new SGA/Bandslash fic: Sublimation
Sublimation | 18,400+ | PG-13 | Various multibandom pairings
Sequel to Supersaturation, Solvation, Enthalpy & Entropy
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William is not exactly sure what’s going on, but he’s feeling very fourteen. Very awkward with his limbs, very sore, and he does not like it.
A/N: SGA/Bandslash fusion. You’ll definitely need to have read all previous fics in this ‘verse before hand, even though this one is decidedly William-heavy. Monster thanks to druidspell for the fabulous beta (and for making me grin like a freaking loon). Of note: since the beauty of SGA is that it does not take place in the future, I’ve made all the boys randomly older than their current selves. There is arguably no plot in this? Not one of any substance, anyway. Also, right now I love William the most in all the land *twirls*
[ETA: a bandslash primer for SGA-ers | SGA for bandslashers ]
Sublimation
Butcher is one of William’s very favorite people, despite his penchant for short shorts and calisthenics. Or maybe because of that. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as Lieutenant Mrotek’s morning jogs through the Atlantis hallways. Watching them, at least.
William isn’t so sure it was a good idea to form an interplanetary team with him, though.
They’d set Greta on him. Sweet-mouthed Greta with curves that make his fingers itch, and Sisky’d low-balled him with his mischievous, up-to-no-good grin that he knew William had no chance of resisting - nor did he normally want to - and now he’s a permanent member of SGA-15, and well on his way to getting eaten by the large, gorilla-like beasties on P54-S13.
“They’re not going to eat you,” Greta says, standing dangerously close to one of the furry monsters, slavering away on some sort of leaf-root-berry thing. There’s an unwarranted amount of drooling involved.
“Step away, Greta, before you lose a precious limb.”
“They’re like monkeys,” Siska says. He looks like he maybe wants to hug one. “Iero’ll have a ball with these guys.”
William is not a very big fan of animals. He likes Tito, because Tito’s an excellent listener, but other than that animals sort of freak him out. They have entirely too much hair, for the most part.
“Well, Andy?” William asks, and he’s known the Butcher for forever, so he can get away with calling him Andy when he’s particularly upset.
Butcher arches an eyebrow over his mirrored sunglasses. “Bill.”
“This is why I retired from regular off-world missions, you know,” William says, cocking a hip. He’s perfectly fine with the occasional jaunt to locations alien for the greater good of geology, but - pterodactyl debacle aside, since dinosaurs will never not be awesome in any form - he’s honestly had enough of getting attacked by innocent-looking fuzzy animals and indigenous peoples with long, pointy spears. At least before, at the SGC, he’d had Jonny Walker to protect him. Sisky’s barely out of diapers, and the Butcher has this incredibly strange aversion to violence that’s just unsettling in a military officer.
Greta’s proficient with her sidearm - she shreds the target at the range every time they practice - but William has his doubts that she’ll ever be able to actually shoot any living thing, so basically William thinks this whole idea is idiotic.
Butcher scratches the back of his head. “I’d kind of like to discuss the fact that there’s no one here,” he says, and that’s an excellent point.
There’s supposed to be people living there, not just furry ape-dog things, and no one’s even popped up to say hello. Word had trickled down through their many and varied Pegasus contacts that they apparently sold Wraith-repellant charms, and Weir had been anxious to broker a trade. Not that they actually believe in Wraith-repellant charms, of course, but there’s a chance it’s Ancient tech at work, so it was worth a trip out.
No one’s home, though, so perhaps the Wraith got to them, after all. “I think the monkey beasts ate everyone,” William says.
“Let’s take a look around,” Butcher says. “Bill, you’re with me. Corporal, take Dr. Salpeter. Keep in contact.”
They split up, and William and the Butcher stalk steadily towards the settlement. Sisky and Greta disappear in the opposite direction, the wooded forest bare and stark against the gray sky.
“It’s creepy,” William says, a chill running up his spine. The entire village looks abandoned.
Butcher smoothes his fingers over the outer wall of a squat building, over a black scorch mark. “Wraith,” he says, and William nods. It looks like the Wraith had taken out the whole village, and that isn’t exactly commonplace. They aren’t after genocide. Destroying their food supply wouldn’t actually benefit them in the long run.
And then Butcher’s radio crackles and Siska says, “Sir, you’re gonna want to see this.”
*
The device is about the size of a small horse, and Brendon’s got its belly open, poking at different wires, humming Space Cowboy under his breath. Spencer very valiantly does not tell him to shut the fuck up. It helps that thirty or so big-eyed kids are standing off to the side, silently watching them. Spencer’s not sure where they all came from, since the rest of the place looks deserted, wasted by Wraith.
“So are we thinking Star Trek?” Corporal Siska asks, craning his neck to see over Brendon’s shoulder.
“Planet of the creepy kids.” Ryan, behind Siska, cups a hand over his eyes. The sun’s bright and tinged blue. “Seriously, they’ve got a staring problem.”
“Didn’t this already happen to Colonel Sheppard?” Dr. Salpeter asks. She’s got her datapad out, recording energy readings.
Approximately twenty paces away, Mrotek’s standing guard over Beckett and a pile of rocks that Beckett had seemed really excited about. They look flat and gray to Spencer.
“Yeah, except-uh oh.” The thing Brendon’s working on lights up, and Brendon grimaces, drops his hands from the innards and rocks back on his heels.
“Uh oh?” Spencer grabs hold of Brendon’s shoulder and makes him stumble backwards. “Uh oh, what?”
Brendon starts, “We might want to-” and then whatever he says next is swallowed by a pulsing alarm and a bright flash of light.
Spencer automatically tucks his body over Brendon’s, drags him down to the ground. He doesn’t feel an explosion so much as a lash of hot air that leaves his skin tingling and tight, then burrows deep into his bones, burns, and then the burn fades to an ache, and when he blinks his eyes open again there’s entirely too much hair falling over them.
*
Jon bites his lip to keep from smiling. Ryan as a sullen teenager is pretty much the most adorable thing ever. Except maybe for Spencer, because holy shit those are some chubby cheeks, the grin he flashes Ryan nearly gorgeous; if gorgeous was ever a term that could be applied to a bumbling fourteen-year-old. Approximately. It’s hard to judge their exact ages, since Brendon’s roughly the size of Jon’s pre-teen niece.
“Oh my fucking god,” Brendon says, looking down at himself. Then a slow grin breaks across his face, evil at the edges, and he tugs on the hem of Spencer’s shirt. “Hey there, pretty girl.”
Spencer sweeps long, long hair out of his eyes and sort of fails at glaring at Brendon. It’s a total fail, Jon can tell, pink blooming on his pale skin, until Brendon goes on with, “You’re totally a pudge, Spencer,” and Ryan punches him in the back of the head.
*
William is not exactly sure what’s going on, but he’s feeling very fourteen. Very awkward with his limbs, very sore, and he does not like it.
“I do not like this, Sisky,” he says, and Siska’s practically an amoeba, he’s so baby-faced, and if William’s bones didn’t actually hurt - he’d almost entirely forgotten that tremendous growth spurt he’d suffered through during the summer of 1995 - he’d probably appreciate that more. “Also,” William goes on, “your hair is frightening.”
Sisky’s hair is beyond frightening, and William’s used to Major Toro’s wild mop, as well as Joe’s.
Sisky pushes his curls off his forehead. “Bill.”
“No. No, really, I hope you realize it’s never the right time for a semi-permanent.”
“Bill,” Siska says, and he’s as pink-cheeked as Smith at this point - and Smith’s another one that William would love to bundle up and eat, if his hands could be trusted to do anything but grasp a pencil, and even that’s sort of pushing it.
If William remembers correctly, the summer of 1995 had been the summer of oops. It’s where his drunken dropsies originated from, he’s sure of it.
“It’s natural,” Siska insists, and William arches a skeptical brow, but he knows for a fact that he’s sporting an ironically inspired mullet, so he doesn’t press.
“All right,” Smith says finally, and his voice cracks on the end, so it’s hard to think of him as their current off-world leader, but William puts forth an excellent effort.
“Right. Let’s all hear what Smith has to say.” William nods at Smith encouragingly.
Smith’s mouth tightens. “Beckett.”
“Go on,” William says, waving a hand. “Lead us.”
“Beckett,” Smith starts, then shoots a pinched look at Butcher - who’s looking mighty fine, actually, in all his teenage glory - and says, “The machine’s too big to transport, so we’ll have to radio for reinforcements. Urie, how’s your brain?”
Brendon blinks. “Just fine, Spencer, thanks.”
Smith, William thinks, is remarkably insensitive, given all the trouble little Brendon’s had with his mind the past couple months. “Your boyfriend’s insensitive,” William says to Brendon, but since Brendon’s on the opposite side of both Smith and Sisky, sandwiched between the Butcher and Ross, William basically says it to the entire crowd.
Smith tenses and Brendon’s eyes go wide, and William has the distinct sense that he’s done something horribly wrong.
*
Jon looks almost exactly the same, only his hair’s just a little longer. He’s got the same loose grin, the same way of slouching. Ryan kind of wants to punch his amiable face, but he’s pretty sure that’s just his irrational teenage rage kicking in. He’d forgotten how angry he’d been there for a while.
“Who the fuck came up with this device?” Ryan asks, because a teen maker, what? How can this possibly be useful in any way? No one should ever want to relive puberty.
Spencer comes back from the direction of the ‘gate frowning, but that isn’t anything new. What’s new is the way his frown totally doesn’t work on his face, and Ryan might be full of impotent anger, but a Spencer that young just makes his heart twist. He remembers that Spencer, the one who had sleepovers in his bed, who squished up against him to watch movies, who flopped over his lap when he was tired and gave him hugs when he was happy.
Ryan melts a little, and Jon pokes his side, grinning knowingly, and Ryan’s insides are still all topsy-turvy, so he doesn’t even bother batting his hand away.
“Half hour,” Spencer says unhappily, hands on his hips. “They want us on the other side to get checked over by Carson.”
“We’re fine,” Brendon says, and Brendon’s this tiny speck of energy, and Ryan kind of wants to punch him, too. Or, like, again, because no one insults Spencer and gets away with it.
“Spontaneous age-regression. Physically, at least,” Greta says. She hikes up her pants, wraps the excess material in her fist as she walks over. “I don’t know. I’d kind of like to get reassured that we aren’t all going to die from this.”
Ryan really agrees with that.
“I am going to die,” William says dramatically, stumbling behind Greta. “My knees hurt. My knees. Sisky,” he tugs on Siska’s hair, and Corporal Siska has always been pretty easy going, but it looks to Ryan like he’s almost at the end of his tether, “Sisky, my body wasn’t meant to do this twice.”
Brendon stares at William for a minute, wide-eyed, then says, “You’re still pretty tall,” and William nods, mouth turned down just the slightest bit at the corners.
“And I shall be even taller tomorrow,” William says. “It’s horrible.”
“Hey. Anyone else curious about where all the kids went?” Butcher asks, and yeah.
Ryan kind of wants to know where, because even though they could infer what had happened to the adult population of the village, it hadn’t made their silence and staring any less creepy. He’s had more surprise attacks from seemingly harmless natives than he wants to think about.
Jon slips a hand around Ryan’s wrist, pins the under skin with strong fingers. Ryan quirks an eyebrow at him and Jon shrugs.
Ryan maybe doesn’t want to punch him anymore. His cheeks heat and he suddenly remembers what else made puberty so hellish, beyond the bad skin and general pissiness.
Then, “Hey, little dudes!” rings over the field, jerking Ryan’s thoughts away from Jon’s mouth, his lips, the little glimpse of tongue, and he glances up to see Pete grinning hugely, just cresting the top of a lazy hillock.
*
“We’re Wentz and Way,” Pete says. He pushes on Ryan’s back, shoving him towards the path back to the ‘gate, and Gerard rolls his eyes a little. “We’re an unstoppable force of world-saving awesome!”
Brendon grabs hold of Gerard’s sleeve. “Hey, so, don’t cross the wires?”
“Okay.” Gerard nods. “No crossing wires, check. Should I not think about the Stay Puft marshmallow man, too?”
“Oh, yeah, funny, right,” Butcher says, and the Butcher has always scared Gerard a little, but he’s smiling, sort of like he does find it funny, even though his words were kind of flat.
“That’s a given,” Brendon says, nodding sagely. His hair doesn’t move at all. It’s sort of like a helmet, Gerard thinks. Gerard resists the urge to reach out and ruffle it, just to make sure it isn’t one.
“All right, kiddos. Time for the grownups to get to work,” Pete says, grinning this huge, mocking grin.
Smith nods tightly at Ray, shoulders his P-90, and stalks off.
Brendon shrugs, points at Gerard, and says, “Remember. Keep the blue wires separate at all costs,” before running to catch up with his team.
Gerard’s pretty sure he can handle that, even when Bob, standing over the machine, says, “So what happens when all the wires are blue?”
*
“Are you kidding me?” Rodney stares Way and Wentz down, but Way just looks bewildered, and Rodney can’t even see Wentz’s eyes, hiding behind the truly hideous fall of his fringe.
Finally, Wentz says petulantly, “We didn’t even touch it,” and Rodney, for a brief, fleeting moment, considers retirement. Blissful, tropical retirement, far far away from Dr. Peter Wentz in all his distracting forms.
“Oh,” Ivarsson exclaims, hands clasped in front of her chest. “Oh, how precious.”
Ivarsson, of course, is completely unhelpful. Rodney has no idea why she’s even in the infirmary, and he certainly doesn’t want to know, even though he suspects it has something to do with the mini Major Toro that’d trudged in with Wentz, Way and Bryar.
Ivarsson hugs Way - and, oh god, Way’s possibly even more big-eyed and helpless looking than usual; the labs are going to be anarchy.
“Rodney,” John drawls, swaggering up and being all lets-get-this-done-already, that special brand of I-expect-miracles-from-you that Rodney openly hates but secretly preens about. He knows John does it on purpose, too.
Rodney says, “Yes, yes, I’m handling it,” because he’s handling it. He needs competent minions. This is getting sort of ridiculous.
He taps his radio, says, “Radek, I need someone who isn’t an idiot.”
“I am afraid that is only you, Rodney,” Radek says, voice tinny through the comm. link.
“I sense your sarcasm, but you happen to be absolutely correct. You’re coming with me.”
“What? Rodney-”
“Unless you’d like to turn the city into Atlantis High, I suggest you meet me in the ‘gate room in ten minutes.”
Radek growls something unintelligible, and Rodney flashes John a smug grin. “Coming?”
*
Elizabeth leans forward onto her elbows and tries hard not to smile. “So you’re saying it’s not Ancient.”
“For all its utter uselessness, it might as well be,” Rodney says and huffs some hair out of his face. He’s got wispy soft curls all over his head, and Elizabeth thinks he looks almost like an angel.
She bites her lip and tries very hard not to giggle, either.
John, lounging in the seat next to Rodney, says, “The kids refused to talk to Teyla, so we have no idea when this will wear off-”
“Or how to reverse it, or if it can be reversed, or if we’re going to die like this-”
“Rodney.” Elizabeth palms her forehead, stares down at the conference table, because this is serious business and she can’t focus on John’s boneless insolent sprawl, the ridiculous fauxhawk cresting the top of his head, or the way Rodney keeps poking John’s arm with his pen. “Rodney,” she says, careful, “Carson says you’re perfectly fine.”
“For now. Who knows what could happen next? We could get even younger, or age too rapidly and snap limbs, don’t think I haven’t heard William complaining about his bones being on fire, or-or-or get eaten by whales, and why the hell aren’t you looking at us, Elizabeth, this is serious.”
Elizabeth’s palm slips down over her face to cover her mouth, and she glances up at Rodney, eyes wide. She has to bite the skin a little. Rodney’s cheeks are all rosy with anger and his hair is literally floating around his head like a cherub.
John snorts.
She darts her eyes over and John arches an eyebrow, hooks an arm over the back of his chair.
“She thinks you’re adorable, Rodney,” John says, and Rodney sputters, gets to his feet and jabs a finger at Elizabeth.
“I am not adorable,” Rodney says, then backtracks, “Wait, of course I am,” and John snorts again. Rodney turns his glare on John and says, “I haven’t even begun to make fun of whatever your hair thinks it’s doing, Sheppard.”
“Hey.” John straightens up, runs a hand through longer scruff on the top of his head, then scrubs his fingers over the shaved parts behind his ears. There’s some sort of zigzag design going on that Elizabeth hadn’t noticed before.
She needs to get out of there before she loses it completely.
“Gentlemen,” she says, standing up. “I believe there isn’t anything else to discuss at the moment?” And then she hightails it out of the room before either of them can stop her.
*
William is an equal opportunity flirt, but he hasn’t gotten laid in months. People tend to not take him seriously, and that’s okay, that’s fine, because William’s friendly. He’s friendly, not slutty, and he’s totally okay with that.
Not getting laid isn’t the pathetic part, though. The pathetic part is that he’s uncomfortable. He’s achy and sore and miserable, and he’s all alone, curled up on his bed. He’d much prefer having a snuggle-buddy.
The door chimes, and William waves his hand vaguely towards it, says a dejected, “Come in,” and it slides open to reveal the lovely Greta in miniature, hair pulled back in the same whimsical butterfly clips she always wears, only there’s considerably more of the stuff, spilling over her shoulders.
“I knew you were moping,” Greta says. She settles down next to him on the bed, squirms close to his side, tiny and plump.
“Not now that you’re here,” William says, and shifts to cuddle even closer, only his elbow bumps her head and she slaps at him, says, “Watch your bony limbs, Bill.”
“In theory,” William says frowning. “In theory, this should be awesome.” He’s not sure if he’s referring to Greta-cuddles or age-regression or both, but everything is turning out very disappointing. And painful, he thinks, rubbing his chest.
Greta says, “I brought chocolate and Goodfellas,” though, and William instantly cheers. There’s nothing so heartening as sugar and mob movies.
“You are my very favorite, Salpeter. Don’t let Gabe tell you any differently.”
*
Ryan has a fleeting moment of intense déjà vu as he stares into his bathroom mirror, shirtless, flexing his arms a little. He’s all right. He thinks maybe he should eat more, but he’s pretty sure that’s just his inner Brendon talking - and how weird is it that he has an inner Brendon now? It’s kind of battling with the teenage part of his brain, the part that makes his eyes hard and encourages everyone to fuck right off.
He frowns, and doesn’t even notice Jon until he’s directly behind him.
“What-”
“Dude, Ryan, I’d give you a hug, but I think maybe I’d break you.”
Ryan’s lips thin. “Funny,” he says.
Jon doesn’t stop smiling. His eyes - god, his freaking kind, wonderful eyes - are sparkling. Doing this ridiculous happy dance as his fingers creep up the back of Ryan’s bare arms.
Ryan flinches, but doesn’t move away.
“Look at you,” Jon says.
“Stop.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest.
Jon hooks his chin on his shoulder, catches his gaze in the mirror. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, little boy.”
Ryan bites his bottom lip, rolls his eyes. “Seriously, stop.” He knows Jon’s game. Jon’s got this stupid idea that Ryan has a gooey hidden center, and adult Ryan may be a big old pushover, but there’s irrational rage at play here, and Ryan has a hardened core. A frame of pure unbendable steel.
“Stop what?” Jon noses his neck, grin pressed into his skin. He hums. He hums Here, There and Everywhere and Ryan’s spine goes fucking liquid. Damn it.
“Jon,” he says, a little exasperated.
Jon flicks his gaze up. “Smile, Ryan Ross. Smile or I’ll serenade you. I’ll serenade you in the mess.” He pokes Ryan’s side.
Ryan’s mouth twitches.
“Oh, oh, it’s like watching Bambi take his very first steps,” Jon says mock-reverently, and Ryan spins around and punches him in the stomach.
Jon oofs and catches Ryan’s fist and laughs, booming, and then he crowds Ryan back against the sink, pushes him up to sit on the porcelain and keeps laughing and says, “I’ll totally make you smile, Ryan Ross,” against Ryan’s lips.
*
Brendon knows he’s in trouble; oh god, does he know it. He stifles a nervous giggle and shrinks further into the corner of the common lounge, knees pulled up to his chest.
He’d called Spencer fat, and he hadn’t meant it like that at all, because Spencer at fourteen is pretty much adorable, this tiny mass of chub and clear rosy skin. Brendon just wants to squish him close and never let go.
But things have just, like, gone steadily worse since the whole thing happened, what with William blurting out about his boyfriend, and how Spencer had-Spencer had looked stricken and, okay, Brendon’s totally down with discretion, but it still sort of hurts, the way Spencer seems to be ashamed of him.
“I can see you, you know.”
“You see nothing, Jon Walker,” Brendon says, shaking his head. “I’m hiding.”
Jon nods. “Pretty badly, though.”
“No, no, I’m-is that a hickey?” Brendon asks, incredulous, because that’s totally a hickey on his throat; high, even, just under his jaw. “Have you been necking, Sergeant?”
Jon quirks his lips, slides his hands into his pockets. “I’m a gentleman, Urie, and gentlemen do not talk about their conquests.”
Brendon finds that hard to believe. Everyone’s just against him today.
“Spencer’s looking for you,” Jon says, and of course he is.
Spencer probably wants to beat him with his shoe. Or, okay, that’s probably unfair to think, because Spencer’s great and Brendon, well. Brendon’s pretty sure Spencer loves him. He’s, like, ninety-five percent sure.
“Jon, I’m.” Brendon stops, buries his face in his knees. He feels Jon slide to the ground next to him, lean into his side.
“Hey,” Jon says. “Hey, it’s fine.”
“I called him fat, Jon. I said he was pudgy, and he’s not. He’s, like.” Brendon looks over at him. “He’s perfect.”
Jon makes some sort of sound, a little like a laugh. His eyes are twinkling. He says, “Maybe you should go tell him that, then.”
*
Patrick had not wanted to believe it, but there Pete is, not all that much smaller than normal, but sort of softer in the face, skinnier in his limbs, torso, and the smile he flashes Patrick is, if possible, the most mischievous one Patrick’s ever seen stretching his mouth. Coming from Pete, that’s sort of amazing. And suspect.
Patrick gives him a preemptive, “No.”
“Oh, come on. I’m at least,” Pete’s eyes turn thoughtful, “thirteen? Fourteen?”
Patrick shakes his head. “No. No, Pete, no.” He’s not having sex with mini Pete; that’s so wrong. Patrick can’t even properly express how wrong that is, he just keeps jerking his head, hands up and spread to ward off any attack Pete might launch.
Pete scowls. “I’m still me,” he says, and that does nothing for Patrick, because of course he’s still Pete. Pete is Pete, and Patrick’s pretty sure his teenage behavior had been just as manic as his adult. Noting the similarities kind of only makes Patrick feel worse.
“Yeah, no.”
“Patrick,” Pete whines, “you realize my brain hasn’t regressed, right?”
“Your other parts have,” Patrick points out. “That’s good enough for me.”
Pete slips closer, looks down at Patrick through his eyelashes - and how much does that suck, that even mini Pete has, like, at least two inches on Patrick? - tries for a sultry look that sort of fails around twitchy. “Patrick,” he says. “Patty, Pat, Pat.”
“You’re thinking making me want to punch you is going to help?” Patrick asks, but some of his resolve is weakening in the face of Pete’s sort of adorable teenage awkwardness. It’s got its own charm.
“Paaaaatrick,” Pete says, leaning closer, and Patrick’s lips twitch.
“Pete.”
“Hugs? Sunny little harmless hugs? I’ve been traumatized, Patrick,” Pete argues, and it’s not like it isn’t true.
“A hug,” Patrick says, and before he even gets the words fully out, Pete’s wrapped around him like a monkey, tight arms, mouth open against Patrick’s neck, and maybe Pete had been holding up great, maybe he’ll be fine later, but Patrick feels the tension thrumming up and down his entire body, feels the nails Pete digs into Patrick’s back as he grasps his shirt.
Patrick pulls Pete even closer, cups a palm over the back of his head, and Pete’s breathing shudders.
Pete says, “This is so fucked up,” voice muffled.
Patrick says, “Yeah.”
*
Gerard is fourteen and he’s hands down the most miserable kid Frank has ever seen.
“Gerard.”
“Yeah.” Gerard juts out his lower lip, ridiculously petulant. Frank’s pretty sure his brain didn’t regress - at least, that’s what everyone keeps telling him - but Gerard certainly sounds like it has.
“It’s dinner time.” Technically, it’s closer to midnight, Earth standard, but Gerard had been keeping some strange hours before the whole age-regression incident, and for the past three weeks they’d been catching dinner just before the mess closed.
Gerard’s scowl deepens. “I’m not hungry.”
“Oh for.” Frank rubs his fist over his forehead, eyes squinched closed. “This is getting stupid,” Frank says, because he’s been sitting in Gerard’s quarters for the better part of an hour and Gerard just won’t even fucking smile at him, and maybe Frank’s freaking out a little. This isn’t fun for either of them. “I can’t,” he says, hand falling, and he gets to his feet.
Gerard watches him, eyes getting bigger and bigger, and, fuck, they were huge to begin with. It’s so surreal.
Frank turns and almost reaches the door before Gerard’s on him, arms wrapped around his stomach, face buried in the back of Frank’s neck. “What-”
“Frank, Frank, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I don’t mean-please don’t leave me,” Gerard says, and Frank freezes.
“Gerard,” Frank says, drawn out, slow.
Gerard mutters, “I’ll be better, I promise.”
“Gerard.” Frank turns around; squirms a little to do it, since Gerard doesn’t loosen his grip, just opens his mouth over Frank’s heart when he manages to get them chest to chest. “Gerard, why would I-”
“I fuck up. Sometimes. I don’t mean to, I’m sorry,” Gerard says dejectedly, voice muffled by Frank’s shirt.
Frank curls his hands over Gerard’s upper arms, squeezes. “Gee,” he says. “Gee, I’m just hungry. It’s okay if you don’t want to come.” He’s not sure what’s going on, but Gerard doesn’t let him go.
“I want to eat, too,” he says, eager now, tipping his head back to give Frank a watery smile, and it’s wrong. It feels wrong, but Frank’s not exactly sure why.
“You don’t have to,” Frank says, careful and soft.
“I want to. I want to go with you.” He’s got a stubborn glint in his eye, corners of his mouth tightening, and Frank has always thought that he got Gerard, that Gerard shared everything with him, but he’s sort of-uncertain now.
Frank just squeezes his arms again, though, and says, “Okay.”
*
Butcher is a handsome devil, William thinks. He could certainly do worse - although not by much, because Atlantis happens to be full of ridiculously good looking people.
He knows the Butcher swings any which way, so long as he’s careful, so William doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. A little snuggling between teammates. Sex would be nice, but he’s not going to push.
Greta always slaps him when he gets too fresh, but she’d let him nap on her breasts the day before, and hadn’t that been wonderful?
William looks into his mirror and says, “You’re a handsome devil, too,” because he occasionally needs to pat himself on the back, boost his confidence. Months. It’s been months; six long tragic months, ever since Tom got sent back to earth, and he’s not desperate, he isn’t, but he’s fifteen or fourteen and he’s the very slightest bit horny, really, just a little, and he wants some comfort. He’d settle for dry humping, even.
He’s uncharacteristically jittery under his skin as he takes the transporter down to Butcher’s quarters, tugs on the hem of his t-shirt as he presses the door chime. He fluffs his hair back, plasters on a winning smile.
Butcher blinks up at him as the door slides open, then cocks his head, smirks. “Bill,” he says.
“Andy.” William leans into the jamb, waggles his eyebrows.
“No fucking way.”
“Uh.” William isn’t exactly hurt. There’s a bit of a sting in his heart, though, a lurch sideways, and he swallows hard.
Butcher’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, shit. Shit, don’t cry, Billy, fuck.”
“I’m not going to cry, you fucker,” William says, but oh god, he’s tearing up, and he isn’t a pre-menstrual girl, Christ. He fucking hates puberty. And he fucking hates cursing, shit, it’s been his goal this month to clean up his mouth, and now Butcher’s got him cursing again.
“Bills,” Butcher says, pulling him into his arms. He pats his back. The Butcher isn’t the best hugger around, but William makes allowances for his suppressive military background.
William sniffs, digs his chin into Butcher’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah, come on.” He maneuvers William into the room, door closing behind them. “Come on, I’m about ten minutes into the final season of Dawson’s Creek. We’ll just start over, okay?”
The Butcher is so very accommodating, William thinks, except when he’s spurning his perfectly awesome advances. William nods. “I would like that very much,” he says, and he’s absolutely sure Butcher will let him snuggle, too.
*
It isn’t so much that Spencer’s upset that people know. He’s not stupid. It’s hard to keep anything a secret in a closed society like Atlantis. Still. There’d been that flare of panic when Beckett had said boyfriend, that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Spencer really wonders what that means.
It doesn’t help that Brendon is avoiding him. It’s starting to piss him off, actually.
Ryan eyes him warily across the mess table. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m five feet of pudge, that’s what’s wrong,” Spencer snaps, stabbing at his eggs.
“I’m going to kill Brendon.” Ryan sounds very, very serious.
Spencer sighs. It’s not Brendon’s fault, not really, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. “It’s fine,” he says, then sets his fork down and looks at Ryan, really looks, because Ryan had been sullen when they were younger, had been angry at the world for every shitty thing it dealt him, but Ryan actually seems sort of happy, right then.
“It’s not fine,” Ryan says, “but I’m going to let you handle it,” and that’s something else fourteen-year-old Ryan would never have said, would never have done.
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “Had a good night?”
Ryan grins, sloppy. “Fantastic night, thanks,” he says, and Spencer does not want to know the details. He doesn’t want to know who on base was interested in fucking a teenager. Or maybe he is interested. Maybe he wants to pound that person’s face in.
“Ry-”
“Oh my god, Spencer, relax. No one took advantage of me.”
“But-”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Ryan says. He hums, picks apart a cinnamon roll, and then Walker slides into the seat next to him and Ryan’s face fucking lights up and Spencer’s stomach flips over.
His, “Are you-?” slips out before he can stop it, and Ryan pins him with a careful glare.
“Not talking about it,” Ryan says.
Walker bounces his gaze between them. “Not talking about what?”
“Nothing,” Spencer says, and gets to his feet.
*
Pete likes to get naked in front of Patrick. Normally, this isn’t a problem. Normally, this is something Patrick loves, looks forward to, even, but Pete is still underage and Patrick is still not interested.
“You want to put that away?” Patrick says absently, flipping through a two month old issue of Vogue. He’s not even sure where it came from, but he’s sort of not picky about his reading material anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick sees a flicker of bare skin as Pete bounces onto his bed. “Look, Patrick, look,” he says, “I don’t even have any of my baby tattoos yet.”
“You have tattoos of babies?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
“Patrick,” Pete says, frustrated, and Patrick is really getting sick of Pete’s whining.
Patrick glances up, focuses on Pete’s face - because, hell, he’s, like, sprawled there, but thank fuck he at least put some boxers on - and says, “I’ll send you back to your room. If you can’t behave, Pete. Pete-”
“Patrick.” Pete scrambles up on his knees in the bedclothes, grabs a t-shirt and yanks it over his head. “Patrick, I want to go out to the mainland, come with me?”
“Pete.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. Pete always switches gears so fast it makes him dizzy, but he’s even worse now.
Pete pulls on his jeans, loose on him, and cinches them tight with a belt. “It’s springtime, Patrick. Spindly baby slags! Berries!”
“They’re not actually berries, Pete,” Patrick says, but he’s already reaching for his jacket. The baby slags are always fun to watch, and Patrick thinks the fresh air will do them both good.
“They’re delicious,” Pete says, hooking his arm through Patrick’s.
They’ll be delicious until Morris makes fifty thousand pies, muffins, cakes, and sauces out of them. Patrick just says, “Come on,” though, and, “Let’s go ask Lorne for a pilot.”
*
“There’s something wrong with Gerard,” Frank says to Bob.
Bob just grunts, flicks his gaze over at him before focusing back on cleaning his sidearm.
Bob’s just as gruff as he always is, but it’s somehow less effective in his surprisingly gangly teenage body. Bob’s got big hands and thin wrists, and for all his adult solidness, Frank had always figured Bob for a chubby kid. This was not, apparently, the actual case.
“I’m serious,” Frank says. “He’s acting strange.”
“He’s fourteen,” Bob says.
Frank is only a little disappointed that Bob’s voice has already dropped. Squeaky Bob would’ve been fun. “He’s-he’s.” Frank doesn’t know how to describe it. He slumps down in his seat, folds his arms on the table and buries his face.
Finally, Bob asks, “Do you guys ever fight?”
Frank shifts, blinks up at him. “Huh?”
“You don’t fight. You.” Bob shrugs. “He just gives in.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
Frank’s been practically living with Gerard for eight months, been in love with him since nearly a year before that, when he’d opened his front door to see this rumpled mess of a guy, grinning so hard, eyes nervous, and Frank hasn’t noticed, not once, that they never ever fucking argue, really, not about anything important.
“Huh,” Frank says again.
Bob says, “He’s got some issues,” and Frank thinks maybe that’s the understatement of the year.
Frank thinks maybe he has some issues, too.
*
“Can you at least wear a hat?” Rodney asks, because he’s trying to work - well, not work, exactly, because Elizabeth’s frozen them out of the network and placed Hurley in charge, and if Rodney hadn’t been busy preparing to squash Radek like a bug, then he’d probably be more upset about that - and John’s hair is disturbing him greatly. It’s just looming there. Watching him.
“It’s cool,” John says, shrugging tightly. That shrug that means he’s pissed off, but isn’t going to make a big deal out of it.
“It’s the very opposite of cool, John,” Rodney says, flicking absent fingers at him, “and I spent a great deal of my formative years getting stuffed into lockers.” Rodney knows uncool. Rodney perfected uncool and John’s hair is sort of horrendous.
“Hey, so,” John gets up from the couch. “I’m going to go. Feel free to continue mocking me after I leave.”
“Oh, come on, you can’t be that sensitive,” Rodney says. He spins around in his desk chair, hands on his knees.
“I think I can.” John cocks a finger at Rodney. “I think I’m enough of a loser to be.”
Rodney huffs out an annoyed breath. “Right. Do you want to help me, or do you want to go sulk?”
John grins at him, thin-lipped. “Bye, Rodney,” he says, and Rodney rolls his eyes, says, “For the love of god, Sheppard, you’ve got zigzags shaved into your head and you don’t expect me to make fun of you?”
“Of course not,” John says, and Rodney can’t believe John’s mad at him over this completely justified teasing.
“Fine,” Rodney says. “Fine, if I promise not to mention the youthful indiscretion sitting on top of your head, will you please help me?”
John slides his hands into his pockets. “What are we doing?” he asks.
Rodney jabs a finger at his computer screen. “We’re building a faster robot than Radek.”
John’s eyes light up. “Cool.”
*
Brendon stumbles over Spencer just outside his quarters, and he barely has time to squawk before Spencer’s crowding him backwards, before he’s shoving him down on the bed and crawling on top of him, and it’s not like Brendon minds, but he really thinks they need to talk.
“Spencer, Spence, wait.” He catches Spencer’s wrists, says, “Just. We should talk.”
“I’d rather not,” Spencer says, and wedges their hips together, and that’s. Nice. Oh so nice.
“Hi,” Brendon breathes.
Spencer grins down at him, sharp. “Hi.”
Something’s a little off, but he let’s Spencer kiss him anyway, lets him wriggle his hands up under his shirt, curl under the small of his back, jerk their hips closer.
“Less clothes,” Brendon says, panting, and Spencer says, “Yeah, yes,” against his neck, but he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t move, just sort of breathes there, mouth open, and Brendon bucks up, whines, “Spencer,” and Spencer barks a rough laugh.
“Walker’s fucking Ryan,” Spencer says.
“Wait, what?” Brendon pushes at Spencer’s shoulders and Spencer arches away, turns his head so Brendon can’t see his eyes, hair falling in front of his face. “That’s-”
“Yeah.”
“No, that’s fine,” Brendon says. “Are we really having this conversation?”
“No,” Spencer mutters. He tries to roll off Brendon, but Brendon hooks his legs around him so they end up on their sides, locked together, and Brendon butts his forehead into Spencer’s cheek.
“Spencer, it’s not a big deal.”
Spencer presses his lips together, nudges his head sideways until their cheeks are touching, until Brendon’s mouth is close to his ear.
Brendon says, “Jon’s not going to hurt Ryan, not ever.”
Spencer relaxes a little against him. “Whatever,” he says.
Smiling, Brendon asks, “Can we get naked now? I’ve been really looking forward to the naked part, okay, because you’re like-”
“Don’t say it,” Spencer warns. He’s tense again, but his hands tighten over Brendon’s back.
Brendon pushes at him until he falls backwards, squirms on top and presses his palms down on Spencer’s belly, stares at his full pink cheeks, the way his hair fans out over the pillows. Spencer’s eyes are downcast and he’s so young and so un-Spencer-like and Brendon may be tiny - he remembers, okay, and he’d been the size of a bug back then, and the only thing going for him is that he’s slightly less blind - but he still feels fourteen and he really, really, really wants into Spencer’s pants. Like, immediately. Spencer is hot at any age, no lie.
He slides his hands down to the button on Spencer’s pants, but Spencer’s fingers catch his before he can even tug at the zipper, squeeze hard around them, and Spencer’s mouth is frowning.
The lights dim and Brendon thinks them back up and then Spencer’s frown tightens. He hisses, “Brendon, no,” forehead creasing with concentration, and Brendon fights him, because he wants-needs to see everything; this is a once in a lifetime thing.
“Please,” Brendon says as the lights flicker. “Please, Spencer, please.”
Spencer’s gaze flits up to Brendon’s, and Brendon can see his age there. Can see the hard gray beneath the blue.
“Please,” Brendon says again, and he thinks mine and always, and Spencer can maybe see all that in his eyes, too - Brendon has never tried to hide anything from him.
Spencer says, soft, “Alright.”
*
There’s a conspiracy going on, William’s sure of it. It’s just starting to make sense. Or not make any sense at all, depending on how you look at it, but William hasn’t been laid since Tommy left, and it’s not as if William isn’t attractive. William is fantastic looking, William knows exactly how pretty he is, how his hair does lovely things for his face, so he doesn’t understand why no one will sleep with him. Someone is conspiring against him. Someone is meddling in his love affairs.
Tom’s transfer is starting to smell fishy, too.
Siska stares at him. Siska, with his ridiculous hair and sparkling eyes and his complete unwillingness to even give William a hug, if his incredulous expression can be believed.
“I do not like this,” William says.
“You’ve said that before.”
“I’ve said that about my inability to grasp simple objects,” William says, nodding, “and the way my bones grow two feet every night while I’m sleeping. What I do not like now,” he pokes Sisky in the chest, “is that everyone else seems to be humping like bunnies, and I’m getting lonely with just my hand.”
Siska grimaces. He says, “Fuck, Bill.”
“That’s the idea, yes,” William says, and he cares not a wit - not one - that he’s been reduced to banal come-ons. He even gives the old leer a college try.
“I can’t say-” Siska blows out a stuttering breath, shifts on his feet and flashes William an awkward smile. “Look, I’m not supposed to say anything about this, but.”
“But?” William prompts.
“Not like I would,” Sisky says, “but Captain Saporta’s sort of. Intimidating?”
William blinks. That’s entirely the truth. Gabe’s largely frightening until you get to know him, and then he’s harmless as a pussycat. A large, feral pussycat with big teeth. He doesn’t see what that has to do with this, though.
“Gabe can be an intense presence, yes,” William agrees.
“Right,” Siska says, nodding. He grins. “So that’s why.”
“Why what?” William feels like he’s missing something.
Siska’s face falls and he shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. “Why you’re not-look, I don’t actually want to talk to you about this,” he says, and then shuts the door in William’s face.
William is definitely missing something, he’s sure of it.
*
Pete’s a little wild. He’s a little crazy, which is nothing new, but he’s just. Something else, streaking across the clearing with a bunch of Athosian kids, laughing louder than any of them.
Patrick’s standing in the shade, watching, and it makes him smile. Pete’s running flat out, knees pumping high, and Patrick’s seen him teach the kids how to play soccer before, seen him going for runs with Butcher in the mornings, but he’s never seen him run. Not like that.
Pete has this nonchalance, this almost forced who-the-fuck-cares? attitude, but he always acts like everyone’s looking, like he has to be someone for everyone else but himself.
It’s kind of nice to see Pete just being a kid.
“Patrick,” Pete yells, and then he’s tearing up the field with the sewn leather ball. “Patrick, watch!”
The strange, maybe really perverted thing is that Patrick feels a little like a dad. He just nods his head and waves, grinning as Pete drives the ball down the clearing, laughing as three of the littler Athosians come out of nowhere and tackle him down.
They’re all covered in mud, and Pete’s hoarse from laughing by the time he stumbles to a stop next to Patrick, breathing hard.
“I’m awesome,” Pete says, practically pants, beaming. He’s got the game ball under his right arm, and then rolls it across his chest to tuck it under his left one. Other than that, though, he’s standing completely fucking still, like he wore himself out, like he’s tired, the good kind of tired that Patrick rarely, if ever, sees.
Patrick nods. “You are very awesome.”
So the age thing might be weird, might be fucked up, but Patrick’s finding he’s kind of grateful for it, anyway.
*
Ryan as an adult had been sort of ridiculously thin, but Ryan as a teenager has hipbones that could slice Jon’s hands. Jon holds him down anyway, palms curved over bone, and settles half his weight on Ryan’s legs, curls over so his head rests in the hollow of his ribcage, just above his belly.
Ryan tugs on his hair, murmurs, “I like you like this.”
Jon snorts and flexes his hands. Ryan’s skin is warm and soft.
“Your hair,” Ryan says, tugging again before smoothing it flat, carding his fingers through it.
Jon’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs. “Mmmm. S’nice.” His mom had been a nut about keeping his hair neat and trimmed, but it’s still longer than he usually wears it.
“Yeah.” Ryan lets out a noisy yawn, and it’s sort of early yet, but it’s not like they have anywhere else to be.
Dr. Weir isn’t letting them do much in their current pint size, and Jon doesn’t blame her. They’re a risk in these unpredictable forms, so he has no problem standing down for a few days. He’s hoping this whole mess will just run its course.
“Hey, Jon?” Ryan says softly.
Jon breathes out, and he can feel Ryan shiver, can feel the little ripples under his skin, against his cheek. “Yeah?”
“I think Spencer knows.” He sounds wary, a little cautious.
“That’s okay,” Jon says. He smoothes a hand up Ryan’s side, fingers tracing the indent of his ribs. Spencer has no room to talk, really, but he understands Ryan’s worry. Spencer is Spencer, and he’s always been really protective of everything he considers his, and that includes Ryan. “It’s fine. It’ll be-”
“I’m gonna be really fucking pissed if he accidentally kills you off-world.”
Jon laughs. He shifts, squirms up Ryan’s body, props himself up on his hands on either side of Ryan’s head. Ryan is awkward and beautiful and, like, a stick, seriously. “It’ll be fine,” Jon says, and dips his head down to kiss him.
*
Joe’s kind of freaked out about Bob.
Everyone else seems, like, perfectly fine dealing with all the suddenly-teenie expedition members, so he feels like maybe he’s overreacting, but Joe’s. Joe’s really freaking out.
Bob doesn’t look like Bob at all.
Bob looks like this gawky kid, awkwardly put together, like maybe a stiff breeze could push him over, and Joe’s suddenly busy. They’ve found a new spore on the mainland, and Joe would like to claim his preoccupation as just coincidence, but he’s not much of a liar.
The fact that Bob seems just as intent on avoiding Joe is slightly worrying, though.
“You’re freaking out,” Bob says, sliding into the seat across from Joe in the mess.
If Joe closes his eyes, he can almost, almost imagine regular Bob is there instead. Their voices are so close. Joe says, “Dude, you’re like.”
Bob arches an eyebrow.
“Small?”
Bob nods. “Fair enough. Want to watch Lethal Weapon in the lounge later?”
Joe wavers. Danny Glover is so very tempting.
“Or we could go back to ignoring each other,” Bob says, and Bob hardly ever tries to draw Joe out, because Bob is normally taciturn and Joe’s a natural chatterbox. Joe thinks maybe the ignoring again thing would be unwise, no matter how weird everything is. Joe’s going to have to deal with it.
“No,” Joe says. “No, okay, a movie would be great.”
Bob’s expression doesn’t really change, but Joe thinks maybe his eyes look lighter.
*
Gerard doesn’t like losing things, especially when he doesn’t have very much left. He has the SGC and he has his work and he has Frank, and he isn’t going to lose any of that, not if he can help it.
“Gee,” Frank says, sitting across from him on the low table in his quarters, caging Gerard’s knees with his own. “We need to talk.”
Gerard nods, sitting up a little straighter on the couch, because Frank’s right. Gerard had never talked enough with Mikey, never knew what had been going on in his head, and he’d never talked to his parents, not really. And it’s not like they want to talk to him now. They’d said maybe two words to him when he’d gone home to say goodbye before leaving for Atlantis, and he doesn’t blame them.
He’d fucked up with Mikey. He’d fucked up most of his life, but Atlantis is his, Atlantis is theirs, he can feel it every time he opens up a control panel, lights up a hallway, steps inside a transporter.
Frank looks a little like he doesn’t know what to say, though, and Gerard’s chest gets tight, because that’s usually a bad sign. It’s usually when people end up saying stuff like, “We’re really better off as friends, right?” or, “The police called,” or, “Your grandmother didn’t make it through the night.” It’s usually stuff that hurts.
But then Craig scuttles up his thigh and into his palms and nibbles on his thumb a little, and Frank’s face breaks out into a smile, and okay. Maybe it can’t be that bad.
“Frank?”
“Right.” Frank takes a deep breath. “You know you’re very. I mean. You-oh, fuck it.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “I love you,” he says, and he’s looking at his knees, so Gerard kicks him. Well, it’s an awkward angle, so Gerard sort of just shoves him with the side of his shoe.
“Frank.”
Frank glances up at him and rolls his eyes. “I love you, dickhead.”
Gerard feels a smile tug at his lips, creep over his face. “Okay.”
Frank punches him in the thigh. “Gee.”
Gerard ducks his head, snuggles Craig up under his chin. He nods, looks over at Frank and says, “Okay. I love you, too.”
“Christ. You can maybe call me on being an asshole every once and a while, you know,” he says.
Gerard scrambles over a, “But you’re not-”
“Gerard, Gee, please, just. You need to tell me,” Frank says, staring him down.
Gerard feels awkward in his body, but he’s always felt awkward. That’s not something he ever really got over. It doesn’t seem to matter whether he’s a pudgy fourteen-year-old or a pale mostly-out-of-shape scientist sneaking up on thirty-five. Sometimes he still can’t believe Frank - awesome acclaimed shark diver and friend-of-the-seals Frank - actually wants to be with him. Gerard nods jerkily. He says, “Yeah, okay.”
“Promise?”
“I, um. You’re not going to get mad, right?”
Frank rubs the end of his nose. He bobs his head, says, “Yeah, right, of course I’m going to get mad sometimes. We’ll just deal with it, okay? You can get mad, too.”
“I don’t-”
“If you tell me you don’t want to get mad, Gee, I’m gonna fucking bite you.”
Gerard blinks. “Um.”
“Good, good. Progress.” Frank beams at him, squeezes one of his knees.
Gerard’s a little lost, but Frank seems pleased, so he doesn’t think it matters.
*
Since a great deal of William’s unhappiness in life is because of a certain rat bastard Marine sergeant, William assumes the whole mess is Lacey’s fault. This is only cemented by the fact that Asher - sexy Asher, with her shapely calves and breasts - answers Lacey’s door in his t-shirt and boxers.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Corporal Asher,” William says, because he is. That rat bastard Lacey is a sneaky son of a gun, undeserving of her attentions.
Asher arches an eyebrow. “Did you need something, Dr. Beckett?”
William is all set to spout a pithy remark when Lacey appears behind Asher’s shoulder, naked as a jay, and while on the surface Lacey is an attractive specimen, William must remember that underneath the skin Lacey’s some sort of crab demon, with extra legs and eye stems.
William says, “You’ll not tempt me with your devil ways,” and Asher tilts her head in question. Lacey just scratches his balls and grins really, really evilly. William swallows hard, because Lacey’s evil grin has none of the endearing qualities that Gabe’s has. “Have either of you seen Captain Gabe?” he asks.
“I imagine he’d be in his own quarters, Billy,” Lacey says, still unabashedly naked, and William has to admire his complete lack of a social conscious. Polite company dictates some sort of dressing, yet there Lacey is, in all his rat bastard glory. Lacey’s evil grin dips into an evil smirk, and he says, “You’re staring.”
William’s cheeks burn. “Of course I am,” he says, all false bravado, really, because William is staring, and Lacey will never let him live it down. This abstinence business is messing with William’s head, not to mention the fact that his body thinks he’s fourteen, and fourteen had been a perpetually horny year for William - horny, clumsy, and growing like one of those capsules that insta-expand into dinosaurs or washcloths when soaked. Under normal circumstances, a bare-assed Lacey would make him want to vomit his last four meals.
Asher leans up against the doorjamb, cocking a distracting hip. “Is that all?”
There is really something fabulous about Asher’s legs. William’s no slouch in the limb department - and he’s a boy besides - but he’s just the slightest bit envious.
“I’ll just, uh, go find Gabe, then,” William says, and when the door slides closed, he applauds himself for keeping cool. He’d lost entirely too much money to the swear jar the day before.
part two
Sequel to Supersaturation, Solvation, Enthalpy & Entropy
download the soundtrack
William is not exactly sure what’s going on, but he’s feeling very fourteen. Very awkward with his limbs, very sore, and he does not like it.
A/N: SGA/Bandslash fusion. You’ll definitely need to have read all previous fics in this ‘verse before hand, even though this one is decidedly William-heavy. Monster thanks to druidspell for the fabulous beta (and for making me grin like a freaking loon). Of note: since the beauty of SGA is that it does not take place in the future, I’ve made all the boys randomly older than their current selves. There is arguably no plot in this? Not one of any substance, anyway. Also, right now I love William the most in all the land *twirls*
[ETA: a bandslash primer for SGA-ers | SGA for bandslashers ]
Sublimation
Butcher is one of William’s very favorite people, despite his penchant for short shorts and calisthenics. Or maybe because of that. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as Lieutenant Mrotek’s morning jogs through the Atlantis hallways. Watching them, at least.
William isn’t so sure it was a good idea to form an interplanetary team with him, though.
They’d set Greta on him. Sweet-mouthed Greta with curves that make his fingers itch, and Sisky’d low-balled him with his mischievous, up-to-no-good grin that he knew William had no chance of resisting - nor did he normally want to - and now he’s a permanent member of SGA-15, and well on his way to getting eaten by the large, gorilla-like beasties on P54-S13.
“They’re not going to eat you,” Greta says, standing dangerously close to one of the furry monsters, slavering away on some sort of leaf-root-berry thing. There’s an unwarranted amount of drooling involved.
“Step away, Greta, before you lose a precious limb.”
“They’re like monkeys,” Siska says. He looks like he maybe wants to hug one. “Iero’ll have a ball with these guys.”
William is not a very big fan of animals. He likes Tito, because Tito’s an excellent listener, but other than that animals sort of freak him out. They have entirely too much hair, for the most part.
“Well, Andy?” William asks, and he’s known the Butcher for forever, so he can get away with calling him Andy when he’s particularly upset.
Butcher arches an eyebrow over his mirrored sunglasses. “Bill.”
“This is why I retired from regular off-world missions, you know,” William says, cocking a hip. He’s perfectly fine with the occasional jaunt to locations alien for the greater good of geology, but - pterodactyl debacle aside, since dinosaurs will never not be awesome in any form - he’s honestly had enough of getting attacked by innocent-looking fuzzy animals and indigenous peoples with long, pointy spears. At least before, at the SGC, he’d had Jonny Walker to protect him. Sisky’s barely out of diapers, and the Butcher has this incredibly strange aversion to violence that’s just unsettling in a military officer.
Greta’s proficient with her sidearm - she shreds the target at the range every time they practice - but William has his doubts that she’ll ever be able to actually shoot any living thing, so basically William thinks this whole idea is idiotic.
Butcher scratches the back of his head. “I’d kind of like to discuss the fact that there’s no one here,” he says, and that’s an excellent point.
There’s supposed to be people living there, not just furry ape-dog things, and no one’s even popped up to say hello. Word had trickled down through their many and varied Pegasus contacts that they apparently sold Wraith-repellant charms, and Weir had been anxious to broker a trade. Not that they actually believe in Wraith-repellant charms, of course, but there’s a chance it’s Ancient tech at work, so it was worth a trip out.
No one’s home, though, so perhaps the Wraith got to them, after all. “I think the monkey beasts ate everyone,” William says.
“Let’s take a look around,” Butcher says. “Bill, you’re with me. Corporal, take Dr. Salpeter. Keep in contact.”
They split up, and William and the Butcher stalk steadily towards the settlement. Sisky and Greta disappear in the opposite direction, the wooded forest bare and stark against the gray sky.
“It’s creepy,” William says, a chill running up his spine. The entire village looks abandoned.
Butcher smoothes his fingers over the outer wall of a squat building, over a black scorch mark. “Wraith,” he says, and William nods. It looks like the Wraith had taken out the whole village, and that isn’t exactly commonplace. They aren’t after genocide. Destroying their food supply wouldn’t actually benefit them in the long run.
And then Butcher’s radio crackles and Siska says, “Sir, you’re gonna want to see this.”
*
The device is about the size of a small horse, and Brendon’s got its belly open, poking at different wires, humming Space Cowboy under his breath. Spencer very valiantly does not tell him to shut the fuck up. It helps that thirty or so big-eyed kids are standing off to the side, silently watching them. Spencer’s not sure where they all came from, since the rest of the place looks deserted, wasted by Wraith.
“So are we thinking Star Trek?” Corporal Siska asks, craning his neck to see over Brendon’s shoulder.
“Planet of the creepy kids.” Ryan, behind Siska, cups a hand over his eyes. The sun’s bright and tinged blue. “Seriously, they’ve got a staring problem.”
“Didn’t this already happen to Colonel Sheppard?” Dr. Salpeter asks. She’s got her datapad out, recording energy readings.
Approximately twenty paces away, Mrotek’s standing guard over Beckett and a pile of rocks that Beckett had seemed really excited about. They look flat and gray to Spencer.
“Yeah, except-uh oh.” The thing Brendon’s working on lights up, and Brendon grimaces, drops his hands from the innards and rocks back on his heels.
“Uh oh?” Spencer grabs hold of Brendon’s shoulder and makes him stumble backwards. “Uh oh, what?”
Brendon starts, “We might want to-” and then whatever he says next is swallowed by a pulsing alarm and a bright flash of light.
Spencer automatically tucks his body over Brendon’s, drags him down to the ground. He doesn’t feel an explosion so much as a lash of hot air that leaves his skin tingling and tight, then burrows deep into his bones, burns, and then the burn fades to an ache, and when he blinks his eyes open again there’s entirely too much hair falling over them.
*
Jon bites his lip to keep from smiling. Ryan as a sullen teenager is pretty much the most adorable thing ever. Except maybe for Spencer, because holy shit those are some chubby cheeks, the grin he flashes Ryan nearly gorgeous; if gorgeous was ever a term that could be applied to a bumbling fourteen-year-old. Approximately. It’s hard to judge their exact ages, since Brendon’s roughly the size of Jon’s pre-teen niece.
“Oh my fucking god,” Brendon says, looking down at himself. Then a slow grin breaks across his face, evil at the edges, and he tugs on the hem of Spencer’s shirt. “Hey there, pretty girl.”
Spencer sweeps long, long hair out of his eyes and sort of fails at glaring at Brendon. It’s a total fail, Jon can tell, pink blooming on his pale skin, until Brendon goes on with, “You’re totally a pudge, Spencer,” and Ryan punches him in the back of the head.
*
William is not exactly sure what’s going on, but he’s feeling very fourteen. Very awkward with his limbs, very sore, and he does not like it.
“I do not like this, Sisky,” he says, and Siska’s practically an amoeba, he’s so baby-faced, and if William’s bones didn’t actually hurt - he’d almost entirely forgotten that tremendous growth spurt he’d suffered through during the summer of 1995 - he’d probably appreciate that more. “Also,” William goes on, “your hair is frightening.”
Sisky’s hair is beyond frightening, and William’s used to Major Toro’s wild mop, as well as Joe’s.
Sisky pushes his curls off his forehead. “Bill.”
“No. No, really, I hope you realize it’s never the right time for a semi-permanent.”
“Bill,” Siska says, and he’s as pink-cheeked as Smith at this point - and Smith’s another one that William would love to bundle up and eat, if his hands could be trusted to do anything but grasp a pencil, and even that’s sort of pushing it.
If William remembers correctly, the summer of 1995 had been the summer of oops. It’s where his drunken dropsies originated from, he’s sure of it.
“It’s natural,” Siska insists, and William arches a skeptical brow, but he knows for a fact that he’s sporting an ironically inspired mullet, so he doesn’t press.
“All right,” Smith says finally, and his voice cracks on the end, so it’s hard to think of him as their current off-world leader, but William puts forth an excellent effort.
“Right. Let’s all hear what Smith has to say.” William nods at Smith encouragingly.
Smith’s mouth tightens. “Beckett.”
“Go on,” William says, waving a hand. “Lead us.”
“Beckett,” Smith starts, then shoots a pinched look at Butcher - who’s looking mighty fine, actually, in all his teenage glory - and says, “The machine’s too big to transport, so we’ll have to radio for reinforcements. Urie, how’s your brain?”
Brendon blinks. “Just fine, Spencer, thanks.”
Smith, William thinks, is remarkably insensitive, given all the trouble little Brendon’s had with his mind the past couple months. “Your boyfriend’s insensitive,” William says to Brendon, but since Brendon’s on the opposite side of both Smith and Sisky, sandwiched between the Butcher and Ross, William basically says it to the entire crowd.
Smith tenses and Brendon’s eyes go wide, and William has the distinct sense that he’s done something horribly wrong.
*
Jon looks almost exactly the same, only his hair’s just a little longer. He’s got the same loose grin, the same way of slouching. Ryan kind of wants to punch his amiable face, but he’s pretty sure that’s just his irrational teenage rage kicking in. He’d forgotten how angry he’d been there for a while.
“Who the fuck came up with this device?” Ryan asks, because a teen maker, what? How can this possibly be useful in any way? No one should ever want to relive puberty.
Spencer comes back from the direction of the ‘gate frowning, but that isn’t anything new. What’s new is the way his frown totally doesn’t work on his face, and Ryan might be full of impotent anger, but a Spencer that young just makes his heart twist. He remembers that Spencer, the one who had sleepovers in his bed, who squished up against him to watch movies, who flopped over his lap when he was tired and gave him hugs when he was happy.
Ryan melts a little, and Jon pokes his side, grinning knowingly, and Ryan’s insides are still all topsy-turvy, so he doesn’t even bother batting his hand away.
“Half hour,” Spencer says unhappily, hands on his hips. “They want us on the other side to get checked over by Carson.”
“We’re fine,” Brendon says, and Brendon’s this tiny speck of energy, and Ryan kind of wants to punch him, too. Or, like, again, because no one insults Spencer and gets away with it.
“Spontaneous age-regression. Physically, at least,” Greta says. She hikes up her pants, wraps the excess material in her fist as she walks over. “I don’t know. I’d kind of like to get reassured that we aren’t all going to die from this.”
Ryan really agrees with that.
“I am going to die,” William says dramatically, stumbling behind Greta. “My knees hurt. My knees. Sisky,” he tugs on Siska’s hair, and Corporal Siska has always been pretty easy going, but it looks to Ryan like he’s almost at the end of his tether, “Sisky, my body wasn’t meant to do this twice.”
Brendon stares at William for a minute, wide-eyed, then says, “You’re still pretty tall,” and William nods, mouth turned down just the slightest bit at the corners.
“And I shall be even taller tomorrow,” William says. “It’s horrible.”
“Hey. Anyone else curious about where all the kids went?” Butcher asks, and yeah.
Ryan kind of wants to know where, because even though they could infer what had happened to the adult population of the village, it hadn’t made their silence and staring any less creepy. He’s had more surprise attacks from seemingly harmless natives than he wants to think about.
Jon slips a hand around Ryan’s wrist, pins the under skin with strong fingers. Ryan quirks an eyebrow at him and Jon shrugs.
Ryan maybe doesn’t want to punch him anymore. His cheeks heat and he suddenly remembers what else made puberty so hellish, beyond the bad skin and general pissiness.
Then, “Hey, little dudes!” rings over the field, jerking Ryan’s thoughts away from Jon’s mouth, his lips, the little glimpse of tongue, and he glances up to see Pete grinning hugely, just cresting the top of a lazy hillock.
*
“We’re Wentz and Way,” Pete says. He pushes on Ryan’s back, shoving him towards the path back to the ‘gate, and Gerard rolls his eyes a little. “We’re an unstoppable force of world-saving awesome!”
Brendon grabs hold of Gerard’s sleeve. “Hey, so, don’t cross the wires?”
“Okay.” Gerard nods. “No crossing wires, check. Should I not think about the Stay Puft marshmallow man, too?”
“Oh, yeah, funny, right,” Butcher says, and the Butcher has always scared Gerard a little, but he’s smiling, sort of like he does find it funny, even though his words were kind of flat.
“That’s a given,” Brendon says, nodding sagely. His hair doesn’t move at all. It’s sort of like a helmet, Gerard thinks. Gerard resists the urge to reach out and ruffle it, just to make sure it isn’t one.
“All right, kiddos. Time for the grownups to get to work,” Pete says, grinning this huge, mocking grin.
Smith nods tightly at Ray, shoulders his P-90, and stalks off.
Brendon shrugs, points at Gerard, and says, “Remember. Keep the blue wires separate at all costs,” before running to catch up with his team.
Gerard’s pretty sure he can handle that, even when Bob, standing over the machine, says, “So what happens when all the wires are blue?”
*
“Are you kidding me?” Rodney stares Way and Wentz down, but Way just looks bewildered, and Rodney can’t even see Wentz’s eyes, hiding behind the truly hideous fall of his fringe.
Finally, Wentz says petulantly, “We didn’t even touch it,” and Rodney, for a brief, fleeting moment, considers retirement. Blissful, tropical retirement, far far away from Dr. Peter Wentz in all his distracting forms.
“Oh,” Ivarsson exclaims, hands clasped in front of her chest. “Oh, how precious.”
Ivarsson, of course, is completely unhelpful. Rodney has no idea why she’s even in the infirmary, and he certainly doesn’t want to know, even though he suspects it has something to do with the mini Major Toro that’d trudged in with Wentz, Way and Bryar.
Ivarsson hugs Way - and, oh god, Way’s possibly even more big-eyed and helpless looking than usual; the labs are going to be anarchy.
“Rodney,” John drawls, swaggering up and being all lets-get-this-done-already, that special brand of I-expect-miracles-from-you that Rodney openly hates but secretly preens about. He knows John does it on purpose, too.
Rodney says, “Yes, yes, I’m handling it,” because he’s handling it. He needs competent minions. This is getting sort of ridiculous.
He taps his radio, says, “Radek, I need someone who isn’t an idiot.”
“I am afraid that is only you, Rodney,” Radek says, voice tinny through the comm. link.
“I sense your sarcasm, but you happen to be absolutely correct. You’re coming with me.”
“What? Rodney-”
“Unless you’d like to turn the city into Atlantis High, I suggest you meet me in the ‘gate room in ten minutes.”
Radek growls something unintelligible, and Rodney flashes John a smug grin. “Coming?”
*
Elizabeth leans forward onto her elbows and tries hard not to smile. “So you’re saying it’s not Ancient.”
“For all its utter uselessness, it might as well be,” Rodney says and huffs some hair out of his face. He’s got wispy soft curls all over his head, and Elizabeth thinks he looks almost like an angel.
She bites her lip and tries very hard not to giggle, either.
John, lounging in the seat next to Rodney, says, “The kids refused to talk to Teyla, so we have no idea when this will wear off-”
“Or how to reverse it, or if it can be reversed, or if we’re going to die like this-”
“Rodney.” Elizabeth palms her forehead, stares down at the conference table, because this is serious business and she can’t focus on John’s boneless insolent sprawl, the ridiculous fauxhawk cresting the top of his head, or the way Rodney keeps poking John’s arm with his pen. “Rodney,” she says, careful, “Carson says you’re perfectly fine.”
“For now. Who knows what could happen next? We could get even younger, or age too rapidly and snap limbs, don’t think I haven’t heard William complaining about his bones being on fire, or-or-or get eaten by whales, and why the hell aren’t you looking at us, Elizabeth, this is serious.”
Elizabeth’s palm slips down over her face to cover her mouth, and she glances up at Rodney, eyes wide. She has to bite the skin a little. Rodney’s cheeks are all rosy with anger and his hair is literally floating around his head like a cherub.
John snorts.
She darts her eyes over and John arches an eyebrow, hooks an arm over the back of his chair.
“She thinks you’re adorable, Rodney,” John says, and Rodney sputters, gets to his feet and jabs a finger at Elizabeth.
“I am not adorable,” Rodney says, then backtracks, “Wait, of course I am,” and John snorts again. Rodney turns his glare on John and says, “I haven’t even begun to make fun of whatever your hair thinks it’s doing, Sheppard.”
“Hey.” John straightens up, runs a hand through longer scruff on the top of his head, then scrubs his fingers over the shaved parts behind his ears. There’s some sort of zigzag design going on that Elizabeth hadn’t noticed before.
She needs to get out of there before she loses it completely.
“Gentlemen,” she says, standing up. “I believe there isn’t anything else to discuss at the moment?” And then she hightails it out of the room before either of them can stop her.
*
William is an equal opportunity flirt, but he hasn’t gotten laid in months. People tend to not take him seriously, and that’s okay, that’s fine, because William’s friendly. He’s friendly, not slutty, and he’s totally okay with that.
Not getting laid isn’t the pathetic part, though. The pathetic part is that he’s uncomfortable. He’s achy and sore and miserable, and he’s all alone, curled up on his bed. He’d much prefer having a snuggle-buddy.
The door chimes, and William waves his hand vaguely towards it, says a dejected, “Come in,” and it slides open to reveal the lovely Greta in miniature, hair pulled back in the same whimsical butterfly clips she always wears, only there’s considerably more of the stuff, spilling over her shoulders.
“I knew you were moping,” Greta says. She settles down next to him on the bed, squirms close to his side, tiny and plump.
“Not now that you’re here,” William says, and shifts to cuddle even closer, only his elbow bumps her head and she slaps at him, says, “Watch your bony limbs, Bill.”
“In theory,” William says frowning. “In theory, this should be awesome.” He’s not sure if he’s referring to Greta-cuddles or age-regression or both, but everything is turning out very disappointing. And painful, he thinks, rubbing his chest.
Greta says, “I brought chocolate and Goodfellas,” though, and William instantly cheers. There’s nothing so heartening as sugar and mob movies.
“You are my very favorite, Salpeter. Don’t let Gabe tell you any differently.”
*
Ryan has a fleeting moment of intense déjà vu as he stares into his bathroom mirror, shirtless, flexing his arms a little. He’s all right. He thinks maybe he should eat more, but he’s pretty sure that’s just his inner Brendon talking - and how weird is it that he has an inner Brendon now? It’s kind of battling with the teenage part of his brain, the part that makes his eyes hard and encourages everyone to fuck right off.
He frowns, and doesn’t even notice Jon until he’s directly behind him.
“What-”
“Dude, Ryan, I’d give you a hug, but I think maybe I’d break you.”
Ryan’s lips thin. “Funny,” he says.
Jon doesn’t stop smiling. His eyes - god, his freaking kind, wonderful eyes - are sparkling. Doing this ridiculous happy dance as his fingers creep up the back of Ryan’s bare arms.
Ryan flinches, but doesn’t move away.
“Look at you,” Jon says.
“Stop.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest.
Jon hooks his chin on his shoulder, catches his gaze in the mirror. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, little boy.”
Ryan bites his bottom lip, rolls his eyes. “Seriously, stop.” He knows Jon’s game. Jon’s got this stupid idea that Ryan has a gooey hidden center, and adult Ryan may be a big old pushover, but there’s irrational rage at play here, and Ryan has a hardened core. A frame of pure unbendable steel.
“Stop what?” Jon noses his neck, grin pressed into his skin. He hums. He hums Here, There and Everywhere and Ryan’s spine goes fucking liquid. Damn it.
“Jon,” he says, a little exasperated.
Jon flicks his gaze up. “Smile, Ryan Ross. Smile or I’ll serenade you. I’ll serenade you in the mess.” He pokes Ryan’s side.
Ryan’s mouth twitches.
“Oh, oh, it’s like watching Bambi take his very first steps,” Jon says mock-reverently, and Ryan spins around and punches him in the stomach.
Jon oofs and catches Ryan’s fist and laughs, booming, and then he crowds Ryan back against the sink, pushes him up to sit on the porcelain and keeps laughing and says, “I’ll totally make you smile, Ryan Ross,” against Ryan’s lips.
*
Brendon knows he’s in trouble; oh god, does he know it. He stifles a nervous giggle and shrinks further into the corner of the common lounge, knees pulled up to his chest.
He’d called Spencer fat, and he hadn’t meant it like that at all, because Spencer at fourteen is pretty much adorable, this tiny mass of chub and clear rosy skin. Brendon just wants to squish him close and never let go.
But things have just, like, gone steadily worse since the whole thing happened, what with William blurting out about his boyfriend, and how Spencer had-Spencer had looked stricken and, okay, Brendon’s totally down with discretion, but it still sort of hurts, the way Spencer seems to be ashamed of him.
“I can see you, you know.”
“You see nothing, Jon Walker,” Brendon says, shaking his head. “I’m hiding.”
Jon nods. “Pretty badly, though.”
“No, no, I’m-is that a hickey?” Brendon asks, incredulous, because that’s totally a hickey on his throat; high, even, just under his jaw. “Have you been necking, Sergeant?”
Jon quirks his lips, slides his hands into his pockets. “I’m a gentleman, Urie, and gentlemen do not talk about their conquests.”
Brendon finds that hard to believe. Everyone’s just against him today.
“Spencer’s looking for you,” Jon says, and of course he is.
Spencer probably wants to beat him with his shoe. Or, okay, that’s probably unfair to think, because Spencer’s great and Brendon, well. Brendon’s pretty sure Spencer loves him. He’s, like, ninety-five percent sure.
“Jon, I’m.” Brendon stops, buries his face in his knees. He feels Jon slide to the ground next to him, lean into his side.
“Hey,” Jon says. “Hey, it’s fine.”
“I called him fat, Jon. I said he was pudgy, and he’s not. He’s, like.” Brendon looks over at him. “He’s perfect.”
Jon makes some sort of sound, a little like a laugh. His eyes are twinkling. He says, “Maybe you should go tell him that, then.”
*
Patrick had not wanted to believe it, but there Pete is, not all that much smaller than normal, but sort of softer in the face, skinnier in his limbs, torso, and the smile he flashes Patrick is, if possible, the most mischievous one Patrick’s ever seen stretching his mouth. Coming from Pete, that’s sort of amazing. And suspect.
Patrick gives him a preemptive, “No.”
“Oh, come on. I’m at least,” Pete’s eyes turn thoughtful, “thirteen? Fourteen?”
Patrick shakes his head. “No. No, Pete, no.” He’s not having sex with mini Pete; that’s so wrong. Patrick can’t even properly express how wrong that is, he just keeps jerking his head, hands up and spread to ward off any attack Pete might launch.
Pete scowls. “I’m still me,” he says, and that does nothing for Patrick, because of course he’s still Pete. Pete is Pete, and Patrick’s pretty sure his teenage behavior had been just as manic as his adult. Noting the similarities kind of only makes Patrick feel worse.
“Yeah, no.”
“Patrick,” Pete whines, “you realize my brain hasn’t regressed, right?”
“Your other parts have,” Patrick points out. “That’s good enough for me.”
Pete slips closer, looks down at Patrick through his eyelashes - and how much does that suck, that even mini Pete has, like, at least two inches on Patrick? - tries for a sultry look that sort of fails around twitchy. “Patrick,” he says. “Patty, Pat, Pat.”
“You’re thinking making me want to punch you is going to help?” Patrick asks, but some of his resolve is weakening in the face of Pete’s sort of adorable teenage awkwardness. It’s got its own charm.
“Paaaaatrick,” Pete says, leaning closer, and Patrick’s lips twitch.
“Pete.”
“Hugs? Sunny little harmless hugs? I’ve been traumatized, Patrick,” Pete argues, and it’s not like it isn’t true.
“A hug,” Patrick says, and before he even gets the words fully out, Pete’s wrapped around him like a monkey, tight arms, mouth open against Patrick’s neck, and maybe Pete had been holding up great, maybe he’ll be fine later, but Patrick feels the tension thrumming up and down his entire body, feels the nails Pete digs into Patrick’s back as he grasps his shirt.
Patrick pulls Pete even closer, cups a palm over the back of his head, and Pete’s breathing shudders.
Pete says, “This is so fucked up,” voice muffled.
Patrick says, “Yeah.”
*
Gerard is fourteen and he’s hands down the most miserable kid Frank has ever seen.
“Gerard.”
“Yeah.” Gerard juts out his lower lip, ridiculously petulant. Frank’s pretty sure his brain didn’t regress - at least, that’s what everyone keeps telling him - but Gerard certainly sounds like it has.
“It’s dinner time.” Technically, it’s closer to midnight, Earth standard, but Gerard had been keeping some strange hours before the whole age-regression incident, and for the past three weeks they’d been catching dinner just before the mess closed.
Gerard’s scowl deepens. “I’m not hungry.”
“Oh for.” Frank rubs his fist over his forehead, eyes squinched closed. “This is getting stupid,” Frank says, because he’s been sitting in Gerard’s quarters for the better part of an hour and Gerard just won’t even fucking smile at him, and maybe Frank’s freaking out a little. This isn’t fun for either of them. “I can’t,” he says, hand falling, and he gets to his feet.
Gerard watches him, eyes getting bigger and bigger, and, fuck, they were huge to begin with. It’s so surreal.
Frank turns and almost reaches the door before Gerard’s on him, arms wrapped around his stomach, face buried in the back of Frank’s neck. “What-”
“Frank, Frank, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I don’t mean-please don’t leave me,” Gerard says, and Frank freezes.
“Gerard,” Frank says, drawn out, slow.
Gerard mutters, “I’ll be better, I promise.”
“Gerard.” Frank turns around; squirms a little to do it, since Gerard doesn’t loosen his grip, just opens his mouth over Frank’s heart when he manages to get them chest to chest. “Gerard, why would I-”
“I fuck up. Sometimes. I don’t mean to, I’m sorry,” Gerard says dejectedly, voice muffled by Frank’s shirt.
Frank curls his hands over Gerard’s upper arms, squeezes. “Gee,” he says. “Gee, I’m just hungry. It’s okay if you don’t want to come.” He’s not sure what’s going on, but Gerard doesn’t let him go.
“I want to eat, too,” he says, eager now, tipping his head back to give Frank a watery smile, and it’s wrong. It feels wrong, but Frank’s not exactly sure why.
“You don’t have to,” Frank says, careful and soft.
“I want to. I want to go with you.” He’s got a stubborn glint in his eye, corners of his mouth tightening, and Frank has always thought that he got Gerard, that Gerard shared everything with him, but he’s sort of-uncertain now.
Frank just squeezes his arms again, though, and says, “Okay.”
*
Butcher is a handsome devil, William thinks. He could certainly do worse - although not by much, because Atlantis happens to be full of ridiculously good looking people.
He knows the Butcher swings any which way, so long as he’s careful, so William doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. A little snuggling between teammates. Sex would be nice, but he’s not going to push.
Greta always slaps him when he gets too fresh, but she’d let him nap on her breasts the day before, and hadn’t that been wonderful?
William looks into his mirror and says, “You’re a handsome devil, too,” because he occasionally needs to pat himself on the back, boost his confidence. Months. It’s been months; six long tragic months, ever since Tom got sent back to earth, and he’s not desperate, he isn’t, but he’s fifteen or fourteen and he’s the very slightest bit horny, really, just a little, and he wants some comfort. He’d settle for dry humping, even.
He’s uncharacteristically jittery under his skin as he takes the transporter down to Butcher’s quarters, tugs on the hem of his t-shirt as he presses the door chime. He fluffs his hair back, plasters on a winning smile.
Butcher blinks up at him as the door slides open, then cocks his head, smirks. “Bill,” he says.
“Andy.” William leans into the jamb, waggles his eyebrows.
“No fucking way.”
“Uh.” William isn’t exactly hurt. There’s a bit of a sting in his heart, though, a lurch sideways, and he swallows hard.
Butcher’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, shit. Shit, don’t cry, Billy, fuck.”
“I’m not going to cry, you fucker,” William says, but oh god, he’s tearing up, and he isn’t a pre-menstrual girl, Christ. He fucking hates puberty. And he fucking hates cursing, shit, it’s been his goal this month to clean up his mouth, and now Butcher’s got him cursing again.
“Bills,” Butcher says, pulling him into his arms. He pats his back. The Butcher isn’t the best hugger around, but William makes allowances for his suppressive military background.
William sniffs, digs his chin into Butcher’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah, come on.” He maneuvers William into the room, door closing behind them. “Come on, I’m about ten minutes into the final season of Dawson’s Creek. We’ll just start over, okay?”
The Butcher is so very accommodating, William thinks, except when he’s spurning his perfectly awesome advances. William nods. “I would like that very much,” he says, and he’s absolutely sure Butcher will let him snuggle, too.
*
It isn’t so much that Spencer’s upset that people know. He’s not stupid. It’s hard to keep anything a secret in a closed society like Atlantis. Still. There’d been that flare of panic when Beckett had said boyfriend, that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Spencer really wonders what that means.
It doesn’t help that Brendon is avoiding him. It’s starting to piss him off, actually.
Ryan eyes him warily across the mess table. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m five feet of pudge, that’s what’s wrong,” Spencer snaps, stabbing at his eggs.
“I’m going to kill Brendon.” Ryan sounds very, very serious.
Spencer sighs. It’s not Brendon’s fault, not really, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. “It’s fine,” he says, then sets his fork down and looks at Ryan, really looks, because Ryan had been sullen when they were younger, had been angry at the world for every shitty thing it dealt him, but Ryan actually seems sort of happy, right then.
“It’s not fine,” Ryan says, “but I’m going to let you handle it,” and that’s something else fourteen-year-old Ryan would never have said, would never have done.
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “Had a good night?”
Ryan grins, sloppy. “Fantastic night, thanks,” he says, and Spencer does not want to know the details. He doesn’t want to know who on base was interested in fucking a teenager. Or maybe he is interested. Maybe he wants to pound that person’s face in.
“Ry-”
“Oh my god, Spencer, relax. No one took advantage of me.”
“But-”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Ryan says. He hums, picks apart a cinnamon roll, and then Walker slides into the seat next to him and Ryan’s face fucking lights up and Spencer’s stomach flips over.
His, “Are you-?” slips out before he can stop it, and Ryan pins him with a careful glare.
“Not talking about it,” Ryan says.
Walker bounces his gaze between them. “Not talking about what?”
“Nothing,” Spencer says, and gets to his feet.
*
Pete likes to get naked in front of Patrick. Normally, this isn’t a problem. Normally, this is something Patrick loves, looks forward to, even, but Pete is still underage and Patrick is still not interested.
“You want to put that away?” Patrick says absently, flipping through a two month old issue of Vogue. He’s not even sure where it came from, but he’s sort of not picky about his reading material anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick sees a flicker of bare skin as Pete bounces onto his bed. “Look, Patrick, look,” he says, “I don’t even have any of my baby tattoos yet.”
“You have tattoos of babies?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
“Patrick,” Pete says, frustrated, and Patrick is really getting sick of Pete’s whining.
Patrick glances up, focuses on Pete’s face - because, hell, he’s, like, sprawled there, but thank fuck he at least put some boxers on - and says, “I’ll send you back to your room. If you can’t behave, Pete. Pete-”
“Patrick.” Pete scrambles up on his knees in the bedclothes, grabs a t-shirt and yanks it over his head. “Patrick, I want to go out to the mainland, come with me?”
“Pete.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. Pete always switches gears so fast it makes him dizzy, but he’s even worse now.
Pete pulls on his jeans, loose on him, and cinches them tight with a belt. “It’s springtime, Patrick. Spindly baby slags! Berries!”
“They’re not actually berries, Pete,” Patrick says, but he’s already reaching for his jacket. The baby slags are always fun to watch, and Patrick thinks the fresh air will do them both good.
“They’re delicious,” Pete says, hooking his arm through Patrick’s.
They’ll be delicious until Morris makes fifty thousand pies, muffins, cakes, and sauces out of them. Patrick just says, “Come on,” though, and, “Let’s go ask Lorne for a pilot.”
*
“There’s something wrong with Gerard,” Frank says to Bob.
Bob just grunts, flicks his gaze over at him before focusing back on cleaning his sidearm.
Bob’s just as gruff as he always is, but it’s somehow less effective in his surprisingly gangly teenage body. Bob’s got big hands and thin wrists, and for all his adult solidness, Frank had always figured Bob for a chubby kid. This was not, apparently, the actual case.
“I’m serious,” Frank says. “He’s acting strange.”
“He’s fourteen,” Bob says.
Frank is only a little disappointed that Bob’s voice has already dropped. Squeaky Bob would’ve been fun. “He’s-he’s.” Frank doesn’t know how to describe it. He slumps down in his seat, folds his arms on the table and buries his face.
Finally, Bob asks, “Do you guys ever fight?”
Frank shifts, blinks up at him. “Huh?”
“You don’t fight. You.” Bob shrugs. “He just gives in.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
Frank’s been practically living with Gerard for eight months, been in love with him since nearly a year before that, when he’d opened his front door to see this rumpled mess of a guy, grinning so hard, eyes nervous, and Frank hasn’t noticed, not once, that they never ever fucking argue, really, not about anything important.
“Huh,” Frank says again.
Bob says, “He’s got some issues,” and Frank thinks maybe that’s the understatement of the year.
Frank thinks maybe he has some issues, too.
*
“Can you at least wear a hat?” Rodney asks, because he’s trying to work - well, not work, exactly, because Elizabeth’s frozen them out of the network and placed Hurley in charge, and if Rodney hadn’t been busy preparing to squash Radek like a bug, then he’d probably be more upset about that - and John’s hair is disturbing him greatly. It’s just looming there. Watching him.
“It’s cool,” John says, shrugging tightly. That shrug that means he’s pissed off, but isn’t going to make a big deal out of it.
“It’s the very opposite of cool, John,” Rodney says, flicking absent fingers at him, “and I spent a great deal of my formative years getting stuffed into lockers.” Rodney knows uncool. Rodney perfected uncool and John’s hair is sort of horrendous.
“Hey, so,” John gets up from the couch. “I’m going to go. Feel free to continue mocking me after I leave.”
“Oh, come on, you can’t be that sensitive,” Rodney says. He spins around in his desk chair, hands on his knees.
“I think I can.” John cocks a finger at Rodney. “I think I’m enough of a loser to be.”
Rodney huffs out an annoyed breath. “Right. Do you want to help me, or do you want to go sulk?”
John grins at him, thin-lipped. “Bye, Rodney,” he says, and Rodney rolls his eyes, says, “For the love of god, Sheppard, you’ve got zigzags shaved into your head and you don’t expect me to make fun of you?”
“Of course not,” John says, and Rodney can’t believe John’s mad at him over this completely justified teasing.
“Fine,” Rodney says. “Fine, if I promise not to mention the youthful indiscretion sitting on top of your head, will you please help me?”
John slides his hands into his pockets. “What are we doing?” he asks.
Rodney jabs a finger at his computer screen. “We’re building a faster robot than Radek.”
John’s eyes light up. “Cool.”
*
Brendon stumbles over Spencer just outside his quarters, and he barely has time to squawk before Spencer’s crowding him backwards, before he’s shoving him down on the bed and crawling on top of him, and it’s not like Brendon minds, but he really thinks they need to talk.
“Spencer, Spence, wait.” He catches Spencer’s wrists, says, “Just. We should talk.”
“I’d rather not,” Spencer says, and wedges their hips together, and that’s. Nice. Oh so nice.
“Hi,” Brendon breathes.
Spencer grins down at him, sharp. “Hi.”
Something’s a little off, but he let’s Spencer kiss him anyway, lets him wriggle his hands up under his shirt, curl under the small of his back, jerk their hips closer.
“Less clothes,” Brendon says, panting, and Spencer says, “Yeah, yes,” against his neck, but he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t move, just sort of breathes there, mouth open, and Brendon bucks up, whines, “Spencer,” and Spencer barks a rough laugh.
“Walker’s fucking Ryan,” Spencer says.
“Wait, what?” Brendon pushes at Spencer’s shoulders and Spencer arches away, turns his head so Brendon can’t see his eyes, hair falling in front of his face. “That’s-”
“Yeah.”
“No, that’s fine,” Brendon says. “Are we really having this conversation?”
“No,” Spencer mutters. He tries to roll off Brendon, but Brendon hooks his legs around him so they end up on their sides, locked together, and Brendon butts his forehead into Spencer’s cheek.
“Spencer, it’s not a big deal.”
Spencer presses his lips together, nudges his head sideways until their cheeks are touching, until Brendon’s mouth is close to his ear.
Brendon says, “Jon’s not going to hurt Ryan, not ever.”
Spencer relaxes a little against him. “Whatever,” he says.
Smiling, Brendon asks, “Can we get naked now? I’ve been really looking forward to the naked part, okay, because you’re like-”
“Don’t say it,” Spencer warns. He’s tense again, but his hands tighten over Brendon’s back.
Brendon pushes at him until he falls backwards, squirms on top and presses his palms down on Spencer’s belly, stares at his full pink cheeks, the way his hair fans out over the pillows. Spencer’s eyes are downcast and he’s so young and so un-Spencer-like and Brendon may be tiny - he remembers, okay, and he’d been the size of a bug back then, and the only thing going for him is that he’s slightly less blind - but he still feels fourteen and he really, really, really wants into Spencer’s pants. Like, immediately. Spencer is hot at any age, no lie.
He slides his hands down to the button on Spencer’s pants, but Spencer’s fingers catch his before he can even tug at the zipper, squeeze hard around them, and Spencer’s mouth is frowning.
The lights dim and Brendon thinks them back up and then Spencer’s frown tightens. He hisses, “Brendon, no,” forehead creasing with concentration, and Brendon fights him, because he wants-needs to see everything; this is a once in a lifetime thing.
“Please,” Brendon says as the lights flicker. “Please, Spencer, please.”
Spencer’s gaze flits up to Brendon’s, and Brendon can see his age there. Can see the hard gray beneath the blue.
“Please,” Brendon says again, and he thinks mine and always, and Spencer can maybe see all that in his eyes, too - Brendon has never tried to hide anything from him.
Spencer says, soft, “Alright.”
*
There’s a conspiracy going on, William’s sure of it. It’s just starting to make sense. Or not make any sense at all, depending on how you look at it, but William hasn’t been laid since Tommy left, and it’s not as if William isn’t attractive. William is fantastic looking, William knows exactly how pretty he is, how his hair does lovely things for his face, so he doesn’t understand why no one will sleep with him. Someone is conspiring against him. Someone is meddling in his love affairs.
Tom’s transfer is starting to smell fishy, too.
Siska stares at him. Siska, with his ridiculous hair and sparkling eyes and his complete unwillingness to even give William a hug, if his incredulous expression can be believed.
“I do not like this,” William says.
“You’ve said that before.”
“I’ve said that about my inability to grasp simple objects,” William says, nodding, “and the way my bones grow two feet every night while I’m sleeping. What I do not like now,” he pokes Sisky in the chest, “is that everyone else seems to be humping like bunnies, and I’m getting lonely with just my hand.”
Siska grimaces. He says, “Fuck, Bill.”
“That’s the idea, yes,” William says, and he cares not a wit - not one - that he’s been reduced to banal come-ons. He even gives the old leer a college try.
“I can’t say-” Siska blows out a stuttering breath, shifts on his feet and flashes William an awkward smile. “Look, I’m not supposed to say anything about this, but.”
“But?” William prompts.
“Not like I would,” Sisky says, “but Captain Saporta’s sort of. Intimidating?”
William blinks. That’s entirely the truth. Gabe’s largely frightening until you get to know him, and then he’s harmless as a pussycat. A large, feral pussycat with big teeth. He doesn’t see what that has to do with this, though.
“Gabe can be an intense presence, yes,” William agrees.
“Right,” Siska says, nodding. He grins. “So that’s why.”
“Why what?” William feels like he’s missing something.
Siska’s face falls and he shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. “Why you’re not-look, I don’t actually want to talk to you about this,” he says, and then shuts the door in William’s face.
William is definitely missing something, he’s sure of it.
*
Pete’s a little wild. He’s a little crazy, which is nothing new, but he’s just. Something else, streaking across the clearing with a bunch of Athosian kids, laughing louder than any of them.
Patrick’s standing in the shade, watching, and it makes him smile. Pete’s running flat out, knees pumping high, and Patrick’s seen him teach the kids how to play soccer before, seen him going for runs with Butcher in the mornings, but he’s never seen him run. Not like that.
Pete has this nonchalance, this almost forced who-the-fuck-cares? attitude, but he always acts like everyone’s looking, like he has to be someone for everyone else but himself.
It’s kind of nice to see Pete just being a kid.
“Patrick,” Pete yells, and then he’s tearing up the field with the sewn leather ball. “Patrick, watch!”
The strange, maybe really perverted thing is that Patrick feels a little like a dad. He just nods his head and waves, grinning as Pete drives the ball down the clearing, laughing as three of the littler Athosians come out of nowhere and tackle him down.
They’re all covered in mud, and Pete’s hoarse from laughing by the time he stumbles to a stop next to Patrick, breathing hard.
“I’m awesome,” Pete says, practically pants, beaming. He’s got the game ball under his right arm, and then rolls it across his chest to tuck it under his left one. Other than that, though, he’s standing completely fucking still, like he wore himself out, like he’s tired, the good kind of tired that Patrick rarely, if ever, sees.
Patrick nods. “You are very awesome.”
So the age thing might be weird, might be fucked up, but Patrick’s finding he’s kind of grateful for it, anyway.
*
Ryan as an adult had been sort of ridiculously thin, but Ryan as a teenager has hipbones that could slice Jon’s hands. Jon holds him down anyway, palms curved over bone, and settles half his weight on Ryan’s legs, curls over so his head rests in the hollow of his ribcage, just above his belly.
Ryan tugs on his hair, murmurs, “I like you like this.”
Jon snorts and flexes his hands. Ryan’s skin is warm and soft.
“Your hair,” Ryan says, tugging again before smoothing it flat, carding his fingers through it.
Jon’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs. “Mmmm. S’nice.” His mom had been a nut about keeping his hair neat and trimmed, but it’s still longer than he usually wears it.
“Yeah.” Ryan lets out a noisy yawn, and it’s sort of early yet, but it’s not like they have anywhere else to be.
Dr. Weir isn’t letting them do much in their current pint size, and Jon doesn’t blame her. They’re a risk in these unpredictable forms, so he has no problem standing down for a few days. He’s hoping this whole mess will just run its course.
“Hey, Jon?” Ryan says softly.
Jon breathes out, and he can feel Ryan shiver, can feel the little ripples under his skin, against his cheek. “Yeah?”
“I think Spencer knows.” He sounds wary, a little cautious.
“That’s okay,” Jon says. He smoothes a hand up Ryan’s side, fingers tracing the indent of his ribs. Spencer has no room to talk, really, but he understands Ryan’s worry. Spencer is Spencer, and he’s always been really protective of everything he considers his, and that includes Ryan. “It’s fine. It’ll be-”
“I’m gonna be really fucking pissed if he accidentally kills you off-world.”
Jon laughs. He shifts, squirms up Ryan’s body, props himself up on his hands on either side of Ryan’s head. Ryan is awkward and beautiful and, like, a stick, seriously. “It’ll be fine,” Jon says, and dips his head down to kiss him.
*
Joe’s kind of freaked out about Bob.
Everyone else seems, like, perfectly fine dealing with all the suddenly-teenie expedition members, so he feels like maybe he’s overreacting, but Joe’s. Joe’s really freaking out.
Bob doesn’t look like Bob at all.
Bob looks like this gawky kid, awkwardly put together, like maybe a stiff breeze could push him over, and Joe’s suddenly busy. They’ve found a new spore on the mainland, and Joe would like to claim his preoccupation as just coincidence, but he’s not much of a liar.
The fact that Bob seems just as intent on avoiding Joe is slightly worrying, though.
“You’re freaking out,” Bob says, sliding into the seat across from Joe in the mess.
If Joe closes his eyes, he can almost, almost imagine regular Bob is there instead. Their voices are so close. Joe says, “Dude, you’re like.”
Bob arches an eyebrow.
“Small?”
Bob nods. “Fair enough. Want to watch Lethal Weapon in the lounge later?”
Joe wavers. Danny Glover is so very tempting.
“Or we could go back to ignoring each other,” Bob says, and Bob hardly ever tries to draw Joe out, because Bob is normally taciturn and Joe’s a natural chatterbox. Joe thinks maybe the ignoring again thing would be unwise, no matter how weird everything is. Joe’s going to have to deal with it.
“No,” Joe says. “No, okay, a movie would be great.”
Bob’s expression doesn’t really change, but Joe thinks maybe his eyes look lighter.
*
Gerard doesn’t like losing things, especially when he doesn’t have very much left. He has the SGC and he has his work and he has Frank, and he isn’t going to lose any of that, not if he can help it.
“Gee,” Frank says, sitting across from him on the low table in his quarters, caging Gerard’s knees with his own. “We need to talk.”
Gerard nods, sitting up a little straighter on the couch, because Frank’s right. Gerard had never talked enough with Mikey, never knew what had been going on in his head, and he’d never talked to his parents, not really. And it’s not like they want to talk to him now. They’d said maybe two words to him when he’d gone home to say goodbye before leaving for Atlantis, and he doesn’t blame them.
He’d fucked up with Mikey. He’d fucked up most of his life, but Atlantis is his, Atlantis is theirs, he can feel it every time he opens up a control panel, lights up a hallway, steps inside a transporter.
Frank looks a little like he doesn’t know what to say, though, and Gerard’s chest gets tight, because that’s usually a bad sign. It’s usually when people end up saying stuff like, “We’re really better off as friends, right?” or, “The police called,” or, “Your grandmother didn’t make it through the night.” It’s usually stuff that hurts.
But then Craig scuttles up his thigh and into his palms and nibbles on his thumb a little, and Frank’s face breaks out into a smile, and okay. Maybe it can’t be that bad.
“Frank?”
“Right.” Frank takes a deep breath. “You know you’re very. I mean. You-oh, fuck it.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “I love you,” he says, and he’s looking at his knees, so Gerard kicks him. Well, it’s an awkward angle, so Gerard sort of just shoves him with the side of his shoe.
“Frank.”
Frank glances up at him and rolls his eyes. “I love you, dickhead.”
Gerard feels a smile tug at his lips, creep over his face. “Okay.”
Frank punches him in the thigh. “Gee.”
Gerard ducks his head, snuggles Craig up under his chin. He nods, looks over at Frank and says, “Okay. I love you, too.”
“Christ. You can maybe call me on being an asshole every once and a while, you know,” he says.
Gerard scrambles over a, “But you’re not-”
“Gerard, Gee, please, just. You need to tell me,” Frank says, staring him down.
Gerard feels awkward in his body, but he’s always felt awkward. That’s not something he ever really got over. It doesn’t seem to matter whether he’s a pudgy fourteen-year-old or a pale mostly-out-of-shape scientist sneaking up on thirty-five. Sometimes he still can’t believe Frank - awesome acclaimed shark diver and friend-of-the-seals Frank - actually wants to be with him. Gerard nods jerkily. He says, “Yeah, okay.”
“Promise?”
“I, um. You’re not going to get mad, right?”
Frank rubs the end of his nose. He bobs his head, says, “Yeah, right, of course I’m going to get mad sometimes. We’ll just deal with it, okay? You can get mad, too.”
“I don’t-”
“If you tell me you don’t want to get mad, Gee, I’m gonna fucking bite you.”
Gerard blinks. “Um.”
“Good, good. Progress.” Frank beams at him, squeezes one of his knees.
Gerard’s a little lost, but Frank seems pleased, so he doesn’t think it matters.
*
Since a great deal of William’s unhappiness in life is because of a certain rat bastard Marine sergeant, William assumes the whole mess is Lacey’s fault. This is only cemented by the fact that Asher - sexy Asher, with her shapely calves and breasts - answers Lacey’s door in his t-shirt and boxers.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Corporal Asher,” William says, because he is. That rat bastard Lacey is a sneaky son of a gun, undeserving of her attentions.
Asher arches an eyebrow. “Did you need something, Dr. Beckett?”
William is all set to spout a pithy remark when Lacey appears behind Asher’s shoulder, naked as a jay, and while on the surface Lacey is an attractive specimen, William must remember that underneath the skin Lacey’s some sort of crab demon, with extra legs and eye stems.
William says, “You’ll not tempt me with your devil ways,” and Asher tilts her head in question. Lacey just scratches his balls and grins really, really evilly. William swallows hard, because Lacey’s evil grin has none of the endearing qualities that Gabe’s has. “Have either of you seen Captain Gabe?” he asks.
“I imagine he’d be in his own quarters, Billy,” Lacey says, still unabashedly naked, and William has to admire his complete lack of a social conscious. Polite company dictates some sort of dressing, yet there Lacey is, in all his rat bastard glory. Lacey’s evil grin dips into an evil smirk, and he says, “You’re staring.”
William’s cheeks burn. “Of course I am,” he says, all false bravado, really, because William is staring, and Lacey will never let him live it down. This abstinence business is messing with William’s head, not to mention the fact that his body thinks he’s fourteen, and fourteen had been a perpetually horny year for William - horny, clumsy, and growing like one of those capsules that insta-expand into dinosaurs or washcloths when soaked. Under normal circumstances, a bare-assed Lacey would make him want to vomit his last four meals.
Asher leans up against the doorjamb, cocking a distracting hip. “Is that all?”
There is really something fabulous about Asher’s legs. William’s no slouch in the limb department - and he’s a boy besides - but he’s just the slightest bit envious.
“I’ll just, uh, go find Gabe, then,” William says, and when the door slides closed, he applauds himself for keeping cool. He’d lost entirely too much money to the swear jar the day before.
part two