Chapter Text
John didn’t know how he’d agreed to this. He’d rather face Wraith, Replicators, Genii . . . at least with those, he knew what he was dealing with.
Here, he had no idea.
He sighed, staring at the ornate, wooden door ahead, lit up in the darkness. Rain pattered in the silence, leaving dark puddles in the driveway. The scent of decaying leaves curled around him, made stronger by the lazy scatter of water droplets.
Six months. It’d been six months since his father died.
Seeing Dave after the funeral—after the whole Replicator fiasco—had been . . . uncomfortable. Odd. While they had revived something they had long abandoned, it was far from clean and simple. But John was willing to try, and so was Dave.
Surprisingly.
John had tried to keep a more open line, emailing Dave when he could. But the back and forth was slow and stuttered, mostly on John’s end. He knew Dave was irritated. Frustrated.
Truthfully, John thought Dave would give up. Close the line.
So he was baffled by Dave’s invitation to visit.
John didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know if he really wanted to be trapped with their fractured relationship in an oversized house. Especially when he had his own well of secrets. Secrets he couldn’t tell even if he wanted to.
He’d considered the invitation carefully. Turned it over in his mind. And before he replied to Dave, he sent a different email. To General Jack O’Neill.
He knew Elizabeth had gotten permission to tell her partner about her confidential work, even though the man wasn’t involved in the expedition. Not like Jeannie was. And John hoped he’d be given the same opportunity. If only to have honesty on his side. Something Dave could trust.
But he wasn’t hopeful. Didn’t expect General O’Neill to allow it.
Then his request was granted. And he’d been relieved. Disbelieving. And he told Dave he’d come at his next opportunity. Which was now.
Keller had insisted he take a proper leave to recoup. He’d been through the wringer lately, flashing into a hopeless future, surviving a collapsed building, chasing after Teyla . . . not to mention throwing himself in harm’s way to rescue Dr. Keller herself. And to be perfectly honest, he was tired.
The blunt puncture to his gut was still far from healed, so he’d be off duty anyway. And with everything going on, he wasn’t entirely recovered from all his other exploits. Everything was sore, despite freshly healed wounds and a steady recovery. But it was a slow incline—Keller had said something about how his body was just too tired to keep up at this point.
He needed a break. Even he could admit that.
So he’d told Dave he had a few weeks to spare, if the invitation was still open. And to his surprise, Dave asked if he’d be willing to come for a full three weeks. But John still saw the unsure tone in Dave’s written response. The cautious hesitation.
John had been tempted to cancel. Find an excuse. But he saw it through, and now he was here. Rain had sunk into his unruly hair, clumping the strands together into wet spikes. A chill had sunk into the shoulders of his jacket. And yet, he could stand here forever. Could still turn back.
But he’d gone through too much trouble. And he owed it to Dave.
With a heaving breath, he pushed onward, carrying his duffle with tense shoulders. His stomach throbbed. His body felt shredded and stiff.
No turning back now.
John raised his fist in front of the door, hesitating as a thousand different scenarios flashed through his mind.
He knocked.
John had expected a long wait. Assumed Dave to be just as hesitant to reignite that connection.
But the door opened immediately.
Light and warmth swept over him, making him squint against the bright entryway.
“John! You’re absolutely soaked. Get in here.”
John’s lips parted in surprise as a small hand clasped his arm and pulled him inside. Anne. Dave’s wife.
He hadn’t seen her in years. Hadn’t even taken the time to say hello at the wake. And when he’d stopped by to see Dave later that week, she’d been out with the kids.
“What, did you walk here?” she laughed warmly, reaching up to brush lingering droplets off his shoulders.
“Hi, Anne,” he mumbled, offering a timid, crooked smile. “Sorry for the late arrival.”
Her smile was wide. Genuine. “Nonsense. We’re so glad you’re here. Dave’s just finishing up an unexpected call.” Her hands lingered on his shoulders, open and friendly. John had half-expected hostility. Last time he saw her, she’d been angry. Angry at him for always leaving Dave to take care of family matters. To take the brunt of their father’s harsh expectations. His disappointments. John couldn’t blame her. He understood. Had felt those same pressures for years. He knew exactly what that felt like.
So her warm welcome was . . . odd.
“Always the busy man, that Dave,” John batted back, uncomfortable. Unsure what to expect.
She looked at him appraisingly, something catching in her gaze. “You alright? You look beat.”
“Long day,” he muttered, managing a small smile against the underlying disquiet.
Anne didn’t say anything for a while, just watching his face carefully. “Well. We’re glad you’re here,” she repeated, squeezing his shoulders before letting her hands fall away. “Why don’t you drop your bag there. I was just making some tea—I can pour you a cup.”
Without a word, he set his duffle down before shuffling behind her into the kitchen. His fingers slid into his jacket pocket, clasping around a bottle of mild painkillers. Keller had given them to him before he left. Something to take the edge off but keep him sharp.
“So Dave says you’re still in the classified business,” she said conversationally, moving around the kitchen as brown eyes occasionally flicked in his direction. Hesitant and feeling awkward, he took a seat at the counter, shrugging slightly.
“Yeah, that’s the long and the short of it.”
“Said you couldn’t visit often?”
“Something like that.”
With the tea brewing in the teapot, Anne turned, leaning against the counter. “You’re going to have to give me more than that, John. Can’t keep a conversation alive by myself.”
John had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry. I’m just . . . tired, I think.”
Slouching her shoulders, she let out a huff and shot him a soft look of understanding. “Well, I was being nice before. You look like hell.”
He smiled, fine lines crinkling around his eyes. “Dressed to impress.”
“Hm. Could use a little work,” Anne teased, turning to gather a few mugs from the cupboard. “The kids wanted to stay up to see you, but I didn’t think they’d last until you got here.”
“Ah, that’s okay. Can’t wait to meet ‘em,” he mumbled, his smile settling into a small, understated curve. He did mean it. John had never had a chance to meet his nieces, and knowing Dave had a family and a life that John had hardly been a part of . . . it stung. Felt like another strike against him. And he was supposed to be the supportive older brother.
He’d really screwed that up.
“They’ll probably be pretty high energy, just fair warning,” Anne laughed, pulling the teapot closer.
“I can handle high energy.” John shot her another smirk.
Her smile deepened, and John once again found himself confused by her kindness. Expected it to turn at any minute. But it didn’t. And John began to wonder who’d really invited him to the house—Dave or Anne.
“Looks like you made it.”
With a start, John swiveled his gaze to the open doorway. Dave.
“You look like a drowned rat,” Dave greeted, a dark glitter to his eyes as he moved into the kitchen.
Anne swatted him on the arm, shifting to pour tea. “Be nice. John’s had a long day.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dave replied, though it sounded more like a challenge. “Anything you can actually tell us?”
John winced. Still bitter then.
“Dave.”
“No, it’s okay,” John muttered. “It’s frustrating—I get it.” Anne handed him a steaming cup, and he offered a small nod of thanks. “Anne mentioned you were on a late call.”
Pressing his hip against the counter, Dave pulled his own mug toward him. “Yeah, just my assistant finalizing a few things before my time off.”
John’s eyebrows flicked upward. “You’re taking time off?”
Across from him, Dave frowned. “Of course I did. Believe it or not, I do actually prioritize family.” It felt like an insult, but John caught Dave’s brief grimace once he realized how it sounded.
This was going to be . . . something.
He tried to stay the course.
“No need to pull out all the stops for little ol’ me,” John answered, sipping carefully as steam caressed his cheeks. His nose.
Dave sighed, attempting to recover from his blunder. “Well, I thought we could go golfing. Got us a tee time at the club tomorrow.”
Shit.
John had hoped to keep his injury under wraps. Hoped it would never come up. Or at least . . . not so soon.
Biting his lip, John set his tea down. “I’m afraid I’m, uh, going to have to put a damper on those plans,” he began slowly, dropping his gaze. “I’m kind of, uh . . . I’m kind of on medical leave. Can’t do anything too physical. Golfing included.”
He hadn’t really expected the look that stormed over Dave’s face. His brother looked both pissed and wildly concerned, eyes flickering over him for some obvious signs of injury. “What happened?”
Waving away the concern with a weary hand, John slipped on his best neutral expression. “It’s nothing. No big deal. Doc just wants to play is safe.”
“Well, that explains why you look like absolute shit.”
“Dave . . .” John sighed, sitting up a little straighter and biting back a wince.
Dave huffed, fresh anger reopening old wounds. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You never were a great communicator.”
“Look, Dave, I didn’t—”
“Let me guess. You can’t say anything because it’s classified.”
Anne quickly pressed a warning hand against Dave’s arm, shooting him a sharp look. Quieted by her gesture, he let out a long breath through his nose, jaw clenching and unclenching.
John suddenly felt wildly uncomfortable. He wanted to run. Wanted to pick up his duffle and head back out the front door into the safety of a silent evening. But he’d committed. He wasn’t giving up this time.
“Look, it’s late. Maybe I should, um . . . turn in. And we can . . . we can talk about it tomorrow,” John offered softly, silently asking for permission to stay. To see this through after a brief break.
He felt out of his element here. On Atlantis, he had authority. He could influence conversations, outcomes, strategies—but here . . . here he was a guest. He was the outsider trying to wedge his way in.
He had to tread lightly.
“The guest room is at the top of the stairs. First door to the left,” Anne supplied, brown eyes warm with concern.
With a timid nod, John stiffly slipped from his stool, refraining from holding his stomach if only to paint as strong a picture as he could muster. When he made it to the doorway, he turned, looking at Dave. “I really am trying, you know?”
Not waiting for an answer, he headed back to the entryway, grabbing his duffle with a stiff tilt of his body.
And he prepared himself for the long trek up the stairs.