon asked.
Rodney shot him a look. “Last time you gave John a ‘gift,’ it involved knives.”
Ronon shrugged. “He liked those.”
“He almost bled out!”
“He did like them.”
Rodney threw his hands up as they turned a corner. “That’s not the point! This is his birthday. It has to be—” he gestured vaguely, searching for the word, “—sentimental.”
Ronon stopped walking.
Rodney took three more steps before realizing he was alone. He turned back, irritation already rising. “What now?”
Ronon’s expression had shifted—less amused, more thoughtful. “Janus said photos.”
Rodney frowned. “Yes, I heard the Ancient rambling, thank you.”
“No,” Ronon said, stepping closer. “Not just photos. Family.”
That hit harder than Rodney wanted to admit.
Because… yeah.
John didn’t talk about his family. Ever.
Not his father. Not his childhood. Not anything before the military, really. The few scraps Rodney had managed to piece together over the years were… not good.
And suddenly Janus’s words made a lot more sense.
He doesn’t have anything.
Rodney swallowed, some of his frantic energy shifting into something quieter. “Okay… so we don’t duplicate the photos. That’s already covered.”
Ronon nodded.
Rodney started pacing again, slower this time, thinking out loud. “We need something that actually matters to him. Not just… stuff. Not weapons—no offense.”
“Some taken.”
“Noted and ignored.”
They walked in silence, the hum of Atlantis filling the space.
–
John was starting to get suspicious.
No—scratch that.
He was well past suspicious and sitting firmly in annoyed as hell territory.
Lorne had been tying him up in the office all day with paperwork. Not just paperwork—Lorne’s paperwork. Forms that John hadn’t had to look at in months were suddenly “needing clarification.” Supply requests. Personnel logs. Mission summaries that somehow required his input on line-by-line details.
“The phrasing here is unclear,” Lorne had said at least five times.
“It’s not unclear,” John had snapped back the last time. “It’s asking how many crates we took. You were there. Count them.”
And Lorne—Evan Lorne, the man who could run an entire off-world op without blinking—had just nodded like that was reasonable and typed it in.
John had stared at him. Because this wasn’t normal.
Lorne didn’t need this kind of hand-holding. That was the whole point of having him as second-in-command. It was one of the reasons John trusted him so much—why he could walk into a situation and know Lorne already had three contingencies in place and the paperwork done before they even got back.
Today?
Today felt like Lorne had been replaced with someone who had only read about how to be Lorne.
By mid-afternoon, John was seriously considering the possibility of a head injury.
“Did you hit your head on the last mission?” he’d asked at one point, narrowing his eyes.
Lorne hadn’t even looked up. “No, sir.”
“Because you’re asking me questions you already know the answers to.”
“Just being thorough.”
“Thorough would be you doing your job without dragging me into it.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then he’d asked another question.
John had contemplated violence.
—
Then there was lunch.
John had been halfway to the mess, already mentally preparing for actual food, when his radio crackled.
“Sheppard.”
“Pier. Now.”
Ronon.
John had frowned. “For what?”
“Food.”
“That’s what the mess is for.”
A pause.
“…kids are here.”
John had stopped walking.
That… was enough to redirect him.
It wasn’t that weird—Ronon did that sometimes, dragged him into something unplanned, especially if the kids were involved—but it was still off. The weather wasn’t great. Not bad, but not exactly picnic by the splash pool weather either.
Still, he’d gone.
Because Ronon didn’t usually insist without a reason.
The kids had been there, sprawled out with food. Ronon had been leaning against the railing like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Thought you were working,” John had said, eyeing him.
Ronon shrugged. “You were.”
That hadn’t answered anything.
It had been… nice. Weirdly so. Quiet. Normal.
Too normal.
And Ronon had kept him there longer than necessary—dragging out conversation, letting the kids pull John into whatever game they were inventing, not rushing anything.
Looking back?
Yeah. That should’ve tipped him off more.
—
Then the tea. The stupid tea he was drinking till he wouldn't give his kids a caffeine high.
John had just gotten back to his office, settling in for what he assumed would be round two of Why Is Lorne Like This Today, when he’d realized his mug was empty.
He’d sighed, pushing back from his desk.
And right as he stood—
Knock.
The door slid open before he even answered.
Poppy stepped in, smiling, holding a fresh cup. “Thought you might need a refill.”
John blinked. “…you just happened to know I was out?”
Poppy shrugged lightly. “Lucky timing.”
John took the cup slowly. “Thanks…”
But his eyes followed him as he left.
That hadn’t been lucky timing.
That had been too well-timed.
—
By late afternoon, the pieces were starting to line up in a way John didn’t like.
People were hovering.
Interrupting.
Redirecting.
Keeping him in specific places for just a little too long.
And it triggered a very specific memory.
The last time he’d been stuck in his office all day like this…
They’d thrown a surprise baby shower.
John exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.
No.
No, they wouldn’t.
Would they?
He knew what day it was.
Or… close enough.
He’d managed to slip by most years. Keep it quiet. No fuss, no attention. Just another day.
He liked it that way.
Preferred it that way.
As the hours dragged on and Lorne kept him buried under increasingly ridiculous questions, John’s suspicion grew into something sharper.
They know.
And worse—
They’re not letting me escape it.
—
Finally, dinner time.
John looked up, half-expecting Lorne to drop another stack of forms on his desk or ask him to explain something equally stupid.
Lorne didn’t look at him.
Didn’t say anything.
Just kept typing.
John squinted at him.
That was new.
Slowly, John stood, joints protesting after sitting for far too long. He stretched, rolling his shoulders as he made his way toward the door.
He paused, glancing back.
“Well, I’m off to dinner.”
“Yes, that sounds good,” Lorne said immediately. “I think I’ll call it a day too.”
He stood up and joined John at the door.
John stared at him.
Hard.
Something was definitely wrong.
They walked together down the corridor toward the transport, the hum of Atlantis filling the silence between them.
“Dinner does sound good,” Lorne said as they stepped inside.
John turned his head sharply.
Because he would swear—
Swear— he’d heard a faint crackle of a radio right before that.
Lorne’s hand had been near his ear for half a second too long, like he’d just tapped it.
Too smooth.
Too casual.
John narrowed his eyes.
He would bet his entire chocolate ration—
Lorne had just said something into a comm.
And suddenly, John wasn’t just suspicious anymore.
Now he was waiting to see what happened next.
–
John was on alert by the time they reached the entrance to the mess, not in the sharp, tactical way he used on missions, but in that quieter, more familiar way that came from knowing how Atlantis usually felt. And this—this was off. There was no one lingering outside the doors, no small knots of people finishing conversations or waiting for friends. There were always people here at this hour. Always. Even before the doors slid open, he could tell something was different just from the absence of noise. He should have been able to hear the mess before he saw it—the low hum of conversation, the clatter of trays and dishes, someone laughing too loudly across the room. Instead, there was nothing. Just a strange, contained quiet that didn’t belong at the start of dinner.
John slowed slightly, more out of recognition than caution, and let out a breath through his nose as the pieces clicked into place. Yeah. That tracked. Between Lorne’s increasingly ridiculous paperwork marathon, Ronon dragging him out to the pier at lunch, and Poppy’s suspiciously well-timed tea delivery, he’d already had a pretty good idea something was coming. This just confirmed it. He tried to hide the sigh that wanted to follow, rolling his shoulders once as he braced himself. He knew what was coming, and while he didn’t particularly like it, he also knew everyone meant well. They always did. He could handle it. Smile, say thank you, get through it without making it awkward for anyone else. He’d managed it before. He could manage it again.
He stepped inside.
The second he reached the top of the steps, the quiet shattered.
“SURPRISE!”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”
The sound hit him all at once—loud, chaotic, completely overwhelming—and before he could even process it, he was met with a burst of confetti straight to the face. Something bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, and a chorus of toy horns went off in a completely uncoordinated blast that made him flinch just slightly before he caught himself. For a split second, it was just noise and color and too much all at once.
Then his focus cleared.
And he saw them.
The entire Atlantis pack was gathered around, spread out across the room, clustered near tables and along the edges, all of them turned toward him with matching grins and brightly colored, slightly ridiculous party hats perched on their heads. Some were straight, some were already slipping sideways, and a few looked like they’d been forced on under protest—Ronon’s especially. It was uneven and a little chaotic, but it was unmistakably them.
Something in John eased.
Even though he hated this day—hated the attention, the focus, the reminder—there was something about this that slipped past all of that before he could shut it down. For just a moment, he felt it clearly, that warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been missing so much. Not since his mom. Not since before everything had gotten complicated and distant. It wasn’t loud or overwhelming. Just steady. Present. Real.
He smiled.
“Thanks, guys,” he said, and realized as the words left his mouth that he actually meant them.
The decorations were… a mix. There were a few balloons floating near the ceiling, but most of it was clearly homemade—streamers strung unevenly across the room, bits of bunting draped along the walls, and a banner stretched across the far side that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY in slightly crooked lettering. It wasn’t perfect, which somehow made it better. More honest. His usual table had been completely taken over, covered in a bright, colorful cloth that looked suspiciously like an Athosian wall hanging repurposed for the occasion, the intricate patterns standing out against the otherwise familiar space. Balloons were tied to the chairs, their strings hanging low enough to sway whenever someone brushed past.
The kids were already in their seats, each wearing their own slightly oversized party hat, balloons close enough for them to bat at and send drifting across the table. They were giggling, not so much because they fully understood what was going on, but because the energy in the room was infectious. One balloon got smacked too hard and bounced off someone’s shoulder, and that alone sent them into another round of laughter.
Still smiling, John shook his head slightly. “Thanks, guys.” He thinks he really meant it.
“Colonel.” Elizabeth stepped forward, exactly where he expected her to be, composed but clearly pleased with how this had turned out. “We managed to miss your birthday the last few years, so we needed to make up for it this year,” she said, her smile reaching her eyes in a way that made it impossible to take offense. She reached out, squeezing his arm, and as her hand slid down she scent-marked him—subtle, familiar, grounding.
John smirked. “Guess my streak of hiding what day it is is over?”
“Oh, most definitely. I’ve already put an alert on my calendar for next year.” She grinned at him like a cat who got the bird, entirely unapologetic, before stepping aside to let him pass. “Go on.”
John moved toward the table, toward his family, and immediately spotted Poppy waiting near the edge with that same wide grin—the one that took over his whole face, the one John had loved seeing as a kid. It was a look that meant something uncomplicated and safe, something he’d only recently started recognizing in his own reflection. The second John stepped within reach, Poppy didn’t hesitate. He pulled him in, arms wrapping around him in a tight, bone-crushing hug.
John returned it without thinking.
He didn’t stiffen, didn’t pull back, didn’t even hesitate. He just leaned into it, holding on just as firmly, letting himself have that moment without over analyzing it. Around them, people noticed. John Sheppard didn’t usually do this—not openly, not with this kind of weight behind it. They were used to brief touches, quick hugs that came and went without much attention. This lingered. This meant something.
The hug broke eventually, but not too soon.
John pulled back, still grinning, and this time it was real.
Ronon stepped in next, taking Poppy’s place with the same solid certainty. His arms wrapped around John just as tightly, grounding in a different way, and for a moment it felt less like celebration and more like being anchored. Then Ronon leaned in slightly, voice low enough that it didn’t carry.
“Happy birthday, love.”
John nearly choked.
They weren’t there yet—not really. Not like that, not out loud, not without thinking about it first. They were still working through how to say things like that to each other, still figuring out where the lines were and how to cross them without tripping over their own feet. They had it down for the kids, easy and natural, but between them it was still new territory.
Ronon pressed a brief kiss to his temple, then let go like it hadn’t been a big deal at all.
Rodney was right behind him.
John barely had time to recover before Rodney pulled him into a hug of his own—tight, quick, and just a little bit over committed in a way that was completely Rodney. John smiled into it, returning it easily, already used to this kind of contact from him. Rodney pulled back just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek, already talking as he did.
“The cooks made turkey sandwiches,” Rodney said, gesturing toward the table as if that was the most important part of the entire situation, steering John toward his seat with an urgency that suggested there was a plan and John was currently not following it fast enough.
John let himself be guided, still smiling, still a little thrown by everything hitting at once. Around them, the noise picked back up—laughter, overlapping conversations, the kids squealing over another balloon, someone setting off a horn too close to Radek’s ear and getting an immediate complaint in response. It was loud, messy, completely uncoordinated—
—and somehow, exactly right.
–
After settling Shaela and Logan into their crib, John lingered for a second longer than necessary, making sure neither of them stirred beyond the soft, sleepy shifts that came with being moved. Shaela’s fingers curled briefly against his shirt before going slack again, Logan already completely out, his breathing slow and even. He straightened after a moment, his attention shifting across the room to where Rodney was working with the triplets.
He didn’t step in, just watched, more out of habit than anything else. At first, that habit had been about making sure Rodney didn’t drop anyone—back when juggling three at once had been more chaos than control. Now, it had shifted into something quieter. John found he liked watching. Watching Rodney with the kids, seeing the way his movements had changed over the months from uncertain and over correcting to something more deliberate, more sure. There was still care in every motion, but it wasn’t edged with panic anymore. It was practiced. Familiar. John watched as Rodney adjusted Theo against his shoulder, murmuring something under his breath as he shifted his grip and lowered him into the crib beside his siblings. Theo barely reacted, settling immediately, already as deeply asleep as the twins had been. All of them were out hard, limbs loose, breathing even, instinctively shifting closer together the second Rodney’s hands left them.
Rodney stayed there a moment, hovering in a way that mirrored John without him even realizing it, eyes scanning over the three of them like he was double-checking something only he could see. Then, with a small nod to himself, he moved to the dresser to pull out their sleep clothes, already mentally working through the next steps.
From the other room came the unmistakable sound of something being dropped, followed by the scrape of it being dragged across the floor and a low, unimpressed grunt.
Ronon.
John didn’t even need to look to picture it. The pile of gifts they’d brought back had taken up more space than expected, and Ronon had apparently decided the best way to deal with it was brute force and persistence. It had been decided early on—firmly, and with very little room for argument—that John was not doing another public unwrapping like the baby shower. That had been more than enough spectacle for a lifetime. Instead, everything had been brought back here, stacked in a controlled chaos that Ronon was now attempting to organize into something resembling order.
Sooner or later, John was going to have to go through all of it.
The thought didn’t carry the same weight it might have earlier, though. Doing it here, in pieces, without an audience watching every reaction—that made a difference. He wouldn’t have to think about how he looked, or whether he was responding “correctly” to something someone had clearly put effort into. He could just… take it in, one thing at a time, without the pressure.
Another thud echoed from the family room, followed by what sounded like paper being aggressively flattened.
John huffed quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Dinner had gone on far longer than any of them had planned. What should have been a normal meal had stretched into something slower, easier, with people lingering instead of clearing out. The promised turkey sandwiches had shown up early—Rodney had made sure of that—and while it wasn’t unusual fare for Atlantis, there had definitely been less attention paid to nutritional balance and more to what people actually liked to eat. It had felt… intentional. Comfort over regulation.
And then there had been the cake.
John still wasn’t entirely sure how Cooper had managed it, but it had clearly been one of Pegasus’ better experiments. The berries from Moris had been the base—dark purple instead of the bright red he was used to, but close enough in flavor to Earth raspberries that it had caught him off guard. Sweet, but with that sharp edge of tartness that kept it from being overwhelming. Cooper had layered in brandy from Veril in a way that deepened the flavor without turning it heavy, balancing everything instead of just piling on sugar. It wasn’t the kind of cake John had grown up with, the kind that leaned too hard into sweetness until it lost everything else. This had been… better. Thought out. Deliberate.
Rodney had definitely noticed.
The kids hadn’t.
They’d passed out before the cake was even fully gone. Between the splash pool earlier in the day and the excitement of the party, they’d hit their limit hard and fast. One minute they’d been bright and engaged, batting at balloons and reacting to every new noise, and the next they were quiet, heads drooping, hands going slack. By the time John had started gathering them up to bring them back, they’d already been completely out, unaware of anything else happening around them.
John moved back to the crib, working through the motions of getting the twins changed. He unsnapped their onesies with practiced ease, easing each arm free and replacing the fabric with their sleep clothes without waking them. Neither Shaela nor Logan stirred beyond the smallest shifts, both of them fully gone. He finished the last snap, smoothing the fabric down before leaning in to press a soft kiss to each of their foreheads, lingering just a second before straightening.
When he turned back, Rodney was finishing up with Kael, carefully securing the final snap. Somehow, all three of the triplets had managed to sleep through being changed as well, their small forms barely reacting as Rodney adjusted them into place. John stepped closer, drawn in without thinking, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Eleanor’s forehead, then the next, then the last, moving down the line in a quiet, familiar rhythm.
Rodney glanced up at him as he straightened, something softer settling into his expression now that the noise and chaos of the evening had faded into the calm of their rooms.
John held his gaze for a brief second, then leaned in just enough to press a quick kiss to Rodney’s nose.
Rodney blinked, clearly not expecting it.
John smirked, already stepping back and turning toward the door before Rodney could recover enough to comment, leaving him there with that slightly baffled look that would, inevitably, turn into words.
From the family room came another solid thump, followed by Ronon’s low, unimpressed grunt.
John didn’t bother hiding the small smile as he headed that way.
–
When John stepped into the family room, he stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the sheer spread of it. Every flat surface had been claimed. The small table by the door was buried, the coffee table completely covered, side tables disappearing under uneven stacks, even the dining table pressed into service. The larger gifts had been relegated to the floor, forming their own low clusters wherever there had been space left. It wasn’t neat, not really, but there had clearly been an effort made to keep things from just becoming one massive pile.
What caught John more than the volume, though, was the variety.
He moved a little further in, his gaze drifting over the different wrappings, and found himself smiling despite himself. There was actual Earth wrapping paper in there—bright, patterned, a little crinkled in places—and he was almost certain some of it had been recycled from the baby shower. Mixed in with that were pieces wrapped in fabric, tied off with careful knots or strips of ribbon, the cloth itself sometimes more interesting than what it might be hiding. A few were wrapped in what looked suspiciously like repurposed reports—mission logs or supply forms folded and taped around whatever was inside, the official print still visible in places. He could already imagine the conversations that had led to that.
Across the room, Ronon stood with what looked like the last gift in his hands, turning slowly in place as he searched for somewhere to put it. His gaze moved from surface to surface, each one already full. The small table by the door—covered. Coffee table—covered. Side tables—no room. Dining table—completely taken. He frowned, clearly unimpressed with the situation, before finally just setting the small bag on top of one of the larger boxes on the floor at his feet, making the decision with a kind of finality that suggested he was done negotiating with space.
“Impressive how everyone managed to get something together in only a few weeks,” Ronon rumbled, straightening as he looked over the room. There was something in his tone—low, but clear—admiration more than anything else.
John blinked, his attention snapping back to that. “Only a couple weeks?” he echoed, glancing between them. “I kinda assumed you’d been working on this for a while.”
A snort came from the couch.
Poppy was sprawled there, looking far too comfortable for someone who had clearly caused at least half of the chaos currently sitting in their living space. “Your bafoons didn’t even know when your birthday was,” he said, completely unapologetic. “They found out after I asked Elizabeth for help with your gift.” He gestured loosely toward the coffee table, where a neat stack of flat, variously sized squares and rectangles sat, each one wrapped individually. “They came charging into my lab to yell at me when they were asked what their plans were.”
John took that in for a second—and then laughed.
“Well, it’s kinda hard to find out when my birthday is if I don’t tell them.”
Poppy didn’t laugh.
He just gave John a look. The look. The one that managed to convey a very specific kind of disapproval without needing any words at all.
“It never came up?” Poppy asked, his tone shifting just enough to carry an edge. “Rodney, who is constantly bragging about his hacking skills, didn’t even think to look up the basics of his Omega? The mother of his children?”
There was definite disdain there.
Rodney, who had just stepped in from the other room, sputtered immediately. “Well—excuse me—EECCUUUUSSEEE ME for respecting my mate’s privacy and not hacking into his personal files!” His voice rose as he got going, hands already gesturing as he built momentum. “There are ethical boundaries, you know! Just because I can access something doesn’t mean I should—”
“You should open Poppy’s gifts first,” Ronon cut in, his tone calm but firm enough to slice cleanly through the start of Rodney’s rant.
Rodney stopped mid-breath, clearly offended at being interrupted, but didn’t immediately pick it back up.
Ronon didn’t elaborate, just met John’s gaze for a second before glancing toward the stack on the coffee table. Privately, he agreed with Poppy more than he was going to say out loud. They’d skipped a lot getting here—jumped straight into things without filling in the gaps most people took for granted. This… was one of those gaps.
John, though, just smiled, the earlier humor fading into something more curious. He really did want to see what Poppy had gotten him. The man didn’t exactly have access to money, not here, not like this. No contact with Earth, no easy way to pull from old resources. Anything he’d done would have taken time, effort, or trades within Pegasus.
That alone made it worth opening first.
He moved around the table and dropped onto the couch beside Poppy, leaning forward to grab the first package from the stack. It was flat, square—about a foot by a foot—and light in his hands. As soon as his fingers pressed lightly against the surface beneath the wrapping, he had a pretty good idea what it was.
A frame.
Still, he didn’t hesitate, tearing the paper away in quick, efficient motions.
And then he froze.
The frame was exactly what he expected.
The photo inside wasn’t.
John’s breath caught hard in his chest, the sound sharp and unsteady as he stared down at it. The face looking back at him was one he hadn’t seen in years—not like this, not clearly, not in a way that wasn’t filtered through memory.
His mother.
Younger than he remembered her. The hairstyle, the clothes—this had been taken when she was younger, probably before John was born. She was smiling, open and bright in a way that hit harder than anything else in the room had so far.
Rodney and Ronon both went still, watching him carefully. They’d known there were photos—Janus had mentioned them—but they hadn’t expected… this. Not the way John reacted. Not the way his entire posture shifted, like something had been pulled out from under him and replaced with something just as heavy.
John’s hands weren’t steady anymore.
His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the frame as his eyes blurred, the moisture building faster than he could blink it away. His lips trembled in time with the shallow, uneven breaths he tried to pull in, like he wasn’t quite sure how to handle the air in his lungs anymore.
He swallowed, hard, and looked up at Poppy, voice catching.
“Where…?”
It broke halfway through, the word dragged down by something too close to a sob.
Poppy’s expression softened immediately, the earlier sharpness gone. “When I went on my business trips,” he said quietly, “I really was going back to my own time. Coming here to the city. I liked having photos of our family with me.” He nodded slightly toward the frame. “They’re still in the database. I just asked Elizabeth to have a few of them printed and framed.”
John looked back down at the photo, his thumb brushing lightly over the glass as if he could trace the lines of her face through it. He didn’t speak again, didn’t need to. The room had gone quiet around him, the earlier noise and energy completely gone.
Poppy stood after a moment, stepping forward until he was directly in front of John. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to John’s forehead before ruffling his hair in a way that was both familiar and grounding.
John didn’t protest.
Didn’t move.
Just let it happen.
“I’ll leave you then,” Poppy said softly. “Good night.”
And then he stepped away, heading for the door without another word, leaving John sitting there with the photo in his hands and the room still wrapped in that quiet.