Starting Over by lavvyan
Wordcount: ~ 4,900
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John told himself to be patient. Five months ago, this man had forgotten every single thing about his life, including his own name and face, and nobody had been able to figure out a reason. And while Dr. McKay had shown an amazing capacity for learning and adapting, it didn't change the fact that his situation was anything but normal, and he deserved to be cut some slack.
AN: Take a look at the beautiful COVER by smuffster.
For this story, I have to thank broet_chan, for a variety of reasons. I love you. :)
Starting Over
The short brown leather couch was actually a little dusty on its display, and maybe that was why John ended up buying it – sympathy for the underdog. It meant he'd have to furnish his new office a little darker than he'd planned, but maybe it'd look okay if he left the walls white. Making the patient feel comfortable was an important quality in a psychologist's office, and John once again regretted the fact that interior design completely eluded him.
Well. The couch was comfortable; relaxing, even, and that had to count for something. And John guessed he could always change the rest if it didn't work. It was pretty cool to be finally able to decide for himself what his office should look like, which patients to accept, not to mention at last getting to hire a decent secretary. He'd hated the one at the joint practice, with her condescending looks and her despotic manner, but after getting his degree, he hadn't owned the kind of money it took to open a brand new office. Well, now he had, and he was fully prepared to enjoy every second of it.
In the end, his new office turned out looking like something from an Ikea catalogue, possibly because most of the furniture was from Ikea – with straight-lined shelves and terracotta-coloured curtains and eye-catching little pictures on the wall in case the patients needed something else to look at while they were talking. John had chosen several Rorschach plates and found that quite clever, if he dare say so himself.
It was a therapist's office, after all.
~~~
"How are you feeling?"
"Oh, yes, that question is a true surprise. Tell me, Dr. Sheppard, how do you and your colleagues expect inane questions on the subject of my emotional balance to help me regain my memory, hmm?"
John was a good therapist, and as such he knew that you didn't sigh when you were faced with a difficult patient for the first time. That was bad form.
Didn't mean he didn't want to.
"It's standard procedure, Dr. McKay. I'm sure you know that."
"Of course I know that!" McKay huffed irritably. "I've met enough of your kind by now. So let's make this short, shall we? How am I feeling? Rather restless at the moment, thank you. What did I do today? I spent the morning going over various theses for doctorates I acquired over the last few years and discovered, once again, that I don't understand a single word of them. Then I drove all the way over here, straight through rush hour, relishing the opportunity of sitting in a car I can finally operate again and waiting for traffic to move. And now you're asking the same stupid questions as the four psychologists before you, and let me tell you, that's not especially reassuring concerning your status as a specialist for amnesia patients. How does that make me feel regarding my current situation? Not very optimistic."
Against his will, John was impressed. He had been treating a variety of amnesia cases before, though the majority had been dissociative or traumatic instead of a global amnesia like this one, but Dr. McKay seemed to be coping better than most of his other patients. It made his next question a little moot, but it was standard.
"Have you ever thought about suicide?" he asked, scribbling some notes onto his pad.
There was a moment of silence. John looked up when it stretched out, to find McKay regarding him with an expression that seemed to say, 'I pity you for your stupidity'.
And sure enough: "Do any of you people ever get how entirely moronic that question is? No, I haven't thought about suicide. I don't want to die, I want to know what happened to me."
"That's what we're trying to find out."
"Well, you haven't done such a great job with that so far, hmmm?"
John told himself to be patient. Five months ago, this man had forgotten every single thing about his life, including his own name and face, and nobody had been able to figure out a reason. And while Dr. McKay had shown an amazing capacity for learning and adapting, it didn't change the fact that his situation was anything but normal, and he deserved to be cut some slack.
At the same time, that didn't mean John had to take this kind of shit from him in his own office, not after McKay had practically bludgeoned his way into John's already overflowing appointment schedule.
"Dr. McKay, may I remind you that you're here of your own free will? You don't have to do this, you know."
McKay blinked, looking surprised.
"Of course I have to. When one is unwell, one goes to a doctor," he argued.
And there it was, that child-like innocence John's predecessor, Dr. Elsterburgh-Smith, had commented on when he'd called John to make an appointment for what he'd called a very special case. He'd said that while Dr. McKay had been adjusting exceptionally fast, he still had all of five months' life experience, something that needed to be remembered in dealing with him.
"If I'm to be your doctor, you're going to have to trust me."
"Please. Like I'd trust any of you after the last few months. All you lot care about is fame and status and publishing in as many medical journals as possible; I'm just an interesting case, that's all."
John nodded.
"Fair enough. What say we get to know each other a little better? Then you can decide if you trust me, and I can get to meet the person behind the case?"
"Fine." There was a hint of acknowledgement in McKay's eyes as he got himself into a more relaxed position on the couch. Then he scowled.
"Did anyone ever tell you that this couch is rather uncomfortable? Well, I guess it's all right if one doesn't suffer from a bad back, but I do. Apparently, I have quite the medical history: I'm allergic to bee stings and citrus – deathly allergic, imagine what could have happened before I knew that – hypoglycaemic, borderline hypertensive, claustrophobic – although that seems to be a rather mild case, if you ask me – and I have a high risk for enterocarditis…"
John leaned back and let him talk. Occasionally, he made some notes when things like McKay's persistent headaches were mentioned, or his brief and already concluded attempt at connecting with his family, but mostly, John just listened.
No matter what McKay's personal stance on the subject might be, this was one interesting case.
~~~
It was also one difficult case, more so than John had expected. They weren't making any progress at all, and he was getting to a point where he didn't know what else to try. His one tentative suggestion of hypnosis had been met with a condescending snort, and he guessed that was answer enough.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like we haven't achieved anything in the past two months, despite all your worst efforts," McKay complained. "Thanks to you and your colleagues, I have now been poked and prodded until I was nothing but a walking bruise; I've endured questionnaires, reaction tests, and various doctors trying to figure out if I was simulating. I've sat in a dark room staring at a little white light for over an hour, and I've put my finger on my nose with my eyes closed. There were blood tests, urine tests, a lumbar puncture, EEG, TEE, MRI – I'm a testament to medical incompetence."
By now, John had learned not to feel offended by those outbursts – it was just the way McKay related to people. It seemed that he hadn't changed much in that regard; the few people who had known him before his amnesia reportedly found him to be as abrasive and irritating as ever.
You'd think that losing the memories of their whole life would make someone feel more timid. Apparently not.
"You have to admit that it's a little hard to help you when we don't even know what caused this," John pointed out, ignoring McKay's annoyed eye-roll. "We're trying, though. But let's talk about what you did today."
McKay visibly deflated.
"My mother called. She seems to think that this is her chance to lure me back into the family." He kept talking about his dysfunctional relatives, and John listened dutifully. Hell, he might even be feeling a little sympathetic, because it was hard not to like McKay and the way he took everything to heart, even though he tried not to show it.
Sometimes, John was tempted to reach out and touch McKay, see if that would offer any comfort. But one of the very first things McKay had ranted about was the way everyone kept touching him once they learned he had amnesia, like they were dealing with a lost child.
"They don't take me seriously, but at the same time fully expect me to know all the secret rules to social interacting," McKay had complained. "I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know if a woman asks what one is thinking, the last thing one tells her are one's actual thoughts?"
He was referring to his one try at a heterosexual relationship, which seemed to have failed rather spectacularly. After that, McKay had apparently decided that being gay would be a lot less problematic.
John could have told him that being gay was anything but uncomplicated, but he thought he'd let the man find that out for himself.
"And I really don't see why I should go. I mean, I don't even know the guy, and I'm not sure I want to, uncle or not," McKay was finishing his tale of loathed family phone calls. "There will be all those women who want to hug and pet me, and all the guys will slap my shoulder and say, 'don't worry, son, you'll get better', like amnesia was the flu or something." He grimaced. "And despite their advantage of, you know, remembering their school years, nobody will understand my jokes."
John grinned.
"So you're afraid they won't laugh when you tell them that 55 is the largest triangular number in the Fibonacci sequence despite being mostly round?"
McKay grinned back.
"And they won't even know that when I say amicable number, I'm not talking about friendly figures."
They both chuckled. Their shared love of math geekiness had been one thing that had helped them connect. The way John saw it, a certain degree of friendship was important in a patient-therapist relationship, as it made opening up about their feelings much easier for the patient. You just had to take care to prevent it from going too far.
"Well, nobody's forcing you to go. You can make the decision you're comfortable with."
"It's not that simple. You were the one who told me I have to relate to people."
"And you feel the only people you can relate to are your family?" John asked with real curiosity.
"What? No! I, um, there are some people from work who keep visiting me, for some reason. I, ah, think they actually like me," Rodney added, face flushing a little.
"That seems to surprise you."
"Yes! I mean, I'm of no practical value to them right now, so why would they want to spend time with me? I know I can be kind of petty."
The rest of the session was spent discussing the complications of social interaction, something John suspected McKay hadn't understood even before his memory loss.
He could totally get why someone would want to spend their time with Rodney, who could be funny and entertaining if he wanted to, but John very carefully kept that to himself.
~~~
"How are you feeling?"
John blinked. Rodney was looking at him with a challenging expression, his chin stubbornly raised.
"I'm fine," he said cautiously, "how about you?"
It had been almost half a year, and except for one or two insignificant flashbacks, there hadn't been any breakthroughs. It seemed that Rodney was becoming a little frustrated with his situation.
"It's my birthday. I'm a year old today."
Make that a lot frustrated.
"I take it you're not going to celebrate?"
"Celebrate!" Rodney yelled, jumping up from the couch and pacing in front of it, his gestures sharp and annoyed. "That's a year I've been sitting at home, doing nothing but watching TV and reading books and my own dissertations, trying to catch up with 37 years of education so I can do my job again! I'm paying you a small fortune to help me make that unnecessary, but I'm detecting a distinct lack of progress!"
"It's not for lack of trying, Rodney," John said, aiming for sincere and sympathetic. Well, he was sincere and sympathetic, actually.
Rodney sighed, anger visibly evaporating as he slumped back into the couch.
"I know. It's just that I never anticipated this taking so long."
Neither had John, to be completely honest. But there was no sign of Rodney's memory returning, and it looked like this was finally beginning to bring on the depression that so many of John's other amnesia patients were struggling with.
"There have been some improvements, though," John started, hoping Rodney wouldn't throw his words back into his face. "Your headaches have been gone for two months, and last time you told me that Dr. Weir offered you a part-time job back at the lab."
"Under Zelenka's supervision."
"Yes, but others study for years and still don't get accepted at her company, so that's actually pretty impressive. You have accomplished a lot in such a short time."
"Yes, well, I am a genius."
"See? If you managed to get this far in a single year, imagine where you'll be in two. It's not the past that defines you, it's the present."
"Well, thank you for those inspiring words," Rodney said dryly, but he relaxed a little. And frowned. "Get a new couch, Dr. Sheppard. This one sucks."
Rodney was still looking a little annoyed when he left John's office half an hour later, but at least the depressed air was gone. It left John to wonder about the influence he actually had over the man – and his own reaction to Rodney's vulnerability.
That going too far thing? John was already teetering on the edge with that one, and the sensible thing would have been to transfer Rodney's case to another doctor. He didn't want to do that, though, and justified it to himself by pointing out that he hadn't seen Rodney in any way privately, and Rodney himself had developed a kind of trust in John that seemed to have been missing with the other therapists. It wasn't getting Rodney anywhere with the recovery of his lost memories, but it seemed to help him deal with the everyday things.
John just had to be careful, that was all.
~~~
It was always awkward when you ran into a patient at a party. This was no exception; in fact, it was awkward squared.
"Dr. Sheppard, um." Rodney's face was an almost comic mixture of surprise and discomfort. "Hi?"
"Rodney," John answered, nodding at the brightly coloured cocktail in Rodney's hand. "Should you be drinking that?"
"Huh? Oh. Uh, I told you, Carson's cut down the medication after the headaches stopped; I'm not taking anything right now. As long as there's no citrus in this, I'm fine."
"Ah. Well, have fun."
"Yeah. You, too," Rodney called behind him as John made his way through the crowd and straight to where he had spotted the drinks. This called for a beer.
"Happy birthday, Teyla," he shouted to his friend, but she just waved in greeting and kept bouncing wildly to the music, trying out a few of the more athletic moves with her newest boyfriend, a tall guy who didn't seem like he was enjoying dancing all that much. John could relate.
He helped himself to a beer and sat down to chat with a few people who obviously didn't know he was a psychologist, which made them thankfully unguarded around him. Not that he paid that much attention to them, anyway; he was busy watching Rodney. The man seemed to be having a good time, looking relaxed and at home among the men he was talking to. One of them John knew as Dr. Beckett, Rodney's friend and physician, the guy with the glasses could be Zelenka, and the third was Peter Grodin, Teyla's last boyfriend and probably the one who'd invited the others. It had to be nice if you could stay close even after you broke up.
The party went on, and John kept watching. The small group was laughing; Rodney must have told one of his math jokes. John liked Rodney's laugh – it was quick and funny and contagious. All right, so John could admit, at least to himself, that there was a lot about Rodney he liked: the way his face became animated when he warmed to a subject, the way his hands started making these weirdly expressive gestures, the way he spoke faster and faster the more excited he got.
Sometimes, John had a rather hard time to keep his dick from standing up and saluting whatever Rodney was saying.
The beer he kept chugging didn't make it easier right now. Neither did Rodney bumping into him when he stood up to get a new one, stumbling and hanging on to John to keep himself upright.
"Whoops," he said, grinning broadly.
It was quite possible that Rodney was more than a little drunk himself.
Also, Rodney's hand was on John's ass. John had to fight the urge to grab him and drag him off into some private little corner.
That was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. But then Rodney's hand slid around to give John's balls a friendly little squeeze, and Rodney slurred, "wanna play doctor, Doctor?", and all John could say was, "hell, yeah."
Things went pretty fast after that. They stumbled away from the party and locked themselves into Teyla's dark guest room, groping and undressing each other with an urgency John wasn't sure could be entirely chalked up to being smashed. They fell onto the bed together, where they proceeded to have dead drunk sex, hands sliding over sweaty skin without real aim, bodies pressing together more desperately than skilful. It was enough to make them come, though, a sweet relief that went straight to John's head, making him feel a little high.
Then Rodney whispered, "I love you," and John froze.
What a mess he'd made.
~~~
John had been sorely tempted to simply cancel Rodney's appointment, but suspected that it wouldn't have been very professional. Still, he was a psychologist; he could analyse himself, and the prospect of seeing Rodney was making him feel decidedly uneasy for a variety of reasons. One of them was the fact that this would be their last therapy session, since their professional relationship had been well and truly compromised. He didn't think he'd be able to help Rodney anymore. Another reason was that the desire to touch hadn't really gone away, quite the opposite. It had been three days since that damn party, and John still got hard whenever he thought of Rodney, of the way his body had been writhing underneath John's own.
It was a physical thing, though. It had to be, because John wasn't stupid enough to form an unprofessional emotional attachment to a patient. He was better than that.
Right.
Rodney looked a little apprehensive when he arrived, and for once, John didn't have the slightest idea what to say after his patient had sat down on the couch.
"You were gone pretty quickly after the party," Rodney started after some fidgeting.
"Yeah."
There was a pause.
"Don't you want to ask how I'm feeling?"
"Not really, no."
"Well, I'll tell you anyway." Rodney stared at him with that familiar defiance, and something inside John just ached. "I meant what I said. I, uh, I love you. I am fully aware that this isn't the 'masculine' thing to say, but not only is that a stupid cliché, it's-" He interrupted his own rant, took a deep breath. "Listen, I… I'm sorry if what I said made you feel uncomfortable, but it's true."
"This is called transference, Rodney. It's not real," John said finally, hating himself for sounding a little condescending.
"Oh, please. I am entirely aware that my feelings for you may stem from our client-therapist relationship, but that doesn't make them any less genuine. In fact, may I suggest some counter-transference to help you overcome your emotional barriers?"
What emotional barriers, John didn't ask. He wasn't that self-delusional.
"This isn't professional, Rodney. It shouldn't have happened in the first place, and I apologise for taking advantage of you."
"Hey, just who do you think you-"
"I'll tell Carla to make an appointment with Dr. Reiser," John ploughed on. "He's a good therapist, I'm sure he'll be able to help you."
Rodney paled, gaping at John in disbelief.
"What?"
"It's the best way to-"
"What, so you're abandoning me?"
"No one's abandoning you, Rodney," John explained with forced patience. "Dr. Reiser is an excellent psychologist. He can treat you a lot better than I can."
Rodney leaned back, crossing his arms.
"I don't see why you get to decide that all by yourself."
"Because I'm the therapist. I decide who I can treat and who I can't."
"Well, that sucks!"
John sighed and shook his head.
"Life isn't always fair, Rodney. I think you know that by now." This time, he was condescending entirely on purpose, knowing how much Rodney hated that. And sure enough, Rodney was staring at John like he wasn't sure how he could have entrusted his most personal thoughts and feelings to such a jackass.
They looked at each other in silence: Rodney furious, John trying to radiate calm superiority. He knew he was doing the right thing, no matter how much it hurt.
John waited until Rodney finally stood up and left without another word; anger, disappointment, and hurt bewilderment easy for everyone to see on that expressive face. Then the therapist allowed himself to cross his arms on the table, rest his head on top of them, and regret.
~~~
John sat alone in his office, staring at the leather couch. When Mrs. Durand had left a couple of minutes earlier, she had commented on how much she liked it.
"Much more comfortable than the one Dr. Jennings had," she'd said, which had morphed into a diatribe about her previous therapists and their various seating furniture, before John had been able to compliment her out of the room.
And now, he was staring. It was strange, but for a moment, he'd resented Mrs. Durand for liking the couch. Rodney had complained about it so often that John took its uncomfortable character as a given, and hearing someone say otherwise had made him feel... offended, on Rodney's behalf. Which was nuts, because he'd bought the damn thing because he'd found it relaxing.
He was so screwed. Here he was, sitting behind his fucking Ikea desk in his fucking white-walled office, getting all worked up over something some fucking woman had said. And why? Because he seemed to be completely unable to untangle his own feelings, and for a therapist, that was pathetic. It wasn't like he had loved Rodney or anything – and didn't the little psychologist in his head start laughing whenever John tried to convince himself of that – so there was really no reason for all the heartache and the sleepless nights and the lost appetite. He had made the right decision when he'd sent Rodney away. And besides, it had only been a night of drunken sex; it hadn't been important.
Right. Not even he could make himself believe that.
John stared a little more.
Fucking couch.
~~~
"You. Are an idiot."
John sighed, balancing the two grocery bags on one hip while trying to unlock his front door.
"What do you want, Rodney?" he asked tiredly. His insomnia hadn't really gone away; if anything, it was getting worse.
Rodney stood up from where he'd been sitting on the stairs, took the key from John's fumbling fingers, and opened the door, following John inside.
"I've been talking to Carla. She said you've been miserable for over a month. Quite a coincidence how this fits with the occurrence of you 'taking advantage' of my 'transference', don't you think."
You could even hear the air quotes. John placed the bags on the kitchen counter and turned around to tell Rodney to leave. The words seemed stuck in his throat, though, and he took in Rodney's familiar figure with a hunger that didn't seem entirely healthy.
God, he'd missed him.
"Look, Rodney-"
"Oh, no no no, we're not doing this again," Rodney interrupted, scowling. "This time, I get to talk; you've done enough damage already. I think your stupidity might have traumatised me, actually, though Dr. Reiser seems to be getting a little tired of that particular subject.
"Rodney-"
"You listen. I don't think I'll ever remember, and to be honest, I don't care all that much about it. I don't even know what it's like to remember one's childhood; it's not like I'm missing something. And you're even more moronic than I thought if you think my lack of a past is in any way significant, so get the hell over it already and just accept that my feelings for you are real, and that you," he pointed sharply at John, "are returning them."
"Rodney-"
"No, you don't get to take this from me!" Rodney exploded, glaring at John with obvious anger. "I may not know where I went to school, but I know what I want, and I want this! Us. I want us. And don't tell me you don't want it, too, because you're not that good at lying."
"Rodney." John waited a moment, but it seemed Rodney was done interrupting him. "You're right."
"Don't give me this crap about-" Rodney stopped, blinking. "Wait a minute, what?"
"You, uh, you're right. About, you know. The feelings thing." God, this was hard. "I mean, I still think it's transference, but there might have been some counter-transference going on, after all. And I'm not saying that again," John added defensively when Rodney just gaped at him.
"Boy, do you have issues."
"All psychologists have," John murmured, gaze dropping from Rodney's eyes to his crooked, crooked lips. "It's why we take those courses in the first place."
"I, ah, could help you work through your emotional baggage," Rodney offered, stepping closer, a strange gleam in his eyes.
"That's nice. Think I could make an appointment on short notice?"
"I happen to have some time right now."
"Good." The end of that word was already lost in Rodney's mouth as they finally closed the remaining space between them for a kiss. It was slow, unhurried, a getting to know each other; John's tongue sweeping lazily over Rodney's; Rodney's teeth tugging at John's bottom lip.
"You have enough time for some in depth counselling?" John asked when they parted. "Because I think I might need some guidance."
Rodney seemed to think about it.
"Sure. I'll just cancel all the others," he offered graciously, and John laughed.
This time, the bed they fell into was John's, and there was enough light to see exactly what they were doing. John almost came at the sight of Rodney, naked and flushed underneath him, eyes fluttering closed as John lowered himself and started to thrust, their dicks sliding against each other with almost painful friction. Not painful enough to stop, though, and John picked up the pace until they were both gasping and panting with pleasure. Rodney came first, and his choked little moan, his cock starting to pulse right next to John's, hot slickness instead of the friction – it was enough to make John come with a whispered, "damn," as he emptied himself across Rodney's soft belly.
They lay together in silence for a while, side by side, trying to catch their breaths. John sighed when Rodney started to fidget a little, like he wanted to say something, but was afraid to.
Really, what a mess he'd made. But, given a little time, he'd make it up to Rodney.
"You can say it, you know," he said quietly. "I won't run."
"That'd be a first," Rodney gave back, dryly. "Besides, I hear admitting one's feelings isn't the cool thing to do."
John grimaced. Instead of an answer, he rolled over and kissed Rodney, trying to tell him what he couldn't say, trying to apologise. Rodney was slow to reciprocate at first, but then he gave in with a sigh. The kiss grew from reassuring to almost desperately hungry, and they were both half hard again by the time they pulled apart.
John grinned suddenly, looking into Rodney's dazed eyes.
"So. How are you feeling?" he asked.
And laughed as the pillow hit him right in the face.
~~~
End.