Sublimation [2/2]
part one
Brendon desperately wants to apologize, but Spencer isn’t letting him.
Spencer’s acting like everything’s okay, and maybe it is, but sometimes apologies have nothing to do with the person wronged, and everything to do with the person who’s sorry. Avoidance of the issue is actually making Brendon feel crappier.
“I feel crappy,” Brendon tells Bob.
Bob says, “Okay,” and discards a three.
Brendon likes to think he and Bob are tight now, now that they’ve been on adventures together and everything, but Bob still has problems sharing.
They’re playing cards in the back of ‘jumper five - Carlotta, ‘cause Colonel Sheppard says she’s sassy - and it feels suspiciously like they’re hiding. Brendon isn’t going to mention that, though, if Bob doesn’t.
“I mean. I never had this much sex when I was really fourteen,” try at all, “so I shouldn’t be complaining, right?”
“I’m probably not the person to talk to about this,” Bob says, but he doesn’t actually seem all that put off so Brendon just rolls his eyes.
“Bob, seriously, you’re like. The only one I can talk to.” Brendon stares hard at his cards. He has a really shitty hand, but Bob’s trying to teach him how to bluff. He’s starting to get tired of losing all his chocolate to William.
Bob glances up then, and there isn’t exactly a grin on his lips, but Brendon can tell he’s amused.
Bob just says, “You have a really shitty hand,” though.
“I have a great hand,” Brendon says, careful not to place any emphasis on ‘great,’ even though he really, really wants to. Bob always says to not back down, no matter what, and sooner or later someone’s gonna think you’re actually telling the truth.
Bob nods. “Better. You still have a shitty hand.”
Brendon gives up, beams at him, because it’s not like he was ever going to fool Bob anyway.
“We’re going to try sunglasses next,” Bob says, and Bob is so great, Bob’s the best, and Bob is a little unhappy, Brendon can tell.
He thinks maybe he’s gonna have to go kick Joe’s ass.
*
William drapes himself all over Greta’s console and gives her his very best sexy grin. “Greta. Greta, pookems, golden-locked love of my life.”
“Bill,” Greta says. She smiles, leans forward onto her elbows. “I managed to wrangle Casino away from Dr. Z.”
“That is indeed good news,” William says, because they’ve been on the waiting list for that particular movie for months, and he knows for a fact that Dr. Z is at least ten names ahead of them. They’ll need a solid three hours to watch it, though, and William is still on a mission. Gabe’s gone all ninja on him, which is uncharacteristic and suspicious.
Greta nods. “We’ve got it ‘til eight tomorrow morning, so clear off your schedule tonight, okay?”
Greta has these precious, irresistible plump cheeks that are even more adorable in her teenaged face. William’s resolve is no match for them. It’s Greta. And Robert De Niro. “Just you, me and the mob,” William says, and then he leans in slightly more, because he’s got good gossip, and Greta is the absolute best to gossip with.
“What?” Greta asks eagerly, chin cupped in her hands.
“You’ll never guess,” William says, “who I stumbled across in Lacey’s quarters.”
*
Radek, being the sly ass that he is, has recruited Ager and Simpson late in the game, giving him the very slightest advantage. Very slight, since there is no actual way their heap of junk will be able to do much more than bleep at them and spin in circles.
Rodney and John’s robot has laser beam capabilities - limited, of course, since Elizabeth would likely kill them - and can hurl insults in three different languages.
“Yes, but can it race,” Radek says smugly, sitting across from them in the commissary. He’s got a ridiculous amount of Yahoo Serious hair and he’s wearing Miko’s glasses - huge, round things - since apparently his own prescription is too strong for him to see through. Rodney would consider taunting him about this, but his own teammate has some sort of unfortunate half-shaved weasel on his head, so it’s not like he can throw many stones.
“It can do more than race, Radek,” Rodney says. “It can fly.”
John elbows him in the back. This is possibly because their robot can’t actually fly. Yet.
Radek scoffs. “Right. I will believe this when I see it.”
“Rodney,” John says.
Rodney bats him away, says, “Shut up, shut up, I’m handling this.”
“We can’t make it fly,” John whispers, and Rodney snaps, “Are you questioning me? Is this a challenge? Are you issuing a challenge, Colonel Sheppard?” and Rodney’s aware he’s a little on the defensive, but he’d been sort of high-strung and touchy as a teenager. It came from being light-years ahead of his peers in terms of brain function, while conversely stupendously backwards in the social scene.
“Whoa, buddy,” John says. He pats the back of Rodney’s hand. “Calm it down, there. You can make it fly if you really want to.”
Rodney thinks John’s patronizing him - no, he knows it, but whatever. He’ll show them all. Making it fly will be the easy part.
*
“We,” Brendon says firmly when Spencer opens his door, “are going to talk.”
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yes. And you aren’t going to distract-what are you doing?”
“Taking off my pants.”
“Okay.” Brendon nods, steps inside so the door can slide shut behind him. “Okay, but see. We’re going to.”
“Talk,” Spencer prompts. “Right.” He kicks off his pants and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt.
The lights dim just as the material skims over his belly, and Brendon doesn’t fight him on it, because, damn it, he’s not going to get distracted! They’re totally going to talk about this, discuss everything like rational adults.
There’s a golden glow over the room, mimicking candlelight, and it’s entirely unfair, because Brendon’s brain sort of stutters when Spencer climbs up onto his bed and sprawls out on his back.
Which is a total dirty play, there, so Brendon spins around and faces the wall. “No, seriously, you’re going to have to listen to me apologize here,” Brendon says.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and then Spencer’s boxers go sailing over Brendon’s shoulder, landing in a blue cottony heap at his feet. Brendon crosses his arms, bites his fingernails into his skin.
“Spencer,” he takes a deep breath and just dives head first and says, “Spence, I didn’t mean to call you a girl or fat or anything, not the way you took it, anyway, and maybe. Maybe?” Brendon’s rambling. He’s totally aware that he’s babbling like an idiot and he doesn’t care.
“Brendon, hey-”
“No, wait, wait, I have to-it hurt a little when Bill called you my boyfriend, you know, because it’s not like I’m-I’m repulsive or anything, so you didn’t have to flinch-” If he doesn’t get this all out now Spencer’s never going to let him, and this is important. “This is important, Spencer Smith.”
“Okay.”
Brendon jumps, ‘cause he totally hadn’t heard Spencer sneak up on him.
But Spencer hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder, wraps his arms around his middle, and Brendon settles. He relaxes, leans back, because his shape’s a little different, a little softer, but he still feels like Spencer.
“Okay,” Spencer says again. Brendon feels him shrug. “I guess I just didn’t think about us like that before.”
“You didn’t?” That’s kind of surprising, actually, considering they’ve been sleeping together for months, considering that Brendon’s declared his everlasting love to Spencer several times.
Spencer squeezes him. “Give me a break, Brendon, I’m Air Force.”
“Well.” Point.
“Are we done talking?”
Brendon nods, turns slowly around in Spencer’s arms. “I’m a little overdressed,” he says.
Spencer grins. One of those utterly gorgeous fourteen-year-old grins that Brendon’s going to miss like burning once he’s older again.
“Spencer,” Brendon breathes, almost an accident, and Spencer says, “I can help with that.”
*
Frank jerks awake to frantic whispers and shaking.
“Frank, Frank, wake up, Frank.”
“Gee, wha-?” Frank turns over, digs the palm of his hand into his eye socket. His alarm clock is blinking 2 AM. “What’s going on?”
Gerard’s crouched over him, a hand on his arm. “Frankie, I can’t find Craig.”
Frank thinks the lights on and leverages up onto his elbows. Gerard’s a sleep-blurred smudge of messy dark hair and huge, worried eyes, and Frank blinks, slow, pressing his eyes shut for an extra second to clear his head. He’s not as used to night emergencies as everybody else on Atlantis, since they’ve never needed his limited expertise in engineering, and Tito, the only indigenous Pegasus creature other than Craig living on Atlantis, has yet to go on a killing spree.
“Hang on,” Frank says, yawning. “Lemme just get dressed.”
He kind of doubts Craig’s gone - his cage is huge, and he’s bound to be in one of the nooks or crannies or tubes - but he figures Gerard isn’t going to go back to sleep unless they find him.
In Gerard’s quarters, all the lights are on at their brightest capacity, and Frank squints a little, eyes watering.
Gerard says, voice hushed, “I left his cage open.” His teeth are biting into his lower lip, and Frank reaches out, slips an open hand over his cheek, behind his neck and pulling him into a half-hug.
“It’s okay,” Frank says.
“I fell asleep.”
Frank squeezes him, tight, then lets him go. “It’s fine, Gee, we’ll find him.”
An hour later, Frank isn’t so sure anymore. Craig’s a wily little guy, and Frank’s really fucking tired. Plus, Gerard’s room is a complete fucking mess. “This is sort of impossible.”
“I know,” Gerard says, frowning. His eyes are tinged with red.
“In the morning,” Frank says, curling a hand around Gerard’s arm and herding him towards the door. “In the morning, you and Pete can come up with something, okay?”
Pete can recalibrate a lifesigns detector to pick up rats or something, and Frank’s sure Craig’s still somewhere in the mess of Gerard’s room. Craig’s a homebody, for one, a nester, and Frank knows he’ll want to stick by things that remind him of Gerard, smell like him, too. They just have to figure out which pile of dirty clothes he’s hiding under, and that’s something they need to do when they’re both not so exhausted they can hardly stand.
Gerard looks like he wants to protest, but his mouth opens up into a yawn instead.
“Yeah,” Frank says, “Come on.”
*
Patrick wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest and he says, “Oh, hell no.”
He tries to roll Pete off him, but Pete just clings tighter. “Patrick.”
“Seriously, no.”
Pete snuffles into his neck. The action’s familiar, and Patrick has to force himself not to pull Pete closer. “You’re comfy,” Pete says.
“Pete.”
Pete shifts, loosens his grip and digs his chin into Patrick’s chest on a wide yawn. “I feel older.”
Patrick frowns. “You don’t look it.”
“I feel at least fifteen,” Pete says, and Patrick rolls his eyes, says, “Oh, well, fifteen,” and then tips Pete off of him and struggles out from underneath the covers.
He needs coffee. If he’s going to have to deal with teenaged Pete again all day, he needs his special stash of Kona and one of Morris’s homemade cinnamon buns. And then he actually has some work to do, so Pete’s gonna have to figure out how entertain himself.
The thought’s only a little scary.
Patrick sighs, pulling on a pair of pants, then reaches for his radio, hooking it over his right ear as he makes his way into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, he leaves the lights on low, highlighting the almost-permanent smudges of exhaustion under his eyes. There never seems to be enough time for sleep, and he’s strongly considering asking for a couple vacation weeks on Earth after the whole mess with Pete is straightened out.
“Come on,” he says to Pete, coming out of the bathroom and slipping on his shoes. “Breakfast.”
“You know what I want?” Pete asks, bouncing to his feet. He’s wearing purple sweatpants, and Patrick’s pretty sure they’re Brendon’s. He works with really weird people.
Patrick shrugs into his science jacket, tugs on a hat. “No, what?”
“A puppy, dude. Like, an alien puppy. Think Frank can find me one?”
“No.” The last thing in the entire world Pete needs is an alien puppy. Patrick’s head aches just thinking about it.
And then his radio crackles, Frank’s voice a tinny, “Patrick?”
Patrick says, “Yeah,” and Pete leeches onto his side, saying, “Whossit?”
“D’you know where Pete is? He’s not answering his radio.”
Patrick flicks Pete’s ear, because Pete’s an irresponsible asshole sometimes. “Yeah, he’s here,” Patrick says.
Frank says, “Awesome, look, we’ve lost Craig. Can you have Pete meet Gee in the labs?”
*
Gerard doesn’t mean to be so upset, but he’s sort of attached to Craig.
It’s nice to have a focus, though, and Pete’s hunched over a lab table with one of the lifesigns detectors split open, humming under his breath, and Gerard consumes a dangerous amount of coffee in the hour or so it’s taking Pete to fix it.
“Okay, so,” Pete says finally, “I’ve fiddled with the sensors. Let’s try this sucker out.”
He beams at Gerard, and Gerard isn’t sure how he got stuck with Pete Wentz - he’d had a small say in recruiting scientists for the program, and, first impressions and all, Pete hadn’t really impressed him, though they’d somehow gotten foisted together anyway - but he’s really glad for it, now.
They practically race for the transporters, Gerard only a beat behind Pete, barely panting as they skid to a stop. It’s nice to have the lung capacity of a kid. A kid who hasn’t started smoking yet, since Gerard hadn’t picked up that particular bad habit until he’d hit sixteen. He’s still mainly glad he’s kicked that, but sometimes he misses it so much he actually eats at the same table as Lacey just to smell the nicotine on him.
“Wow, okay,” Pete says when they reach Gerard’s quarters. “Did something explode in here?”
Gerard looks around at the mess. “No.” He hasn’t done laundry in a while, but Frank’s the one who normally reminds him about that.
“Huh.”
Gerard frowns. “Do you think-”
“Hey, wait. Wait, there’s something.” Pete stalks farther into the room, hops over a pile of old socks, then digs into a sort of dark and scary corner. He stops, holds up the lifesigns detector. “Yep, definitely something back here.”
“Craig?” Gerard creeps up behind him, looks over his shoulder.
“Unless Atlantis suddenly became infested with Ancient rats.”
Gerard thinks that would be cool for a split-second, then thinks maybe Ancient rats would hurt tiny little Craig, so he really hopes that isn’t the case. And then Pete folds back Frank’s favorite Misfit t-shirt and there’s Craig, nestled in a sleepy ball, and Gerard’s entire body relaxes.
“There you go,” Pete says. He flashes him a smug grin.
“Thanks, Pete,” Gerard murmurs. He scoops Craig up, who stirs a little, blinks at Gerard, then curls into an even tighter ball in the palm of his hand.
Pete grabs the t-shirt, thrusts his fingers through a little gnawed hole. “Hope you weren’t that attached to this,” he says.
Gerard blanches. Frank is totally not going to be thrilled about that.
“Seriously, man, this room is scary. I hope you’re living with Frank,” Pete says, and Gerard.
Gerard is totally living with Frank. Gerard never even noticed before, but he’s living with Frank. That is so exciting.
*
It’s only when Joe spots Ray in the doorway of greenhouse lab 7 that he realizes he hasn’t seen him for days.
“Where have you been, Toro?” Joe asks, because Ray looks a little worn down. He’s two feet too short, hair cropped, and he has his BDUs cinched tight and high with a belt, the amount of overlap totally laughable. Joe isn’t actually going to point it out, but he looks like a geek. And Joe knows geeks.
Ray smiles. “Have you seen Bob?” he asks, and Joe should definitely know where Bob is, but he doesn’t. He’d parted ways with Bob last night after the movie, an awkward see-you.
“Not since yesterday,” Joe says.
Ray tips his head to the side. “All right, thanks.”
“No, seriously, you’ve been missing for-”
“Gotta go, Joe,” Ray cuts in, and his grin just grows, takes over his entire face, and then he’s gone. Huh.
“I think Miss Maja’s corrupting him,” someone says from behind him, and Joe jumps about three feet in the air, spins around to find a tiny little Urie hiding half behind a hydroponics banana tree.
“Christ, Urie, what the hell?”
Urie crosses his spindly arms - seriously, he looks eight or something - over his chest. “You should know where Bob is,” he says, frowning, and this is not something Joe wants to talk about with Brendon Urie, shit. Or anyone, for that matter, considering it’s a very sensitive subject.
“Dude, why would I want to discuss this with you?”
“Because you’re hurting Bob’s feelings,” Urie says, and Joe feels a little pang in his chest, rubs the heel of his palm over it, but he just shakes his head.
“None of your business,” Joe says.
“Bob might be fourteen forever,” Urie says, and, wow, way to make the situation seem even worse.
Fourteen for now or forever, it’s still weird to be in love with him.
Urie’s eyes widen. Joe thinks maybe he might have said that last bit out loud.
“Holy crap, Joe.” Urie’s mouth moves into this huge-ass grin. “Holy crap.”
“Wait, dude, no.” Joe shakes his head, because he loves Bob, but Bob’s one scary-ass motherfucker, and Urie is a giant blabbermouth. Possibly worse than Beckett.
Urie mimes zipping his lips, practically vibrating in place. “Mum, Joe. Freaking mum, you have no worries.”
Urie means well, Joe knows this. Bob is totally going to know by nightfall. Which means Joe’s gonna have to say something first. Awesome.
*
Joe tracks Bob down to the armory. Bob’s sort of noticeable, so it really isn’t that hard to find him. Of course, it’d taken a few hours for Joe to work up his nerve, and half of him had kind of wanted Urie to just say something, because that’d save him some heartache, right?
His first plan’s pre-emptive denial, but Joe- Joe really, really sucks at lying. He’s, like, epically bad. He thinks maybe it’s from years of doing weed; he’s lost all ability to control his facial expressions, and bad shit usually just makes him break out in nervous giggles.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Bob says. He snaps a clip into his sidearm, walks over to the target range.
Joe jogs after him. “You. You do?” Joe doesn’t even know exactly what he’s going to say. “But-”
“It’s fine.” Bob slips in ear plugs, and Joe watches him lift his arms and aim, adjusting his stance a little, and he looks sort of like the recoil from the gun’ll topple him over. He squeezes out a round, though, and Joe just stands there, hands at his sides.
“Okay,” Joe finally says.
“We probably shouldn’t-” Bob takes a deep breath, sets the discharged gun on its side, and reaches out to pat Joe’s shoulder without really looking at him. “No hard feelings.”
Okay, wow. Joe’s eyes start prickling, and how fucking embarrassing is that? He’s pretty sure Bob’s breaking up with him. Joe rubs the side of his hand under his nose. “Um.”
Bob’s avoiding his gaze, reloading his gun, turning away, and Joe guesses he’s, like, being dismissed or something.
Joe’d figured this reaction was a possibility, yeah, but he sort of feels like he’s been punched in the chest, and that’s kind of unexpected. He clears his throat, says, “Bob, I.”
Bob glances over his shoulder at him, face expressionless.
Joe shakes his head. “Yeah, never mind.”
*
William has always appreciated Gabe’s height. He’s one of the very few people on Atlantis taller than him, and it’s refreshing. William has a way of leaning on things to appear less lanky, but his posture improves around Gabe, and he mostly ends up leaning on him. Gabe’s nice about it. He never shoves him off or gets pissy.
They have a decent camaraderie, a bosom buddies sort of vibe, so it’s downright odd that Gabe has made himself scarce for so long.
William never has to hunt Gabe down.
“You,” William says when Gabe opens his doors, “are a sucky best friend.” He pushes past Gabe, dropping down onto the low, uncomfortable Ancient couch. “You may begin apologizing at any time.”
Gabe slowly rubs his towel over his face. He’s bare-chested. William enjoys the view for a moment before remembering he’s angry, and there’s no room for ogling while being mad.
“Bill?”
“I’m waiting,” William says. He crosses his legs and taps his toes, counting off the ridiculous amount of seconds it takes for Gabe to actually say something, because Gabe is apparently a bigger asshole than William has given him credit for.
“Bill. You’re.”
“Wonderful?” William prompts. “Lovely, gracious, tolerant?”
“Little.”
“Oh, fuck off, I’m not that-” William covers his mouth. Damn it. He’d almost made it another day curse free.
“Bills-”
“I’m having a bad week,” William says, jabbing a finger at Gabe. “Every single bone I’ve ever had hurts, Gabe, aches. I dropped three datapads yesterday, and I think Dr. McKay wants to kill me, and I’ve completely run out of conditioner, and have you been comforting me?” It’s not that he doesn’t love Greta and Butcher and Pacey Witter, but Gabe’s Gabe, and William has missed him.
“Bill,” Gabe says, and his brow’s creased, a pinched scowl on his face.
“What?”
Gabe says, very carefully, “I’ve been off-world with Kennerty’s team, William,” and oh, he’s using William, and Gabe hardly ever uses his full name. It sends a deadly shiver up William’s spine.
William swallows. “You have?”
Gabe nods. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“But. Asher?”
“Put in for time off,” Gabe says.
Come to think of it, William hasn’t seen Travis at all, either. “Oh.”
“Yeah. So you want to explain everything now?”
“There was an accident off-world,” William says. “I’m fourteen. Or maybe thirteen, since there’s roughly two or three years of unrelenting teenage misery in my past. I need love and comfort, Captain Gabe. And possibly lap naps.” Purely platonic lap naps, of course, because William isn’t going to ever try to get into Gabe’s pants.
For one, Gabe’s in his thirties, and William’s currently having problems growing facial hair. And for another, he’s William’s very best friend, and William does not have sex with his best friends. Excepting Jeremy Logan in eleventh grade. And Sarah Hanning in college, but Sarah had been a political activist, so it never would have worked out, anyway.
Gabe says, “Okay,” and, “So which planet did this happen on?”
*
Gabe, William knows, has a way of getting things done. It has something to do with his military prowess, and perhaps the way he can threaten death with a silent eyebrow arch.
“Gabe has gone off to win the day,” William says, settling down next to Sisky in the common lounge. He presses his face into his very scary hair and inhales, because Siska is using some sort of coconut shampoo and it smells delicious. There’s just so much of it. “You smell like frosted dessert and winter nights. I’d like to snip a curl and sleep with it always.”
“Bill.” Siska tries to shove him away with his shoulder.
William’s a practiced limpet, though, so the jostling only maneuvers him closer. “Give up, Adam, my boy. I know you love me dearly.”
Siska sighs and slumps down into the cushions, and William adjusts himself so he’s snug against his side.
Greta’s on the couch across from them, her legs draped over the Butcher’s lap. “I don’t know,” Greta says. “I’m kind of getting used to this.”
“Because you’ve already grown breasts and hips, Salpeter,” William says. “You’re a lovely young woman, and I’m a veritable scarecrow.”
“You’re always a scarecrow, Bill,” Butcher says.
“I’m svelte. I’m all the rage. I’m a slip of a man-boy made of sunshine and rainbows, direct from the mouth of Captain Gabe.”
Siska laughs and the Butcher rolls his eyes. “Bill,” Butcher says. “Capt-”
“No, don’t tell him,” Greta cuts in, eyes dancing. She slaps the Butcher’s arm lightly. “It’s more fun this way.”
William frowns at her. “You’re supposed to be my friend,” he says.
“Oh, I am, Billy, I am.” She grins. “You’ll thank me later.”
William highly doubts that. You’ll thank me later generally applies to underage sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll, and William’s still miffed at his mother for not letting him attend Roxy Malone’s unchaperoned birthday extravaganza in tenth grade.
“I hate you all,” William mutters. He worms his way under Siska’s arm for pets and snuggles, and Sisky sighs and tugs him closer.
*
Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard let Captain Gabe take his team out to P54-S13, and somehow - some way, because Captain Gabe is amazing, William knows - Gabe, Lacey, Nolan and Ivarsson do not get eaten by the Fourteen Machine, and step back onto Atlantis still in their adult forms mere hours after they’d left.
There’s dried blood on Gabe’s forehead, and Lacey’s got a bruise cresting his cheek, but they’re both grinning like mad, and Captain Gabe sends William a cheeky salute across the ‘gate room. Lacey sticks his tongue out and gives him a lewd gesture, and really. Really, there is something honestly wrong with that man.
“It’ll last another day or less,” Gabe says, and then Dr. Weir calls them all in for a briefing, so William doesn’t know the specifics, but he doesn’t really need them. William believes whatever Gabe tells him.
Perhaps that’s dangerous to do, but Captain Gabe hasn’t failed him yet.
“You see,” he says to Greta.
“I see,” Greta says, grinning up at him.
William tugs on one of her pigtails. “We’ll be adults again in no time, and then I can have grown up sex.”
Greta bites her lip, but a giggle slips out anyway. “Oh. Oh, of course,” she says. “As opposed to all the sex you’re having now. Which is clearly-”
“Look, Salpeter, I’m well aware that I haven’t been laid in months, thank you very much,” William says, tossing his hair over his shoulder, and Greta just laughs, lets out one full-bellied guffaw before slapping a palm over her mouth.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. William can see her huge smile behind her hand.
“I’ll bet.”
“No. No, really, just think of all the people you can proposition when you’re older again,” Greta says. Her eyes are dancing, but she sounds serious enough.
William gazes at her carefully. He says, “I know,” slow and thoughtful-like, just in case she busts out in mocking amusement again, but her demeanor doesn’t change.
She nods earnestly. “Lacey, even,” she says, and William gags back his breakfast, because what the hell?
“Lacey?”
“Clearly-” Greta clears her throat. “Clearly, your mutual animosity is just, um, sexual tension?”
“Sexual-” Huh. Huh. There’s a possibility that William has let his pure hatred of Lacey overshadow the fact that Lacey is sort of desirable in a sleazy whore kind of way. “You may be onto something there.”
“I.” Greta looks startled for a half-second. “I am. Of course I am.”
*
It takes most of the afternoon, but Pete helps Gerard move all the little pieces of Craig’s cage into Frank’s room.
Gerard figures if he’s going to be living with Frank, Craig might as well be living with him, too. He hopes Frank doesn’t mind how it nearly takes up half of the lounge nook, and that they added a few more tanks that they’d scavenged out of Carson’s lab. Craig likes to explore.
Frank does a double-take when he walks in before dinner, but he just tosses his shoes in a corner and collapses onto the bed, dragging Gerard down with him. Gerard snuggles happily into his side.
“So we live here now,” Gerard says. He wants to get it all out in the open, since Frank had made such a stink about having meaningful relationship conversations. At least, that’s what Gerard thinks Frank had been talking about.
“The giant habitrail clued me in,” Frank says, but Gerard doesn’t hear anything bad in his voice. He sounds amused.
“I promise to clean up after myself.”
Frank chuckles. “Gee, you’ve lived here for months, and you’ve never cleaned up after yourself.”
“Oh.”
“I’m gonna make you shower more now, though.”
Gerard pulls a face. He hates getting wet. “Okay,” he says.
“Yeah.” Frank jabs his elbow into Gerard’s side. “You sound thrilled.”
“I totally am,” Gerard lies. “I love showering. I’m just all absentminded and shit.”
“Oh, that’s total crap, seriously, Gee, what the hell?”
Frank pushes at him, digging his fingers into his sides and Gerard flails back on the bed, laughing. He kicks out and catches Frank’s thigh, and Frank smashes the side of his head so hard he sees freaking stars, and then his eyesight gives out just as a streak of fire shoots up his spine.
*
When Rodney blinks open his eyes again, Simpson’s staring down at him with an unwarranted amount of amusement and not nearly enough concern.
“Well, that was not fun.”
Rodney turns his head and glares at Radek, who’s sprawled on his stomach, blinking owlishly at him. If possible, Miko’s glasses look even more ridiculous on his adult face. “Really?”
John’s sitting just beyond him, legs spread, a hand pressed over his right eye. There’s blood seeping through his fingers, and a dazed expression on his face. “You hit me,” John says.
“Yes, well.” Rodney struggles upright. He spots the mangled mess of metal and wires heaped in the middle of the lab. “You completely ruined our robot.”
“You flew it into my head,” John says.
Whatever. Rodney waves a hand. He’d gotten it to fly, so he doesn’t know what John’s complaining about. He’s looking pale, though, so perhaps a trip to the infirmary’s in order.
“Huh,” Rodney says.
John pulls his hand back, makes a face. “What?” he asks.
“I think I might actually miss your hair.”
*
“Oh. Oh, this is disgusting,” Ryan says, wiping his face with both his and Jon’s napkins.
Brendon licks his lips. “Mmmm, cheesy.” Morris makes the best French onion soup.
Jon laughs, even though he’s got a smudge of baked beans on his nose. He says, “Hey, we’re big again,” and swipes at his hair. “I feel weird.”
“I feel sort of,” Brendon twists in his seat. “Tight.” His skin feels like it’s stretched thin over his bones. He pokes at the side of Spencer’s head, since he’s still passed out in his mashed potatoes.
“Blurgh,” Spencer says. His eyelashes flutter. “What the fuck?”
Brendon pokes his head again, and Spencer snatches his finger, quick as anything, but doesn’t squeeze.
“Hi,” Brendon says, beaming down at him.
Spencer says, “Hey,” then yawns and slowly pulls himself upright. It’s so awesome, because Spencer’s got his shoulders back and everything, and Brendon maybe misses some of his softness, the pudgy belly, pinch-able cheeks, but he’s missed this Spencer more.
“So this is nice,” Jon says, grinning dopily at them.
“Jon. Jon, you’ve got.” Ryan motions to his nose.
“What?”
Ryan says, “Here, wait,” and steals Spencer’s napkin, reaching out to wipe Jon’s nose, steadying his face with a hand on his chin, and hey.
“Hey. Hey, you’re-” Brendon cuts off with a yelp, ‘cause Spencer kicked him, and Spencer’s got big old boots on that hurt. “You kicked me.”
Jon laughs again, and Jon’s a sneaky bastard, because Brendon had not seen this coming at all. He glares at Ryan. Ryan totally should have told him about how he’s in love with Jon Walker and how Jon’s so obviously in love with Ryan. Sex is one thing, but love should be shared. Ryan knows all about Brendon and Spencer’s future retirement-slash-commitment ceremony, and how Brendon’s totally gonna make them live on that planet with the rhinos that look like horses that look like unicorns.
Ryan blinks at him, like he’s oh so innocent.
Brendon jabs a finger at him. He hopes his face is talking, because he thinks maybe Spencer’ll punch him if he opens his mouth again. Brendon’s a master at being discreet when he actually wants to be, honest.
Ryan arches both his eyebrows as if to say I don’t think so, but Brendon’s persistent and Brendon wants to gossip about their boyfriends. Ryan totally doesn’t stand a chance.
*
Patrick’s used to getting tackled by Pete, so it doesn’t really faze him when he ends up on the floor of his lab, papers everywhere and Pete sprawled on top of him.
“I’m adult sized again,” Pete crows.
“That’s great. Can you move your knee off my crotch?”
“Sure.” Pete shifts agreeably around until he’s got their hips nicely snuggled together. “Wanna head back to my place so I can stick other, more pleasant things on your crotch?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, even though Patrick’s kind of got the idea already from all the thrusting going on.
Patrick would be embarrassed, except this is Pete, and this kind of thing happens all the time. He’s pretty sure no one’s even paying them any attention.
“Patrick,” Pete says. He sort of wraps his arms around Patrick’s head. “Patrick, Patrick, I missed you.”
Patrick grins. He really, really missed Pete, too.
*
Since William had been taking a delightful evening catnap, it’s all very anticlimactic when he wakes up big again. The lack of drama would be disappointing, truly, except for the fact that he no longer has screaming pain in his limbs.
“I’m growing a mustache,” William says to Greta when he’s tracked her down to the lower labs. She’s full sized again, too, and he folds her up into a hug.
Greta tips her head back to look up at him, still in the circle of his arms. “Are you going into porn then?” she asks.
“Maybe. Maybe I am.” William strokes a finger over his upper lip. He thinks a mustache would be kick-ass, but perhaps the teasing wouldn’t be worth it. Still. He feels there should be a difference between regular William and seducer of that rat bastard Lacey William. Facial hair is a classic choice.
“Butcher’s hosting a Dawson’s Creek finale party tonight,” Greta says.
“Oh, that’s nice,” William says, because he’s seen it dozens of times, but the finale never ceases to give him warm fuzzies in his chest.
One thing William absolutely adores about being on an off-world team again is all the bonding. They’re exactly William’s sort of people.
*
Butcher’s Dawson’s Creek finale party is held in the common lounge, and Butcher serves popcorn and hot chocolate to the mass of people who show up. William snuggles down in between Greta and Travis, and he hasn’t see Travis in forever, so he ends up mostly in Travie’s lap.
Travie has an incredibly comfy lap and big hands, and he doesn’t mind when William whispers about Pacey’s handsomeness, and how huge Van Der Beek’s forehead is. It’s truly monstrous.
During intermission - which will be a solid half hour at least, William knows, because these are Rare Nights, worthy of capitalization, and must be drawn out as long as possible - William gets up for a stretch and pulls Greta over to the hot chocolate corner, because Joe and Sergeant Bryar are on complete opposite sides of the room, and that’s somehow very wrong.
“Tell me everything you know,” William says.
Greta snags two mugs and commandeers one of the thermoses, so William is forced to follow her towards the very back of the lounge, the dark and scary nooks reserved for necking during particularly boring parts of movies. William used to spend lots of time back there with Tom. It’s sad now that he only has Greta to gossip with. Not that Greta isn’t awesome; he just wishes maybe she’d let him feel her up.
Greta tugs William down next to her on the couch and says, “You’ll have to be more specific, Bill.”
“Bryar and Joe,” William says, bending his head close to hers. “I fear they’ve done something stupid to each other.”
Greta hums, sips at her chocolate and bounces her gaze around the room. “I see your point,” she says finally. Greta almost always sees William’s points. She’s wonderful like that.
“How should we fix this?” he asks. He wishes his mustache was full grown so he could twirl it thoughtfully. He settles for tapping a finger on his chin.
“We’ll split up. Tomorrow,” Greta says, “I’ll take Joe and you take Sergeant Bryar.”
William does not exactly like this idea, because Bryar’s a relatively big guy. Bryar has never expressed any fondness for William. Bryar has never actually deigned to have a conversation with William, nor have they ever been in the same room alone, without Joe’s soothing presence. William is understandably leery of Greta’s idea. “I do not know, Salpeter. Are you willing to pay for my funeral expenses?”
Greta pats his arm, grinning. “I’m sure the military’ll take care of it.”
*
William spots Captain Gabe at breakfast and drops into the seat across from him, because William hasn’t spent near enough time in Gabe’s company over the past week, and it’s truly tragic. He’s heard tales of Gabe’s heroics on the Planet of the Creepy Staring Age-Regressed Natives - although the exact use of the Fourteen Machine is still a mystery, and William rather likes the idea of just completely forgetting about the entire incident and subsequent days upon days of misery - and how Gabe had manfully cajoled them into giving him certain answers, with promises of painful retribution if any of their words were vicious lies. Gabe, William thinks, is the very, very best.
“What’s on your face?” Gabe asks.
“I’m growing a mustache.”
Gabe arches an eyebrow. “Okay.”
Little known fact: adult William actually has to shave daily. He’s already got a shadow on his upper lip. William thinks he’s looking dapper, but Captain Gabe is twinkling his eyes at him.
“It’ll be awesome,” William insists.
“Sure. You going into porn?”
William scowls. William finds porn jokes just as hilarious as the next person, but that’s going to get old fast. “I’ll have you know, Captain Gabe, that I’m totally going to seduce that rat bastard Lacey with this mustache.”
“Well.” Gabe makes a face William has never seen before, like perhaps how a serial killer might smile before chopping up several fluffy malamute puppies, but he just says, “I suppose the porn mustache makes sense, then.”
“I thought so.” William nods.
Gabe pushes back from the table and gets to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Bill. I’ve got a little business to take care of.”
*
Even though his mustache is not at fully awesome capacity yet, William’s impatient, has always been notoriously impatient, so he goes off to enact his genius seduction plan slightly ahead of schedule.
Lacey opens his door looking tremendously worn down. His black eye’s already turning sickly yellow, and he winces slightly when he spots William. And then he starts laughing.
William hasn’t even said anything, so the hysterics are a little uncalled for, he thinks.
“Ow, ow, fuck.” Lacey wraps an arm around his middle gasping for breath, still with this huge-ass grin on his face. “Fuck, he was telling the truth?”
William frowns. “I don’t know-”
“Seriously. Bills-”
“Don’t call me Bills.” William curls his fists on his hips, and Lacey just sets off laughing again.
“God, stop it, this fucking hurts,” Lacey says, hanging off the doorjamb, panting.
“Lacey. Lacey, it’s come to my attention, Lacey,” William’s getting louder, nearly shouting, because Lacey’s seriously laughing like a hyena, “that what we say to each other could be construed as flirting.”
“Shit. Shit, okay. Beckett.” Lacey takes some shaky breaths, seems to barely, barely get a hold of himself. “Beckett, right, we in no way flirt at all, and you need to go talk to the captain, and, oh my god, shave your face. Or don’t, I don’t care, it’s kind of hilarious.”
William’s frown deepens. This conversation is not going anywhere near the way he’d planned. It’s disheartening. “Are you absolutely certain we don’t flirt?”
“I hate you,” Lacey stresses, eyes suddenly hard. “I spend my nights lying awake plotting ways to make your life hell.”
“I knew it!” William says, because no one ever believes him when he says Lacey has it in for him, but he’d known it. Lacey has arch enemy stamped all over him.
“Saporta just beat the shit out of me because of you,” Lacey goes on, “so I’ve-”
“Wait.” William frowns. “Wait, Gabe just. What?”
Lacey waves a hand, grimaces. “Sparring. Just, you know, friendly sparring where Saporta fucks me up a little and tells me to keep my hands off you.”
“Well that. That doesn’t make much sense.” Gabe has always been a staunch supporter of Lacey, and he’s never quite called William delusional, because Captain Gabe never, ever insults William at all about anything, but this beating up of Lacey business doesn’t exactly sound very Gabe-like.
Lacey gazes at him blankly. “I don’t understand why you’re even here.”
“I’m sure we’ve already been-”
“Here, Beckett, on Atlantis. You have got to be the densest jackass I’ve ever met.”
William bristles. William is in no way a jackass. William’s perfectly delightful to everyone except Lacey, and can anyone blame him?
“Go away, Bill,” Lacey says, and slides the door closed in his face. Some people have no manners.
*
Divide and conquer or something. That had been their original plan, William is sure of it. He doesn’t think Greta meant get completely shitfaced with Bryar, but that’s exactly where the afternoon seems to be heading, so William’s just going to go with it.
Brendon happens to be there as well, but Brendon’s a wee little thing, even aged correctly, and William doesn’t anticipate him being conscious for very much longer.
“There is something drastically wrong, Robert,” William says. He takes a gentlemanly sip of some sort of swill Travis got off-world last mission. It seems to be burning through William’s esophagus, but he mans up and takes the pain.
Bryar grunts.
“Yes, exactly.” William passes him the bottle. “So what we must do. What we must do, Robert, is make things not wrong.”
Bryar blinks at him, sticky. William thinks perhaps Bryar’s just as drunk as he is. William’s a champ at holding his liquor, but he’s not planning on getting up any time soon. The world’s sort of doing this spinney thing, and they’re out in the open up very, very high. Supposedly there’s shielding to prevent freefalls off of towers and such, but William’s not willing to test that out.
“Oooo, oooo,” Brendon sings from his sprawl on the balcony floor, “oooo, I made up this song for you.”
“That’s lovely, Brendon,” William tells him, because it’s important to remain positive in these dire times. “Now. Now, Robert, I need you to tell me what’s happened with Joe.”
“Nothing,” Bryar says.
“Jooooe,” Brendon lilts. His fingers are dancing in the air above his head. “Oh, oh, I made up this song for Joe.”
William absently pats Brendon on the stomach and says, “It can’t be nothing.” Nothing wouldn’t require them sitting as far away from each other as humanly possible.
Bryar might be glaring at him, it’s hard to tell.
“We could. We could make this a game?” William tries to snap his fingers, but his thumb keeps getting caught. “I could guess. Let me guess what’s wrong, all right? Joe,” William says, “has broken your heart.” William doubts this is the case, but he figures it’s safer than accusing Bryar of this same horrible, horrible deed.
Brendon giggles. “Jooooe’s in looooove,” he says.
Bryar grimaces and tips the bottle up towards his mouth, and William watches him swallow hard. He does not seem surprised about Brendon’s off-key revelation.
“Bryar,” William says, aghast. “Bryar, you didn’t.”
“It wouldn’t have worked out,” Bryar says. He rubs a hand under his right eye, and William thinks he detects a small, suspicious sniffle.
This whole thing is completely ridiculous. “Robert, Robert, listen to me.” William waves a hand around. He’s hoping it’ll help him gather his thoughts into something coherent, because it’s important that Bryar understand this, and William is drunk. William is one of those rare drunks who can speak clearly and concisely, but that doesn’t actually mean the words automatically come out of his mouth in the correct order. “You can’t break up with someone for being in love with you, that’s. That’s asinine. That’s shitty,” and, oh, fuck it, he might as well just give up on the not cursing thing, right? It hasn’t been going all that well anyway.
“He might think that,” Bryar says. “But he isn’t.”
Bryar is apparently very, very dumb. “We aren’t all emotionally retarded grunts,” William says. “You’ve broken Joe because you’re scared.”
“I didn’t.” Bryar narrows his eyes at William. “I didn’t break Joe.”
“Oh, you did. Mark my words, Robert, you’ve broken him.” William shakes his head. It’s so very tragic. He steals the bottle of alcohol back from Bryar and takes a large gulp to take the edge off how very tragic the whole situation is. “I’m done with you, Sergeant Bryar.”
“But-”
“Done. Finito. The dream is over.” William pokes Brendon with his boot. “I think little Urie’s passed out.”
*
Joe figures the mainland is a good enough place to hide from Greta and her well-meaning hugs. Joe is totally not a crier, but Greta’s hugs are hardcore, and he can hardly stand her sympathetic pouty lips and eyes.
Unfortunately, it’s springtime and the male slags are feeling ornery.
“Whoa, dude,” Joe says, hands up. He doesn’t bother trying to run, but the slag - which looks like some sort of moose-cougar hybrid with wide hooves and huge sharp teeth - snorts, nostrils flaring, and paws at the ground.
Joe has no idea where Kennerty and Wheeler are, but Joe totally isn’t armed for this. The mainland’s a safe haven. And now Joe’s about to be killed by a rabid deer.
“Doc, where the hell are you?”
“Oh my god, radios are awesome,” Joe says, because he’d forgotten he had one hooked on his ear what with being all frozen in fear.
Wheeler sighs. “That’s great. Where are you?”
“Um.” Joe darts his gaze around without actually letting the slag out of his sight. “A field? Like, a really, really blue field. With a giant slag about to mow me down, seriously, do you think you guys could just, uh, come scare this beast off or something?”
“Joe,” Kennerty says. “Joe, calm down, okay, and let us know exactly where you are.”
Joe remembers wandering off behind the settlement. He remembers trees with light-skinned bark, remembers the magnolia-like blooms on a fat cluster of bushes. “Somewhere, like, five minutes back behind the village.”
Five minutes. A lot of bad could happen in five minutes, Joe thinks, but Kennerty says, “All right, just don’t move,” and Joe snorts, because he isn’t going to fucking breathe.
It seems like forever, standing there staring the slag down, before he hears Kennerty again, tinny voice saying they can see him even if he can’t see them yet.
And then the thing makes this noise, this inhuman yowling, and it starts charging right for him and Joe doesn’t remember pain or anything, but he remembers screaming this totally embarrassing high-pitched scream and stumbling over his feet and then everything had gone black.
*
Spencer can hear them through the walls.
He cringes a little, because he’s pretty sure that’s Brendon singing. And maybe Bryar.
“Spencerrrr. Grrrrrrrr. Open up, open up, open up.” There’s a flurry of knocking and Spencer hears some giggling and shushing and he rolls his eyes as he thinks the door open.
Beckett’s practically holding Brendon up in the doorway. “Smith,” Beckett says, smiling. “Hey, Smith. Present.”
“I’ve got a golden ticket,” Bendon sings, flopping forward, and Spencer quickly grabs him under his arms to keep him upright. He’s flushed and messy-haired and he’s got this sloppy grin stretching his face, and Spencer tries very hard not to grin back. “I’ve got a golden twinkle in my Joooe.”
Brendon’s chorus is echoed by a deeper voice somewhere out of view, and maybe Spencer does grin then.
“Robert, wait,” Beckett says, turning away. “Wait, wait, you’re going the wrong way.” And then he mutters something about being, “distressingly sober and how is that even possible?” as he wanders off, still calling for Bryar.
Spencer shakes his head. “Come on,” he says. “Bed.”
“Bed, bed, bed. I love bed.”
Brendon drunk is pretty adorable. Spencer’s never ever going to tell him that, though, and he pushes at Brendon’s shoulder until his feet start moving, until he sort of lurches towards the mattress and collapses onto his face. The snoring starts even before Spencer’s wrestled off both his boots.
*
“Special delivery for Joe,” Bill says when Joe opens his door, and then he punches a slightly swaying Bob on the upper arm and flounces off.
“I broke you,” Bob says, staring at Joe’s head.
Joe winces, touches his bandaged forehead with light fingers. Saying he fainted in terror and hit his head on a rock isn’t really any cooler than saying he’d been attacked by a rogue slag. “Just an accident on the mainland.”
Bob frowns. “Who was watching you?” He leans forward, way too far into Joe’s space.
Joe holds up his hands. “Wheeler and-are you drunk?”
“Yes?” Bob’s frown deepens. “Are you sure I didn’t break you?”
“Bob-” Joe staggers as Bob steps up close and wraps his arms around him. “No,” Joe says entirely too softly, but something’s lodged uncomfortably in his throat.
“Sorry,” Bob mumbles, breath hot and sticky with alcohol along the side of his face.
“It’s, um.” Joe’s hands come up to grip the back of Bob’s shirt. He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to say.
Bob says, “Sorry,” again, and Joe feels his mouth open and close at his temple, feels the faint kiss.
Joe’s really, really confused. “Why?”
Bob hums against his cheek, shuffles his feet a little, arms still banded tight around Joe. Then he tilts his head back and blinks down at him blearily. “Tell me who broke your head.”
“What?”
“Who-who d’I have to kill for-”
“Bob, hey, dude,” Joe pushes against his chest. “This isn’t. You don’t have to do this.”
Bob’s arms slacken slightly. “Okay.” He clears his throat, and Joe thinks maybe Bob’s not as drunk as he wants Joe to believe.
“I’m.” Joe shrugs, feels his cheeks blush. “I’ll be okay, man. You don’t have to-”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Beckett was right,” Bob says, voice thick. “I really.” Bob pauses, and Joe’s feeling a burn, a growing flare of irritation, because normally when shit like this happens his ex isn’t in his face all the time afterwards and Joe knows it’s a hazard of attempting relationships on Atlantis, yeah, but Bob’s seriously pushing now.
“Stop, just. Stop it, Bob,” Joe says, struggling a little. “You should sleep this off.”
Bob lets him go and Joe gives a sigh of relief, but then Bob’s hands are on his face instead, big palms cradling his cheeks.
“Hey,” Bob says. “I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that,” Joe says weakly, anger sort of seeping out of him as Bob stares him down. Bob’s eyes are a little out of focus, but his mouth is set.
“I’m an asshole.”
Joe swallows hard, uncomfortable, because Bob and conversations like this just don’t mix well in Joe’s head. He tries to jerk out of Bob’s grip, but Bob doesn’t let him go, just sort of smushes his face.
“Bob,” Joe says, reaching up to tug at his wrists.
“Yeah, um.” Bob drops his hands, palms the back of his neck.
It’s awkward and weird and Joe just wants to curl up under his covers and, like, fucking sob or something, because apparently he’s a giant girl.
And then Bob mumbles something like, “Can we go back to the way it was before?” and Bob had fucking hurt Joe, and he hadn’t even let Joe say anything, so no.
“No,” Joe says, and Bob’s eyes. Bob’s fucking eyes are bare and raw for a millisecond, long enough to punch Joe in the gut, and then he’s his old stoic self again.
Bob nods. “Right-”
“You’ll have to start over,” Joe says, and he’s not sure he meant to say that, but he’s going to go with it anyway.
Bob freezes. “What?”
Joe says, “You just have to figure out how,” and then he thinks the door closed and collapses against it, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in this throat. He smiles. He’s totally gonna make Bob work.
*
“Gabe,” William crosses his arms over his chest, “tell me something true.” He’s had just enough to drink to make him recklessly brave, and confronting Gabe seems like an excellent idea.
Gabe arches an eyebrow, leans up against his doorjamb. “What?”
“Tell me you haven’t been cockblocking me,” William says, because it’s all falling into place now. Captain Gabe has maliciously decided that William should never ever get laid again.
“Billiam-”
“No, no, don’t you Billiam me, Captain Gabe. I am furious with you.” He jabs a finger into Gabe’s chest. “You are my very best friend, and you’ve been warning off all my potential suitors and beating up-” William cuts himself off and blinks at Gabe.
Gabe doesn’t look the least chagrined. He looks expectant, and William is possibly the densest person to ever step foot on Atlantis, with the possible exception of Ritter, who happens to think Wheeler is just that accident prone - the whole infirmary’s like a soap saga, actually, what with that new medic, DeLeon, being a paranoid, clumsy mess over that baby-faced corporal dating that other new medic, Simpson, and how Biro’s taken to wearing low-necked shirts around DeLeon despite being at least ten years his senior, and William knows entirely too much of the goings-on in Atlantis’ sickbay, and it’s all besides the point. William is dense and that rat bastard Lacey had been right. “Well,” William says, deflating a little. “Well, shit.”
“Bill?”
“You realize you’ve taken a circular route,” William says. He’s maybe pouting.
There’s an extra sharp edge to Gabe’s grin. “Oh, but I’ve certainly had a lot of fun.”
“Typical.” William’s lips twitch, even though he is so not amused. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Gabe curls a fist in the front of William’s science jacket and tugs him forward, smirking against his mouth when William tips his face up to meet him. “You want to come in, Bill?” Gabe asks, their lips brushing.
William’s all shivery and pleased and his cheeks heat. “I believe I do, Captain Gabe,” he says. “I think that would be lovely.”
Next: Allotropy
Brendon desperately wants to apologize, but Spencer isn’t letting him.
Spencer’s acting like everything’s okay, and maybe it is, but sometimes apologies have nothing to do with the person wronged, and everything to do with the person who’s sorry. Avoidance of the issue is actually making Brendon feel crappier.
“I feel crappy,” Brendon tells Bob.
Bob says, “Okay,” and discards a three.
Brendon likes to think he and Bob are tight now, now that they’ve been on adventures together and everything, but Bob still has problems sharing.
They’re playing cards in the back of ‘jumper five - Carlotta, ‘cause Colonel Sheppard says she’s sassy - and it feels suspiciously like they’re hiding. Brendon isn’t going to mention that, though, if Bob doesn’t.
“I mean. I never had this much sex when I was really fourteen,” try at all, “so I shouldn’t be complaining, right?”
“I’m probably not the person to talk to about this,” Bob says, but he doesn’t actually seem all that put off so Brendon just rolls his eyes.
“Bob, seriously, you’re like. The only one I can talk to.” Brendon stares hard at his cards. He has a really shitty hand, but Bob’s trying to teach him how to bluff. He’s starting to get tired of losing all his chocolate to William.
Bob glances up then, and there isn’t exactly a grin on his lips, but Brendon can tell he’s amused.
Bob just says, “You have a really shitty hand,” though.
“I have a great hand,” Brendon says, careful not to place any emphasis on ‘great,’ even though he really, really wants to. Bob always says to not back down, no matter what, and sooner or later someone’s gonna think you’re actually telling the truth.
Bob nods. “Better. You still have a shitty hand.”
Brendon gives up, beams at him, because it’s not like he was ever going to fool Bob anyway.
“We’re going to try sunglasses next,” Bob says, and Bob is so great, Bob’s the best, and Bob is a little unhappy, Brendon can tell.
He thinks maybe he’s gonna have to go kick Joe’s ass.
*
William drapes himself all over Greta’s console and gives her his very best sexy grin. “Greta. Greta, pookems, golden-locked love of my life.”
“Bill,” Greta says. She smiles, leans forward onto her elbows. “I managed to wrangle Casino away from Dr. Z.”
“That is indeed good news,” William says, because they’ve been on the waiting list for that particular movie for months, and he knows for a fact that Dr. Z is at least ten names ahead of them. They’ll need a solid three hours to watch it, though, and William is still on a mission. Gabe’s gone all ninja on him, which is uncharacteristic and suspicious.
Greta nods. “We’ve got it ‘til eight tomorrow morning, so clear off your schedule tonight, okay?”
Greta has these precious, irresistible plump cheeks that are even more adorable in her teenaged face. William’s resolve is no match for them. It’s Greta. And Robert De Niro. “Just you, me and the mob,” William says, and then he leans in slightly more, because he’s got good gossip, and Greta is the absolute best to gossip with.
“What?” Greta asks eagerly, chin cupped in her hands.
“You’ll never guess,” William says, “who I stumbled across in Lacey’s quarters.”
*
Radek, being the sly ass that he is, has recruited Ager and Simpson late in the game, giving him the very slightest advantage. Very slight, since there is no actual way their heap of junk will be able to do much more than bleep at them and spin in circles.
Rodney and John’s robot has laser beam capabilities - limited, of course, since Elizabeth would likely kill them - and can hurl insults in three different languages.
“Yes, but can it race,” Radek says smugly, sitting across from them in the commissary. He’s got a ridiculous amount of Yahoo Serious hair and he’s wearing Miko’s glasses - huge, round things - since apparently his own prescription is too strong for him to see through. Rodney would consider taunting him about this, but his own teammate has some sort of unfortunate half-shaved weasel on his head, so it’s not like he can throw many stones.
“It can do more than race, Radek,” Rodney says. “It can fly.”
John elbows him in the back. This is possibly because their robot can’t actually fly. Yet.
Radek scoffs. “Right. I will believe this when I see it.”
“Rodney,” John says.
Rodney bats him away, says, “Shut up, shut up, I’m handling this.”
“We can’t make it fly,” John whispers, and Rodney snaps, “Are you questioning me? Is this a challenge? Are you issuing a challenge, Colonel Sheppard?” and Rodney’s aware he’s a little on the defensive, but he’d been sort of high-strung and touchy as a teenager. It came from being light-years ahead of his peers in terms of brain function, while conversely stupendously backwards in the social scene.
“Whoa, buddy,” John says. He pats the back of Rodney’s hand. “Calm it down, there. You can make it fly if you really want to.”
Rodney thinks John’s patronizing him - no, he knows it, but whatever. He’ll show them all. Making it fly will be the easy part.
*
“We,” Brendon says firmly when Spencer opens his door, “are going to talk.”
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yes. And you aren’t going to distract-what are you doing?”
“Taking off my pants.”
“Okay.” Brendon nods, steps inside so the door can slide shut behind him. “Okay, but see. We’re going to.”
“Talk,” Spencer prompts. “Right.” He kicks off his pants and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt.
The lights dim just as the material skims over his belly, and Brendon doesn’t fight him on it, because, damn it, he’s not going to get distracted! They’re totally going to talk about this, discuss everything like rational adults.
There’s a golden glow over the room, mimicking candlelight, and it’s entirely unfair, because Brendon’s brain sort of stutters when Spencer climbs up onto his bed and sprawls out on his back.
Which is a total dirty play, there, so Brendon spins around and faces the wall. “No, seriously, you’re going to have to listen to me apologize here,” Brendon says.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and then Spencer’s boxers go sailing over Brendon’s shoulder, landing in a blue cottony heap at his feet. Brendon crosses his arms, bites his fingernails into his skin.
“Spencer,” he takes a deep breath and just dives head first and says, “Spence, I didn’t mean to call you a girl or fat or anything, not the way you took it, anyway, and maybe. Maybe?” Brendon’s rambling. He’s totally aware that he’s babbling like an idiot and he doesn’t care.
“Brendon, hey-”
“No, wait, wait, I have to-it hurt a little when Bill called you my boyfriend, you know, because it’s not like I’m-I’m repulsive or anything, so you didn’t have to flinch-” If he doesn’t get this all out now Spencer’s never going to let him, and this is important. “This is important, Spencer Smith.”
“Okay.”
Brendon jumps, ‘cause he totally hadn’t heard Spencer sneak up on him.
But Spencer hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder, wraps his arms around his middle, and Brendon settles. He relaxes, leans back, because his shape’s a little different, a little softer, but he still feels like Spencer.
“Okay,” Spencer says again. Brendon feels him shrug. “I guess I just didn’t think about us like that before.”
“You didn’t?” That’s kind of surprising, actually, considering they’ve been sleeping together for months, considering that Brendon’s declared his everlasting love to Spencer several times.
Spencer squeezes him. “Give me a break, Brendon, I’m Air Force.”
“Well.” Point.
“Are we done talking?”
Brendon nods, turns slowly around in Spencer’s arms. “I’m a little overdressed,” he says.
Spencer grins. One of those utterly gorgeous fourteen-year-old grins that Brendon’s going to miss like burning once he’s older again.
“Spencer,” Brendon breathes, almost an accident, and Spencer says, “I can help with that.”
*
Frank jerks awake to frantic whispers and shaking.
“Frank, Frank, wake up, Frank.”
“Gee, wha-?” Frank turns over, digs the palm of his hand into his eye socket. His alarm clock is blinking 2 AM. “What’s going on?”
Gerard’s crouched over him, a hand on his arm. “Frankie, I can’t find Craig.”
Frank thinks the lights on and leverages up onto his elbows. Gerard’s a sleep-blurred smudge of messy dark hair and huge, worried eyes, and Frank blinks, slow, pressing his eyes shut for an extra second to clear his head. He’s not as used to night emergencies as everybody else on Atlantis, since they’ve never needed his limited expertise in engineering, and Tito, the only indigenous Pegasus creature other than Craig living on Atlantis, has yet to go on a killing spree.
“Hang on,” Frank says, yawning. “Lemme just get dressed.”
He kind of doubts Craig’s gone - his cage is huge, and he’s bound to be in one of the nooks or crannies or tubes - but he figures Gerard isn’t going to go back to sleep unless they find him.
In Gerard’s quarters, all the lights are on at their brightest capacity, and Frank squints a little, eyes watering.
Gerard says, voice hushed, “I left his cage open.” His teeth are biting into his lower lip, and Frank reaches out, slips an open hand over his cheek, behind his neck and pulling him into a half-hug.
“It’s okay,” Frank says.
“I fell asleep.”
Frank squeezes him, tight, then lets him go. “It’s fine, Gee, we’ll find him.”
An hour later, Frank isn’t so sure anymore. Craig’s a wily little guy, and Frank’s really fucking tired. Plus, Gerard’s room is a complete fucking mess. “This is sort of impossible.”
“I know,” Gerard says, frowning. His eyes are tinged with red.
“In the morning,” Frank says, curling a hand around Gerard’s arm and herding him towards the door. “In the morning, you and Pete can come up with something, okay?”
Pete can recalibrate a lifesigns detector to pick up rats or something, and Frank’s sure Craig’s still somewhere in the mess of Gerard’s room. Craig’s a homebody, for one, a nester, and Frank knows he’ll want to stick by things that remind him of Gerard, smell like him, too. They just have to figure out which pile of dirty clothes he’s hiding under, and that’s something they need to do when they’re both not so exhausted they can hardly stand.
Gerard looks like he wants to protest, but his mouth opens up into a yawn instead.
“Yeah,” Frank says, “Come on.”
*
Patrick wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest and he says, “Oh, hell no.”
He tries to roll Pete off him, but Pete just clings tighter. “Patrick.”
“Seriously, no.”
Pete snuffles into his neck. The action’s familiar, and Patrick has to force himself not to pull Pete closer. “You’re comfy,” Pete says.
“Pete.”
Pete shifts, loosens his grip and digs his chin into Patrick’s chest on a wide yawn. “I feel older.”
Patrick frowns. “You don’t look it.”
“I feel at least fifteen,” Pete says, and Patrick rolls his eyes, says, “Oh, well, fifteen,” and then tips Pete off of him and struggles out from underneath the covers.
He needs coffee. If he’s going to have to deal with teenaged Pete again all day, he needs his special stash of Kona and one of Morris’s homemade cinnamon buns. And then he actually has some work to do, so Pete’s gonna have to figure out how entertain himself.
The thought’s only a little scary.
Patrick sighs, pulling on a pair of pants, then reaches for his radio, hooking it over his right ear as he makes his way into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, he leaves the lights on low, highlighting the almost-permanent smudges of exhaustion under his eyes. There never seems to be enough time for sleep, and he’s strongly considering asking for a couple vacation weeks on Earth after the whole mess with Pete is straightened out.
“Come on,” he says to Pete, coming out of the bathroom and slipping on his shoes. “Breakfast.”
“You know what I want?” Pete asks, bouncing to his feet. He’s wearing purple sweatpants, and Patrick’s pretty sure they’re Brendon’s. He works with really weird people.
Patrick shrugs into his science jacket, tugs on a hat. “No, what?”
“A puppy, dude. Like, an alien puppy. Think Frank can find me one?”
“No.” The last thing in the entire world Pete needs is an alien puppy. Patrick’s head aches just thinking about it.
And then his radio crackles, Frank’s voice a tinny, “Patrick?”
Patrick says, “Yeah,” and Pete leeches onto his side, saying, “Whossit?”
“D’you know where Pete is? He’s not answering his radio.”
Patrick flicks Pete’s ear, because Pete’s an irresponsible asshole sometimes. “Yeah, he’s here,” Patrick says.
Frank says, “Awesome, look, we’ve lost Craig. Can you have Pete meet Gee in the labs?”
*
Gerard doesn’t mean to be so upset, but he’s sort of attached to Craig.
It’s nice to have a focus, though, and Pete’s hunched over a lab table with one of the lifesigns detectors split open, humming under his breath, and Gerard consumes a dangerous amount of coffee in the hour or so it’s taking Pete to fix it.
“Okay, so,” Pete says finally, “I’ve fiddled with the sensors. Let’s try this sucker out.”
He beams at Gerard, and Gerard isn’t sure how he got stuck with Pete Wentz - he’d had a small say in recruiting scientists for the program, and, first impressions and all, Pete hadn’t really impressed him, though they’d somehow gotten foisted together anyway - but he’s really glad for it, now.
They practically race for the transporters, Gerard only a beat behind Pete, barely panting as they skid to a stop. It’s nice to have the lung capacity of a kid. A kid who hasn’t started smoking yet, since Gerard hadn’t picked up that particular bad habit until he’d hit sixteen. He’s still mainly glad he’s kicked that, but sometimes he misses it so much he actually eats at the same table as Lacey just to smell the nicotine on him.
“Wow, okay,” Pete says when they reach Gerard’s quarters. “Did something explode in here?”
Gerard looks around at the mess. “No.” He hasn’t done laundry in a while, but Frank’s the one who normally reminds him about that.
“Huh.”
Gerard frowns. “Do you think-”
“Hey, wait. Wait, there’s something.” Pete stalks farther into the room, hops over a pile of old socks, then digs into a sort of dark and scary corner. He stops, holds up the lifesigns detector. “Yep, definitely something back here.”
“Craig?” Gerard creeps up behind him, looks over his shoulder.
“Unless Atlantis suddenly became infested with Ancient rats.”
Gerard thinks that would be cool for a split-second, then thinks maybe Ancient rats would hurt tiny little Craig, so he really hopes that isn’t the case. And then Pete folds back Frank’s favorite Misfit t-shirt and there’s Craig, nestled in a sleepy ball, and Gerard’s entire body relaxes.
“There you go,” Pete says. He flashes him a smug grin.
“Thanks, Pete,” Gerard murmurs. He scoops Craig up, who stirs a little, blinks at Gerard, then curls into an even tighter ball in the palm of his hand.
Pete grabs the t-shirt, thrusts his fingers through a little gnawed hole. “Hope you weren’t that attached to this,” he says.
Gerard blanches. Frank is totally not going to be thrilled about that.
“Seriously, man, this room is scary. I hope you’re living with Frank,” Pete says, and Gerard.
Gerard is totally living with Frank. Gerard never even noticed before, but he’s living with Frank. That is so exciting.
*
It’s only when Joe spots Ray in the doorway of greenhouse lab 7 that he realizes he hasn’t seen him for days.
“Where have you been, Toro?” Joe asks, because Ray looks a little worn down. He’s two feet too short, hair cropped, and he has his BDUs cinched tight and high with a belt, the amount of overlap totally laughable. Joe isn’t actually going to point it out, but he looks like a geek. And Joe knows geeks.
Ray smiles. “Have you seen Bob?” he asks, and Joe should definitely know where Bob is, but he doesn’t. He’d parted ways with Bob last night after the movie, an awkward see-you.
“Not since yesterday,” Joe says.
Ray tips his head to the side. “All right, thanks.”
“No, seriously, you’ve been missing for-”
“Gotta go, Joe,” Ray cuts in, and his grin just grows, takes over his entire face, and then he’s gone. Huh.
“I think Miss Maja’s corrupting him,” someone says from behind him, and Joe jumps about three feet in the air, spins around to find a tiny little Urie hiding half behind a hydroponics banana tree.
“Christ, Urie, what the hell?”
Urie crosses his spindly arms - seriously, he looks eight or something - over his chest. “You should know where Bob is,” he says, frowning, and this is not something Joe wants to talk about with Brendon Urie, shit. Or anyone, for that matter, considering it’s a very sensitive subject.
“Dude, why would I want to discuss this with you?”
“Because you’re hurting Bob’s feelings,” Urie says, and Joe feels a little pang in his chest, rubs the heel of his palm over it, but he just shakes his head.
“None of your business,” Joe says.
“Bob might be fourteen forever,” Urie says, and, wow, way to make the situation seem even worse.
Fourteen for now or forever, it’s still weird to be in love with him.
Urie’s eyes widen. Joe thinks maybe he might have said that last bit out loud.
“Holy crap, Joe.” Urie’s mouth moves into this huge-ass grin. “Holy crap.”
“Wait, dude, no.” Joe shakes his head, because he loves Bob, but Bob’s one scary-ass motherfucker, and Urie is a giant blabbermouth. Possibly worse than Beckett.
Urie mimes zipping his lips, practically vibrating in place. “Mum, Joe. Freaking mum, you have no worries.”
Urie means well, Joe knows this. Bob is totally going to know by nightfall. Which means Joe’s gonna have to say something first. Awesome.
*
Joe tracks Bob down to the armory. Bob’s sort of noticeable, so it really isn’t that hard to find him. Of course, it’d taken a few hours for Joe to work up his nerve, and half of him had kind of wanted Urie to just say something, because that’d save him some heartache, right?
His first plan’s pre-emptive denial, but Joe- Joe really, really sucks at lying. He’s, like, epically bad. He thinks maybe it’s from years of doing weed; he’s lost all ability to control his facial expressions, and bad shit usually just makes him break out in nervous giggles.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Bob says. He snaps a clip into his sidearm, walks over to the target range.
Joe jogs after him. “You. You do?” Joe doesn’t even know exactly what he’s going to say. “But-”
“It’s fine.” Bob slips in ear plugs, and Joe watches him lift his arms and aim, adjusting his stance a little, and he looks sort of like the recoil from the gun’ll topple him over. He squeezes out a round, though, and Joe just stands there, hands at his sides.
“Okay,” Joe finally says.
“We probably shouldn’t-” Bob takes a deep breath, sets the discharged gun on its side, and reaches out to pat Joe’s shoulder without really looking at him. “No hard feelings.”
Okay, wow. Joe’s eyes start prickling, and how fucking embarrassing is that? He’s pretty sure Bob’s breaking up with him. Joe rubs the side of his hand under his nose. “Um.”
Bob’s avoiding his gaze, reloading his gun, turning away, and Joe guesses he’s, like, being dismissed or something.
Joe’d figured this reaction was a possibility, yeah, but he sort of feels like he’s been punched in the chest, and that’s kind of unexpected. He clears his throat, says, “Bob, I.”
Bob glances over his shoulder at him, face expressionless.
Joe shakes his head. “Yeah, never mind.”
*
William has always appreciated Gabe’s height. He’s one of the very few people on Atlantis taller than him, and it’s refreshing. William has a way of leaning on things to appear less lanky, but his posture improves around Gabe, and he mostly ends up leaning on him. Gabe’s nice about it. He never shoves him off or gets pissy.
They have a decent camaraderie, a bosom buddies sort of vibe, so it’s downright odd that Gabe has made himself scarce for so long.
William never has to hunt Gabe down.
“You,” William says when Gabe opens his doors, “are a sucky best friend.” He pushes past Gabe, dropping down onto the low, uncomfortable Ancient couch. “You may begin apologizing at any time.”
Gabe slowly rubs his towel over his face. He’s bare-chested. William enjoys the view for a moment before remembering he’s angry, and there’s no room for ogling while being mad.
“Bill?”
“I’m waiting,” William says. He crosses his legs and taps his toes, counting off the ridiculous amount of seconds it takes for Gabe to actually say something, because Gabe is apparently a bigger asshole than William has given him credit for.
“Bill. You’re.”
“Wonderful?” William prompts. “Lovely, gracious, tolerant?”
“Little.”
“Oh, fuck off, I’m not that-” William covers his mouth. Damn it. He’d almost made it another day curse free.
“Bills-”
“I’m having a bad week,” William says, jabbing a finger at Gabe. “Every single bone I’ve ever had hurts, Gabe, aches. I dropped three datapads yesterday, and I think Dr. McKay wants to kill me, and I’ve completely run out of conditioner, and have you been comforting me?” It’s not that he doesn’t love Greta and Butcher and Pacey Witter, but Gabe’s Gabe, and William has missed him.
“Bill,” Gabe says, and his brow’s creased, a pinched scowl on his face.
“What?”
Gabe says, very carefully, “I’ve been off-world with Kennerty’s team, William,” and oh, he’s using William, and Gabe hardly ever uses his full name. It sends a deadly shiver up William’s spine.
William swallows. “You have?”
Gabe nods. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“But. Asher?”
“Put in for time off,” Gabe says.
Come to think of it, William hasn’t seen Travis at all, either. “Oh.”
“Yeah. So you want to explain everything now?”
“There was an accident off-world,” William says. “I’m fourteen. Or maybe thirteen, since there’s roughly two or three years of unrelenting teenage misery in my past. I need love and comfort, Captain Gabe. And possibly lap naps.” Purely platonic lap naps, of course, because William isn’t going to ever try to get into Gabe’s pants.
For one, Gabe’s in his thirties, and William’s currently having problems growing facial hair. And for another, he’s William’s very best friend, and William does not have sex with his best friends. Excepting Jeremy Logan in eleventh grade. And Sarah Hanning in college, but Sarah had been a political activist, so it never would have worked out, anyway.
Gabe says, “Okay,” and, “So which planet did this happen on?”
*
Gabe, William knows, has a way of getting things done. It has something to do with his military prowess, and perhaps the way he can threaten death with a silent eyebrow arch.
“Gabe has gone off to win the day,” William says, settling down next to Sisky in the common lounge. He presses his face into his very scary hair and inhales, because Siska is using some sort of coconut shampoo and it smells delicious. There’s just so much of it. “You smell like frosted dessert and winter nights. I’d like to snip a curl and sleep with it always.”
“Bill.” Siska tries to shove him away with his shoulder.
William’s a practiced limpet, though, so the jostling only maneuvers him closer. “Give up, Adam, my boy. I know you love me dearly.”
Siska sighs and slumps down into the cushions, and William adjusts himself so he’s snug against his side.
Greta’s on the couch across from them, her legs draped over the Butcher’s lap. “I don’t know,” Greta says. “I’m kind of getting used to this.”
“Because you’ve already grown breasts and hips, Salpeter,” William says. “You’re a lovely young woman, and I’m a veritable scarecrow.”
“You’re always a scarecrow, Bill,” Butcher says.
“I’m svelte. I’m all the rage. I’m a slip of a man-boy made of sunshine and rainbows, direct from the mouth of Captain Gabe.”
Siska laughs and the Butcher rolls his eyes. “Bill,” Butcher says. “Capt-”
“No, don’t tell him,” Greta cuts in, eyes dancing. She slaps the Butcher’s arm lightly. “It’s more fun this way.”
William frowns at her. “You’re supposed to be my friend,” he says.
“Oh, I am, Billy, I am.” She grins. “You’ll thank me later.”
William highly doubts that. You’ll thank me later generally applies to underage sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll, and William’s still miffed at his mother for not letting him attend Roxy Malone’s unchaperoned birthday extravaganza in tenth grade.
“I hate you all,” William mutters. He worms his way under Siska’s arm for pets and snuggles, and Sisky sighs and tugs him closer.
*
Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard let Captain Gabe take his team out to P54-S13, and somehow - some way, because Captain Gabe is amazing, William knows - Gabe, Lacey, Nolan and Ivarsson do not get eaten by the Fourteen Machine, and step back onto Atlantis still in their adult forms mere hours after they’d left.
There’s dried blood on Gabe’s forehead, and Lacey’s got a bruise cresting his cheek, but they’re both grinning like mad, and Captain Gabe sends William a cheeky salute across the ‘gate room. Lacey sticks his tongue out and gives him a lewd gesture, and really. Really, there is something honestly wrong with that man.
“It’ll last another day or less,” Gabe says, and then Dr. Weir calls them all in for a briefing, so William doesn’t know the specifics, but he doesn’t really need them. William believes whatever Gabe tells him.
Perhaps that’s dangerous to do, but Captain Gabe hasn’t failed him yet.
“You see,” he says to Greta.
“I see,” Greta says, grinning up at him.
William tugs on one of her pigtails. “We’ll be adults again in no time, and then I can have grown up sex.”
Greta bites her lip, but a giggle slips out anyway. “Oh. Oh, of course,” she says. “As opposed to all the sex you’re having now. Which is clearly-”
“Look, Salpeter, I’m well aware that I haven’t been laid in months, thank you very much,” William says, tossing his hair over his shoulder, and Greta just laughs, lets out one full-bellied guffaw before slapping a palm over her mouth.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. William can see her huge smile behind her hand.
“I’ll bet.”
“No. No, really, just think of all the people you can proposition when you’re older again,” Greta says. Her eyes are dancing, but she sounds serious enough.
William gazes at her carefully. He says, “I know,” slow and thoughtful-like, just in case she busts out in mocking amusement again, but her demeanor doesn’t change.
She nods earnestly. “Lacey, even,” she says, and William gags back his breakfast, because what the hell?
“Lacey?”
“Clearly-” Greta clears her throat. “Clearly, your mutual animosity is just, um, sexual tension?”
“Sexual-” Huh. Huh. There’s a possibility that William has let his pure hatred of Lacey overshadow the fact that Lacey is sort of desirable in a sleazy whore kind of way. “You may be onto something there.”
“I.” Greta looks startled for a half-second. “I am. Of course I am.”
*
It takes most of the afternoon, but Pete helps Gerard move all the little pieces of Craig’s cage into Frank’s room.
Gerard figures if he’s going to be living with Frank, Craig might as well be living with him, too. He hopes Frank doesn’t mind how it nearly takes up half of the lounge nook, and that they added a few more tanks that they’d scavenged out of Carson’s lab. Craig likes to explore.
Frank does a double-take when he walks in before dinner, but he just tosses his shoes in a corner and collapses onto the bed, dragging Gerard down with him. Gerard snuggles happily into his side.
“So we live here now,” Gerard says. He wants to get it all out in the open, since Frank had made such a stink about having meaningful relationship conversations. At least, that’s what Gerard thinks Frank had been talking about.
“The giant habitrail clued me in,” Frank says, but Gerard doesn’t hear anything bad in his voice. He sounds amused.
“I promise to clean up after myself.”
Frank chuckles. “Gee, you’ve lived here for months, and you’ve never cleaned up after yourself.”
“Oh.”
“I’m gonna make you shower more now, though.”
Gerard pulls a face. He hates getting wet. “Okay,” he says.
“Yeah.” Frank jabs his elbow into Gerard’s side. “You sound thrilled.”
“I totally am,” Gerard lies. “I love showering. I’m just all absentminded and shit.”
“Oh, that’s total crap, seriously, Gee, what the hell?”
Frank pushes at him, digging his fingers into his sides and Gerard flails back on the bed, laughing. He kicks out and catches Frank’s thigh, and Frank smashes the side of his head so hard he sees freaking stars, and then his eyesight gives out just as a streak of fire shoots up his spine.
*
When Rodney blinks open his eyes again, Simpson’s staring down at him with an unwarranted amount of amusement and not nearly enough concern.
“Well, that was not fun.”
Rodney turns his head and glares at Radek, who’s sprawled on his stomach, blinking owlishly at him. If possible, Miko’s glasses look even more ridiculous on his adult face. “Really?”
John’s sitting just beyond him, legs spread, a hand pressed over his right eye. There’s blood seeping through his fingers, and a dazed expression on his face. “You hit me,” John says.
“Yes, well.” Rodney struggles upright. He spots the mangled mess of metal and wires heaped in the middle of the lab. “You completely ruined our robot.”
“You flew it into my head,” John says.
Whatever. Rodney waves a hand. He’d gotten it to fly, so he doesn’t know what John’s complaining about. He’s looking pale, though, so perhaps a trip to the infirmary’s in order.
“Huh,” Rodney says.
John pulls his hand back, makes a face. “What?” he asks.
“I think I might actually miss your hair.”
*
“Oh. Oh, this is disgusting,” Ryan says, wiping his face with both his and Jon’s napkins.
Brendon licks his lips. “Mmmm, cheesy.” Morris makes the best French onion soup.
Jon laughs, even though he’s got a smudge of baked beans on his nose. He says, “Hey, we’re big again,” and swipes at his hair. “I feel weird.”
“I feel sort of,” Brendon twists in his seat. “Tight.” His skin feels like it’s stretched thin over his bones. He pokes at the side of Spencer’s head, since he’s still passed out in his mashed potatoes.
“Blurgh,” Spencer says. His eyelashes flutter. “What the fuck?”
Brendon pokes his head again, and Spencer snatches his finger, quick as anything, but doesn’t squeeze.
“Hi,” Brendon says, beaming down at him.
Spencer says, “Hey,” then yawns and slowly pulls himself upright. It’s so awesome, because Spencer’s got his shoulders back and everything, and Brendon maybe misses some of his softness, the pudgy belly, pinch-able cheeks, but he’s missed this Spencer more.
“So this is nice,” Jon says, grinning dopily at them.
“Jon. Jon, you’ve got.” Ryan motions to his nose.
“What?”
Ryan says, “Here, wait,” and steals Spencer’s napkin, reaching out to wipe Jon’s nose, steadying his face with a hand on his chin, and hey.
“Hey. Hey, you’re-” Brendon cuts off with a yelp, ‘cause Spencer kicked him, and Spencer’s got big old boots on that hurt. “You kicked me.”
Jon laughs again, and Jon’s a sneaky bastard, because Brendon had not seen this coming at all. He glares at Ryan. Ryan totally should have told him about how he’s in love with Jon Walker and how Jon’s so obviously in love with Ryan. Sex is one thing, but love should be shared. Ryan knows all about Brendon and Spencer’s future retirement-slash-commitment ceremony, and how Brendon’s totally gonna make them live on that planet with the rhinos that look like horses that look like unicorns.
Ryan blinks at him, like he’s oh so innocent.
Brendon jabs a finger at him. He hopes his face is talking, because he thinks maybe Spencer’ll punch him if he opens his mouth again. Brendon’s a master at being discreet when he actually wants to be, honest.
Ryan arches both his eyebrows as if to say I don’t think so, but Brendon’s persistent and Brendon wants to gossip about their boyfriends. Ryan totally doesn’t stand a chance.
*
Patrick’s used to getting tackled by Pete, so it doesn’t really faze him when he ends up on the floor of his lab, papers everywhere and Pete sprawled on top of him.
“I’m adult sized again,” Pete crows.
“That’s great. Can you move your knee off my crotch?”
“Sure.” Pete shifts agreeably around until he’s got their hips nicely snuggled together. “Wanna head back to my place so I can stick other, more pleasant things on your crotch?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, even though Patrick’s kind of got the idea already from all the thrusting going on.
Patrick would be embarrassed, except this is Pete, and this kind of thing happens all the time. He’s pretty sure no one’s even paying them any attention.
“Patrick,” Pete says. He sort of wraps his arms around Patrick’s head. “Patrick, Patrick, I missed you.”
Patrick grins. He really, really missed Pete, too.
*
Since William had been taking a delightful evening catnap, it’s all very anticlimactic when he wakes up big again. The lack of drama would be disappointing, truly, except for the fact that he no longer has screaming pain in his limbs.
“I’m growing a mustache,” William says to Greta when he’s tracked her down to the lower labs. She’s full sized again, too, and he folds her up into a hug.
Greta tips her head back to look up at him, still in the circle of his arms. “Are you going into porn then?” she asks.
“Maybe. Maybe I am.” William strokes a finger over his upper lip. He thinks a mustache would be kick-ass, but perhaps the teasing wouldn’t be worth it. Still. He feels there should be a difference between regular William and seducer of that rat bastard Lacey William. Facial hair is a classic choice.
“Butcher’s hosting a Dawson’s Creek finale party tonight,” Greta says.
“Oh, that’s nice,” William says, because he’s seen it dozens of times, but the finale never ceases to give him warm fuzzies in his chest.
One thing William absolutely adores about being on an off-world team again is all the bonding. They’re exactly William’s sort of people.
*
Butcher’s Dawson’s Creek finale party is held in the common lounge, and Butcher serves popcorn and hot chocolate to the mass of people who show up. William snuggles down in between Greta and Travis, and he hasn’t see Travis in forever, so he ends up mostly in Travie’s lap.
Travie has an incredibly comfy lap and big hands, and he doesn’t mind when William whispers about Pacey’s handsomeness, and how huge Van Der Beek’s forehead is. It’s truly monstrous.
During intermission - which will be a solid half hour at least, William knows, because these are Rare Nights, worthy of capitalization, and must be drawn out as long as possible - William gets up for a stretch and pulls Greta over to the hot chocolate corner, because Joe and Sergeant Bryar are on complete opposite sides of the room, and that’s somehow very wrong.
“Tell me everything you know,” William says.
Greta snags two mugs and commandeers one of the thermoses, so William is forced to follow her towards the very back of the lounge, the dark and scary nooks reserved for necking during particularly boring parts of movies. William used to spend lots of time back there with Tom. It’s sad now that he only has Greta to gossip with. Not that Greta isn’t awesome; he just wishes maybe she’d let him feel her up.
Greta tugs William down next to her on the couch and says, “You’ll have to be more specific, Bill.”
“Bryar and Joe,” William says, bending his head close to hers. “I fear they’ve done something stupid to each other.”
Greta hums, sips at her chocolate and bounces her gaze around the room. “I see your point,” she says finally. Greta almost always sees William’s points. She’s wonderful like that.
“How should we fix this?” he asks. He wishes his mustache was full grown so he could twirl it thoughtfully. He settles for tapping a finger on his chin.
“We’ll split up. Tomorrow,” Greta says, “I’ll take Joe and you take Sergeant Bryar.”
William does not exactly like this idea, because Bryar’s a relatively big guy. Bryar has never expressed any fondness for William. Bryar has never actually deigned to have a conversation with William, nor have they ever been in the same room alone, without Joe’s soothing presence. William is understandably leery of Greta’s idea. “I do not know, Salpeter. Are you willing to pay for my funeral expenses?”
Greta pats his arm, grinning. “I’m sure the military’ll take care of it.”
*
William spots Captain Gabe at breakfast and drops into the seat across from him, because William hasn’t spent near enough time in Gabe’s company over the past week, and it’s truly tragic. He’s heard tales of Gabe’s heroics on the Planet of the Creepy Staring Age-Regressed Natives - although the exact use of the Fourteen Machine is still a mystery, and William rather likes the idea of just completely forgetting about the entire incident and subsequent days upon days of misery - and how Gabe had manfully cajoled them into giving him certain answers, with promises of painful retribution if any of their words were vicious lies. Gabe, William thinks, is the very, very best.
“What’s on your face?” Gabe asks.
“I’m growing a mustache.”
Gabe arches an eyebrow. “Okay.”
Little known fact: adult William actually has to shave daily. He’s already got a shadow on his upper lip. William thinks he’s looking dapper, but Captain Gabe is twinkling his eyes at him.
“It’ll be awesome,” William insists.
“Sure. You going into porn?”
William scowls. William finds porn jokes just as hilarious as the next person, but that’s going to get old fast. “I’ll have you know, Captain Gabe, that I’m totally going to seduce that rat bastard Lacey with this mustache.”
“Well.” Gabe makes a face William has never seen before, like perhaps how a serial killer might smile before chopping up several fluffy malamute puppies, but he just says, “I suppose the porn mustache makes sense, then.”
“I thought so.” William nods.
Gabe pushes back from the table and gets to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Bill. I’ve got a little business to take care of.”
*
Even though his mustache is not at fully awesome capacity yet, William’s impatient, has always been notoriously impatient, so he goes off to enact his genius seduction plan slightly ahead of schedule.
Lacey opens his door looking tremendously worn down. His black eye’s already turning sickly yellow, and he winces slightly when he spots William. And then he starts laughing.
William hasn’t even said anything, so the hysterics are a little uncalled for, he thinks.
“Ow, ow, fuck.” Lacey wraps an arm around his middle gasping for breath, still with this huge-ass grin on his face. “Fuck, he was telling the truth?”
William frowns. “I don’t know-”
“Seriously. Bills-”
“Don’t call me Bills.” William curls his fists on his hips, and Lacey just sets off laughing again.
“God, stop it, this fucking hurts,” Lacey says, hanging off the doorjamb, panting.
“Lacey. Lacey, it’s come to my attention, Lacey,” William’s getting louder, nearly shouting, because Lacey’s seriously laughing like a hyena, “that what we say to each other could be construed as flirting.”
“Shit. Shit, okay. Beckett.” Lacey takes some shaky breaths, seems to barely, barely get a hold of himself. “Beckett, right, we in no way flirt at all, and you need to go talk to the captain, and, oh my god, shave your face. Or don’t, I don’t care, it’s kind of hilarious.”
William’s frown deepens. This conversation is not going anywhere near the way he’d planned. It’s disheartening. “Are you absolutely certain we don’t flirt?”
“I hate you,” Lacey stresses, eyes suddenly hard. “I spend my nights lying awake plotting ways to make your life hell.”
“I knew it!” William says, because no one ever believes him when he says Lacey has it in for him, but he’d known it. Lacey has arch enemy stamped all over him.
“Saporta just beat the shit out of me because of you,” Lacey goes on, “so I’ve-”
“Wait.” William frowns. “Wait, Gabe just. What?”
Lacey waves a hand, grimaces. “Sparring. Just, you know, friendly sparring where Saporta fucks me up a little and tells me to keep my hands off you.”
“Well that. That doesn’t make much sense.” Gabe has always been a staunch supporter of Lacey, and he’s never quite called William delusional, because Captain Gabe never, ever insults William at all about anything, but this beating up of Lacey business doesn’t exactly sound very Gabe-like.
Lacey gazes at him blankly. “I don’t understand why you’re even here.”
“I’m sure we’ve already been-”
“Here, Beckett, on Atlantis. You have got to be the densest jackass I’ve ever met.”
William bristles. William is in no way a jackass. William’s perfectly delightful to everyone except Lacey, and can anyone blame him?
“Go away, Bill,” Lacey says, and slides the door closed in his face. Some people have no manners.
*
Divide and conquer or something. That had been their original plan, William is sure of it. He doesn’t think Greta meant get completely shitfaced with Bryar, but that’s exactly where the afternoon seems to be heading, so William’s just going to go with it.
Brendon happens to be there as well, but Brendon’s a wee little thing, even aged correctly, and William doesn’t anticipate him being conscious for very much longer.
“There is something drastically wrong, Robert,” William says. He takes a gentlemanly sip of some sort of swill Travis got off-world last mission. It seems to be burning through William’s esophagus, but he mans up and takes the pain.
Bryar grunts.
“Yes, exactly.” William passes him the bottle. “So what we must do. What we must do, Robert, is make things not wrong.”
Bryar blinks at him, sticky. William thinks perhaps Bryar’s just as drunk as he is. William’s a champ at holding his liquor, but he’s not planning on getting up any time soon. The world’s sort of doing this spinney thing, and they’re out in the open up very, very high. Supposedly there’s shielding to prevent freefalls off of towers and such, but William’s not willing to test that out.
“Oooo, oooo,” Brendon sings from his sprawl on the balcony floor, “oooo, I made up this song for you.”
“That’s lovely, Brendon,” William tells him, because it’s important to remain positive in these dire times. “Now. Now, Robert, I need you to tell me what’s happened with Joe.”
“Nothing,” Bryar says.
“Jooooe,” Brendon lilts. His fingers are dancing in the air above his head. “Oh, oh, I made up this song for Joe.”
William absently pats Brendon on the stomach and says, “It can’t be nothing.” Nothing wouldn’t require them sitting as far away from each other as humanly possible.
Bryar might be glaring at him, it’s hard to tell.
“We could. We could make this a game?” William tries to snap his fingers, but his thumb keeps getting caught. “I could guess. Let me guess what’s wrong, all right? Joe,” William says, “has broken your heart.” William doubts this is the case, but he figures it’s safer than accusing Bryar of this same horrible, horrible deed.
Brendon giggles. “Jooooe’s in looooove,” he says.
Bryar grimaces and tips the bottle up towards his mouth, and William watches him swallow hard. He does not seem surprised about Brendon’s off-key revelation.
“Bryar,” William says, aghast. “Bryar, you didn’t.”
“It wouldn’t have worked out,” Bryar says. He rubs a hand under his right eye, and William thinks he detects a small, suspicious sniffle.
This whole thing is completely ridiculous. “Robert, Robert, listen to me.” William waves a hand around. He’s hoping it’ll help him gather his thoughts into something coherent, because it’s important that Bryar understand this, and William is drunk. William is one of those rare drunks who can speak clearly and concisely, but that doesn’t actually mean the words automatically come out of his mouth in the correct order. “You can’t break up with someone for being in love with you, that’s. That’s asinine. That’s shitty,” and, oh, fuck it, he might as well just give up on the not cursing thing, right? It hasn’t been going all that well anyway.
“He might think that,” Bryar says. “But he isn’t.”
Bryar is apparently very, very dumb. “We aren’t all emotionally retarded grunts,” William says. “You’ve broken Joe because you’re scared.”
“I didn’t.” Bryar narrows his eyes at William. “I didn’t break Joe.”
“Oh, you did. Mark my words, Robert, you’ve broken him.” William shakes his head. It’s so very tragic. He steals the bottle of alcohol back from Bryar and takes a large gulp to take the edge off how very tragic the whole situation is. “I’m done with you, Sergeant Bryar.”
“But-”
“Done. Finito. The dream is over.” William pokes Brendon with his boot. “I think little Urie’s passed out.”
*
Joe figures the mainland is a good enough place to hide from Greta and her well-meaning hugs. Joe is totally not a crier, but Greta’s hugs are hardcore, and he can hardly stand her sympathetic pouty lips and eyes.
Unfortunately, it’s springtime and the male slags are feeling ornery.
“Whoa, dude,” Joe says, hands up. He doesn’t bother trying to run, but the slag - which looks like some sort of moose-cougar hybrid with wide hooves and huge sharp teeth - snorts, nostrils flaring, and paws at the ground.
Joe has no idea where Kennerty and Wheeler are, but Joe totally isn’t armed for this. The mainland’s a safe haven. And now Joe’s about to be killed by a rabid deer.
“Doc, where the hell are you?”
“Oh my god, radios are awesome,” Joe says, because he’d forgotten he had one hooked on his ear what with being all frozen in fear.
Wheeler sighs. “That’s great. Where are you?”
“Um.” Joe darts his gaze around without actually letting the slag out of his sight. “A field? Like, a really, really blue field. With a giant slag about to mow me down, seriously, do you think you guys could just, uh, come scare this beast off or something?”
“Joe,” Kennerty says. “Joe, calm down, okay, and let us know exactly where you are.”
Joe remembers wandering off behind the settlement. He remembers trees with light-skinned bark, remembers the magnolia-like blooms on a fat cluster of bushes. “Somewhere, like, five minutes back behind the village.”
Five minutes. A lot of bad could happen in five minutes, Joe thinks, but Kennerty says, “All right, just don’t move,” and Joe snorts, because he isn’t going to fucking breathe.
It seems like forever, standing there staring the slag down, before he hears Kennerty again, tinny voice saying they can see him even if he can’t see them yet.
And then the thing makes this noise, this inhuman yowling, and it starts charging right for him and Joe doesn’t remember pain or anything, but he remembers screaming this totally embarrassing high-pitched scream and stumbling over his feet and then everything had gone black.
*
Spencer can hear them through the walls.
He cringes a little, because he’s pretty sure that’s Brendon singing. And maybe Bryar.
“Spencerrrr. Grrrrrrrr. Open up, open up, open up.” There’s a flurry of knocking and Spencer hears some giggling and shushing and he rolls his eyes as he thinks the door open.
Beckett’s practically holding Brendon up in the doorway. “Smith,” Beckett says, smiling. “Hey, Smith. Present.”
“I’ve got a golden ticket,” Bendon sings, flopping forward, and Spencer quickly grabs him under his arms to keep him upright. He’s flushed and messy-haired and he’s got this sloppy grin stretching his face, and Spencer tries very hard not to grin back. “I’ve got a golden twinkle in my Joooe.”
Brendon’s chorus is echoed by a deeper voice somewhere out of view, and maybe Spencer does grin then.
“Robert, wait,” Beckett says, turning away. “Wait, wait, you’re going the wrong way.” And then he mutters something about being, “distressingly sober and how is that even possible?” as he wanders off, still calling for Bryar.
Spencer shakes his head. “Come on,” he says. “Bed.”
“Bed, bed, bed. I love bed.”
Brendon drunk is pretty adorable. Spencer’s never ever going to tell him that, though, and he pushes at Brendon’s shoulder until his feet start moving, until he sort of lurches towards the mattress and collapses onto his face. The snoring starts even before Spencer’s wrestled off both his boots.
*
“Special delivery for Joe,” Bill says when Joe opens his door, and then he punches a slightly swaying Bob on the upper arm and flounces off.
“I broke you,” Bob says, staring at Joe’s head.
Joe winces, touches his bandaged forehead with light fingers. Saying he fainted in terror and hit his head on a rock isn’t really any cooler than saying he’d been attacked by a rogue slag. “Just an accident on the mainland.”
Bob frowns. “Who was watching you?” He leans forward, way too far into Joe’s space.
Joe holds up his hands. “Wheeler and-are you drunk?”
“Yes?” Bob’s frown deepens. “Are you sure I didn’t break you?”
“Bob-” Joe staggers as Bob steps up close and wraps his arms around him. “No,” Joe says entirely too softly, but something’s lodged uncomfortably in his throat.
“Sorry,” Bob mumbles, breath hot and sticky with alcohol along the side of his face.
“It’s, um.” Joe’s hands come up to grip the back of Bob’s shirt. He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to say.
Bob says, “Sorry,” again, and Joe feels his mouth open and close at his temple, feels the faint kiss.
Joe’s really, really confused. “Why?”
Bob hums against his cheek, shuffles his feet a little, arms still banded tight around Joe. Then he tilts his head back and blinks down at him blearily. “Tell me who broke your head.”
“What?”
“Who-who d’I have to kill for-”
“Bob, hey, dude,” Joe pushes against his chest. “This isn’t. You don’t have to do this.”
Bob’s arms slacken slightly. “Okay.” He clears his throat, and Joe thinks maybe Bob’s not as drunk as he wants Joe to believe.
“I’m.” Joe shrugs, feels his cheeks blush. “I’ll be okay, man. You don’t have to-”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Beckett was right,” Bob says, voice thick. “I really.” Bob pauses, and Joe’s feeling a burn, a growing flare of irritation, because normally when shit like this happens his ex isn’t in his face all the time afterwards and Joe knows it’s a hazard of attempting relationships on Atlantis, yeah, but Bob’s seriously pushing now.
“Stop, just. Stop it, Bob,” Joe says, struggling a little. “You should sleep this off.”
Bob lets him go and Joe gives a sigh of relief, but then Bob’s hands are on his face instead, big palms cradling his cheeks.
“Hey,” Bob says. “I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that,” Joe says weakly, anger sort of seeping out of him as Bob stares him down. Bob’s eyes are a little out of focus, but his mouth is set.
“I’m an asshole.”
Joe swallows hard, uncomfortable, because Bob and conversations like this just don’t mix well in Joe’s head. He tries to jerk out of Bob’s grip, but Bob doesn’t let him go, just sort of smushes his face.
“Bob,” Joe says, reaching up to tug at his wrists.
“Yeah, um.” Bob drops his hands, palms the back of his neck.
It’s awkward and weird and Joe just wants to curl up under his covers and, like, fucking sob or something, because apparently he’s a giant girl.
And then Bob mumbles something like, “Can we go back to the way it was before?” and Bob had fucking hurt Joe, and he hadn’t even let Joe say anything, so no.
“No,” Joe says, and Bob’s eyes. Bob’s fucking eyes are bare and raw for a millisecond, long enough to punch Joe in the gut, and then he’s his old stoic self again.
Bob nods. “Right-”
“You’ll have to start over,” Joe says, and he’s not sure he meant to say that, but he’s going to go with it anyway.
Bob freezes. “What?”
Joe says, “You just have to figure out how,” and then he thinks the door closed and collapses against it, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in this throat. He smiles. He’s totally gonna make Bob work.
*
“Gabe,” William crosses his arms over his chest, “tell me something true.” He’s had just enough to drink to make him recklessly brave, and confronting Gabe seems like an excellent idea.
Gabe arches an eyebrow, leans up against his doorjamb. “What?”
“Tell me you haven’t been cockblocking me,” William says, because it’s all falling into place now. Captain Gabe has maliciously decided that William should never ever get laid again.
“Billiam-”
“No, no, don’t you Billiam me, Captain Gabe. I am furious with you.” He jabs a finger into Gabe’s chest. “You are my very best friend, and you’ve been warning off all my potential suitors and beating up-” William cuts himself off and blinks at Gabe.
Gabe doesn’t look the least chagrined. He looks expectant, and William is possibly the densest person to ever step foot on Atlantis, with the possible exception of Ritter, who happens to think Wheeler is just that accident prone - the whole infirmary’s like a soap saga, actually, what with that new medic, DeLeon, being a paranoid, clumsy mess over that baby-faced corporal dating that other new medic, Simpson, and how Biro’s taken to wearing low-necked shirts around DeLeon despite being at least ten years his senior, and William knows entirely too much of the goings-on in Atlantis’ sickbay, and it’s all besides the point. William is dense and that rat bastard Lacey had been right. “Well,” William says, deflating a little. “Well, shit.”
“Bill?”
“You realize you’ve taken a circular route,” William says. He’s maybe pouting.
There’s an extra sharp edge to Gabe’s grin. “Oh, but I’ve certainly had a lot of fun.”
“Typical.” William’s lips twitch, even though he is so not amused. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Gabe curls a fist in the front of William’s science jacket and tugs him forward, smirking against his mouth when William tips his face up to meet him. “You want to come in, Bill?” Gabe asks, their lips brushing.
William’s all shivery and pleased and his cheeks heat. “I believe I do, Captain Gabe,” he says. “I think that would be lovely.”
Next: Allotropy