Chapter 53: Epilogue

John resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as he scanned through the completed paperwork. He glanced up at General O'Neill – because vacation or not, it was definitely The General sitting in his office – before handing the forms over.

There was a long minute where O'Neill skimmed through the papers – actual paper, since it had to be filed in triplicate with the SG and gods knew who else – without saying anything. "Lieutenant Simmons and Sergeant Pilkes?"

"Yes, sir. After everything that went down with the invasion, and surrounding it, they've both more than earned it." It wasn't the first time he had gone to bat for his people before, but it was the first time he actually had to do it face to face.

O'Neill leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "What, you think I should pin medals on everyone that didn't lose their head? Maybe throw Alex and Ronon in, while I'm at it?"

John didn't flinch. "Lieutenant Simmons did his job during the invasion, kept his head on straight, and managed not to blow up anything important – all while knowing only about half of what was really going on. Not to mention, he's been riding herd on Alex and that signals to me that he's more than ready to lead his own team. But team leaders have to be a full lieutenant, and he's ready for this." It was definitely going to rock the boat with Alex when Simmons moved to lead a team, but it wasn't fair to Simmons to hold him back.

O'Neill raised an eyebrow. "And Sergeant Pilkes?"

"Sergeant Pilkes has an impeccable record with the SGC, almost spanning a decade. Though he's only been out here for the past few years, he's solid, works hard, and I can trust him to handle the weirdness that comes with Pegasus." Even more so now, since it was clear that he was an integral part of the weirdness. "He was very much influential in redirecting questioning during the invasion. Time travel aside, he's more than earned this." Anyone else, they wouldn't even be thinking twice about it.

"Time travel aside?" O'Neill asked, with mock incredulity. "You're just gonna gloss over the whole alien-time-jumping thing?"

John shrugged. "It's top secret, review board is never going to hear about it. Besides, if he were going to betray us, he's had years to do it. And if Rodney hasn't found anything suspicious by now, the man's clean. I think he knows his preferred shower cubicle at this point."

O'Neill tapped his fingers on the desk, looking almost amused. "So, you're saying he deserves it?"

"Yes, sir," John said, exasperation slipping into his tone. "And so does Simmons. They both stepped up when it mattered. That's the kind of behavior you reward."

O'Neill tilted his head, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips. "You know, you're pretty convincing when you're all fired up, Sheppard."

John scowled at the man.

"Relax, Colonel," O'Neill said, picking the papers up once again. "I already agreed. Just wanted to make sure you believed it. And good to know you're paying attention to your people. You can take my place on the review board any day, if you'd like."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Glad I passed, sir."

O'Neill stood, smirking as he tucked the papers under his arm. "1700 hours, Colonel Sheppard. Ceremony's already scheduled. Oh, and polished boots never hurt anyone."

"What—"

But O'Neill was already strolling out of the office, leaving John to wonder if there had been any point to his arguments. Or any point to his paperwork Clearly O'Neill had already made up his mind long before setting foot on the city and had set things up.

And considering they hadn't officially cleared Pilkes until after O'Neill had arrived on the city, John really questioned some of the decisions made by his superior.

John glanced down at his boots – scuffed and standard issue – and sighed before paging Lorne. They were going to have to break out the class As and the Marines were going to lose their shit if there wasn't enough time to get all the pressing done.

Such was life living on the city.

It had been a long time since their gathering hall had looked anything like this. Flags bearing the SGC insignia hung behind a simple podium at the front. Rows of personnel stood in polished dress uniforms – Air Force blue, Marine Corps black, one solitary Navy white, and a scattering of civilians in whatever counted as formal attire this far out in the galaxy. Even a handful of Pegasus natives had come out for the occasion.

John had never seen his troops looking so smart.

There had never been a reason before, not even when Sam had briefly taken over. Formal military ceremonies just didn't happen on Atlantis. Previous promotions were small if completed on city – many returned to Earth to complete the ceremony. Until now.

John surveyed the crowd from his position on stage with the other leaders of the city. Alex was front and center with the rest of Sierra Squad, notably lacking Pilkes and Simmons from their midst. The promotions were going to invite change, but hopefully it would all be good change.

Hell, he might even consider letting Simmons take Alex off world. On a milk run, of course.

General O'Neill stepped up to the podium and a hush spread across the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen of Atlantis, it is a privilege to be with you here today. Today, we recognize the extraordinary dedication and bravery of individuals who've gone above and beyond in service to this expedition and the security of Earth."

A chill ran down John's spine at the formal words. He had been to only a handful of promotion ceremonies – aside from his own – but even for enlisted personnel, it was an honor to move up the ranks. And O'Neill sounding so formal was just… wrong.

"In the face of challenges that most people can't even begin to imagine, these men have displayed courage, ingenuity, and steadfast resolve. Promotions are not handed out lightly – they are earned through demonstrated leadership, sacrifice, and an unwavering commitment to duty. The individuals we honor today have more than earned their new ranks." O'Neill turned and faced the two men. "Sergeant Pilkes, front and center."

Pilkes moved to the center of the stage, his posture straight and proud. John crossed with him, silently thankful that Lorne had ensured he knew exactly how to handle his role in the ceremonies.

"For exceptional service and outstanding performance during the defense of Atlantis," John read, his voice steady, "Sergeant Cyrus Pilkes is promoted to the rank of Staff Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. His unwavering dedication to duty and leadership under pressure were instrumental in the safeguarding of critical operations." And that was all that could be said on a public basis.

John turned to pin the new insignia onto Pilkes' uniform. "You've earned this," he said quietly, before stepping back. Pilkes saluted and John returned it sharply.

As John stepped back, O'Neill handed Pilkes a paper copy of the citation and stepped to the microphone once more. "Staff Sergeant Pilkes, raise your right hand."

Pilkes did, and O'Neill led him through the oath of office, each word spoken clearly and deliberately.

For those that knew, it was a declaration of allegiance. Now that his secrets were out, no subterfuge was preventing him from following his oath entirely.

The uproar of applause as Pilkes saluted O'Neill was enough to make the podium shake. John exchanged a briefly amused look with him, before waving him back to his position.

"Lieutenant Junior Grade S? Simmons, step forward."

Simmons stepped forward, looking less and less like the young green officer they had brought on so many months ago.

"For exemplary leadership, composure under duress, and exceptional performance in defense of Atlantis, Lieutenant Junior Grade Gregory Simmons is promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in the United States Navy. His efforts during critical moments of the invasion were instrumental in safeguarding personnel and ensuring operational success." Once again, vague and bland. But that was all the review board cared about.

Simmons stood still as John pinned the oak leaves on his collar. "You're ready to lead," John said, softly.

Simmons straightened, saluted sharply, and John returned it with pride. The oath followed, and the thunderous applause showed that the promotions had been a good choice. They would be supported by their fellow Marines.

Simmons stepped back into position and John returned to his spot with the other leaders, mentally preparing himself for O'Neill's closing remarks. Soon the masses would be released to whatever celebratory feast the mess had prepared.

"And finally," O'Neill said, pausing for effect. "Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, step forward."

John froze for a fraction of a second, thinking he must have misheard. But Daniels, standing beside him, gave him a not-so-subtle nudge, and he stepped forward to the center of the platform.

For a promotion.

For him.

The one that was never supposed to make it past Major.

"For distinguished leadership, extraordinary bravery, and exceptional service in the defense of Atlantis and its personnel, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is promoted to the rank of Colonel in the United States Air Force. His actions during the invasion and his continued leadership of this expedition's military operations have ensured the safety and success of all under his command."

The applause was immediate and loud, drowning out any chance for John to think. O'Neill approached, pinning the silver eagle insignia onto John's collar with a small smile. "I told you you'd want your boots polished," he muttered with a smirk. He took a step back. "Raise your right hand."

John did so, repeating the words of the oath almost on automatic.

"Congratulations, Colonel Sheppard. We'll get you to General in no time."

The salute felt different. He had never had such a trustworthy commanding officer. As he stepped back into formation, O'Neill returned to the podium.

"Today, we've recognized three individuals whose actions represent the best of what we stand for here on Atlantis. Let their example remind us all of the strength found in courage, the importance of teamwork, and the power of dedication to the greater good. To our newly promoted personnel – Staff Sergeant Pilkes, Lieutenant Simmons, and Colonel Sheppard – congratulations. To everyone here, thank you for your continued service and commitment to Atlantis. Now," O'Neill rubbed his hands together and grinned. "I hear there's some pie down in the mess."

The laughter that rippled through the crowd broke the suspense, and as the personnel began to disperse, John let himself breathe again. Today, Atlantis had seen something extraordinary – and he couldn't help but feel proud of the people who made it possible.

John leaned against the balcony railing, balancing a plate of nusuelle pie – a fruit remarkably close to a cherry – in hand, and watched the waves crash against the piers far below. From this height, only the salty tang of the ocean reached him on the breeze. Behind him, the echoes of laughter and the buzz of celebration spilled out of the gathering room, drowning out any hope of hearing the waves.

He pulled at his collar, still stiff in the formal uniform, before taking another bite of the pie.

Excellent, as always.

The mess staff knew what they were doing – and everyone knew the rumors that General O'Neill could be won over with a good slice of pie.

John sighed, letting the tension seep out.

He was in an even better position that he could have ever imagined.

Colonel. A full bird.

More than one superior had waxed eloquent about how he would never measure up. That he had a dead-end career. That a helicopter pilot was all he would ever be.

Well.

Fuck them.

"You're not hiding out here, are you?" a voice asked from behind him.

John whirled around, startled at getting caught, but relaxed at Alex's hesitant expression. "Just taking a breather." He nodded toward the hall. "And pretending I don't see any infractions occurring."

Alex snorted, moving to lean against the railing a few feet away. "Congratulations on the promotion. O'Neill didn't tell you?"

John peered at him. "You knew." There was a little too much smugness in that statement.

"I had a feeling," Alex said with a shrug. "And he might've implied as much while we were fishing."

Fishing.

He had heard stories about O'Neill's version of fishing – and there was usually very little fish involved.

"They're not going to recall you, right?" Alex asked, clearly trying to sound casual. "Because Greg said—"

"Unlikely." For one, there was no place the Air Force could slot him outside of the SGC. His entire record for the past six years was an opaque, classified mess. People would ask questions. "O'Neill is like the grand master at chess. He's got all his people in the slots where he wants them." And John was relatively assured that Cam was happy with his place at the SGC. There were no open slots of command on the spaceships.

Atlantis was his.

Atlantis was his.

This giant flying city in another galaxy was his and there was likely nothing anyone could do to remove him from it permanently aside from death.

It was a relief.

It was exhilarating.

It felt… good.

"I don't know if I ever said thanks," Alex said quietly, breaking through John's thoughts.

John frowned. "For what?"

"For getting me out of the SGC, off Earth," Alex said, still not looking in John's direction. "You let a… kid come here. And I needed that." He hesitated, his shoulders tensing.

John studied him for a moment, before setting his plate down on the ledge. "You were never just some kid, Alex. You handled the whole alien reveal with more grace than probably half of the personnel here. If anything, I'm glad you decided to take us up on our crazy offer. We'd have been worse off without you." Not least because, well, it did feel better to have his son nearby. Not in another galaxy, constantly fighting for his life.

Alex's lips quirked upward briefly, though he didn't respond.

Another day then.

He knew O'Neill was campaigning to get another psychologist on the city – a strange turn from almost everything he knew about the man, but then they had all had several rather strange turns in the past few months. And there was solid proof that Alex had had a useful psychologist – up until he had been snaked. The moment there was someone trustworthy on the city… well. John wasn't going to knock it before they had all tried it.

Everyone.

When it became clear that Alex was done talking for the evening, John picked up his plate again, nodding toward the door. "Come on then, there's more pie to be had. And I'm not leaving it for O'Neill."

Alex snorted, pushing off the railing to lead the way back inside. John followed him at a more sedate pace. After all, he still had pie to finish.

And for once, everything was looking up.

Better not jinx it.

A/N: Oh. My. God. This is it. The final chapter. I'm going to be honest: I wasn't sure if I'd ever get here. Hopefully this is a satisfying conclusion. I know there are still a lot of answers to be had – this was originally written with a second book in mind. That said, my work load has increased significantly since I started writing this and I can't make any promises about a follow up. I've got a pretty good idea of the plot, but this story is about twice as long as what I originally set out with, so… I do have some one-shots written – from the perspective of Simmons and Pilkes, some from before they joined the SGC. If there's interest in those, I'll try to brush them off. Finally, thank you so much for slogging along with me through this. I absolutely adore the characters and writing the twistiness of time travel has been an absolute joy. I hope one day I can share everything with you all! Until then.