Fic: Supersaturation [2/2]

[skoosiepants]

part one

After five months of traveling off-world, Brendon’s willing to admit he’s not that good at diplomacy. He’s not terrible at it, ‘cause, hey, he’s friendly. He’s outgoing and handsome, and he makes a pretty good first impression. Still. Somewhere between that first hello and the negotiation table, something almost always goes wrong.

“Hey. Hey, so, not to alarm anyone, but I think I’ve been shot.”

They’re sort of wedged in a cave, and it’s hard to move and it’s pouring out, and Brendon’s pretty sure he’s been shot.

“What?” Spencer scoots marginally closer, peering down at him with an annoyed frown on his mouth. “They didn’t have any weapons, Urie,” he points out.

Which is true, of course – they had clubs and pitchforks, but nothing projectile - but his leg hurts and he’s having trouble breathing. “No, I know, but.”

Spencer scowls. “You’re fine.”

Over his shoulder, Brendon sees Ryan’s worried face. “Bren—”

“I’m fine,” he assures him. He’s totally fine, like Spencer said.

“You don’t look fine. Spencer, he doesn’t look fine,” Ryan insists, and Spencer shakes his head.

“He says he’s fine so he’s fine, okay? We’ve got to—”

“Okay, I’m not fine,” Brendon cuts in, because he’s not. Oh, he’s really, really not. He knows it’s his fault they were being chased in the first place and it’s his fault they have to hide out in a tiny little dank cave but he’s. The natives had to have had something, he thinks, because his leg is throbbing and he’s never been shot before, and he’s so far from fine it’s ridiculous.

Jon says, “Let me see,” but he’s on the far side of Ryan, and there’s not much space to maneuver, so Brendon ends up draped in between Spencer’s legs, Ryan tight against the wall and holding a flashlight steady on Jon’s shoulder as he leans over him.

“So team bonding, right?” Jon’s hands are steady on his thigh.

Brendon blinks up at Jon, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes when Jon’s fingers twinge something stuck on the underside of his leg, just above his knee. “Yeah, man. Yeah,” he manages, Spencer’s arms tightening around his torso, and if he wasn’t in such debilitating pain, this might’ve been some sort of moment.

Jon grimaces. “There’s something lodged in there,” he says. “I can try—”

“Ow! Fucking ow, Jon,” Brendon yelps, because there’s no way he’s pulling that out of his leg without massive amounts of painkillers.

And then Ryan has to go ahead and ask, “Poison-tipped dart?” and Brendon goes all woozy and gasps, “Spencer,” and, “Oh my god, I’m going to die,” and then he kind of hyperventilates himself into passing out.

*

“Hey,” Spencer says, and Ryan nods, stepping back to let him into his quarters. Spencer’s cheeks redden, because he knows Ryan shouldn’t be so accommodating towards him, not after what happened, but Ryan always forgives him for shit without making a big deal about it. Normally that’s a good thing, but he kind of wishes Ryan would yell at him now.

“Hi,” Ryan says.

They sort of stare at each other, and then Spencer jerks his gaze away and lets it jump around his room. Ryan’s fairly neat. He’s always been that way.

Spencer takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, looking at the floor.

Ryan makes a little sound. Like a giggle.

Spencer risks a glance up at him through his lashes.

Ryan’s biting his lower lip. He pushes his hair back off his forehead and snorts, and his eyes are shining. “Dude,” he says, then shakes his head.

“What?” Okay, so, he knows he flipped out a little when Urie fainted and he yelled at Ryan a lot and there might’ve been some kicking involved, because. Because Spencer doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, exactly, why it happened, but he’s pretty sure it’s Urie’s fault.

Urie, who’s in the infirmary with a twig wound, and has a tendency for dramatics, and might also be slightly claustrophobic.

“Look, I get it, okay?” Ryan says, and Spencer blinks.

“You get it? Mind telling me, then?” he asks, because he seriously has no clue.

Ryan says, “Okay, see, if you don’t know yet, you’re probably not ready to know,” and Spencer scowls, because Ryan knows he hates that cryptic shit. Ryan’s been spending too much time with Wentz.

“Ryan,” he growls.

“Look. Look, can I.” Ryan steps towards him, slowly, like he’s skittish or something, like he’s going to shy away, and it’s fucking Ryan so of course he’s not going to, and then. Then he’s sort of hugging him. His arms are loose and he’s barely touching him anywhere, just his wrists on the tops of his shoulders, fingers brushing high on his back and forehead dropped onto his.

Spencer lets out a breath, long and slow, and it’s like all the strings in his body have been cut, like the only things keeping him upright, standing, are the points of contact against Ryan. Ryan never touches him like this anymore.

“This is okay,” Ryan says.

It isn’t a question, but Spencer says, “Yeah,” anyway.

After a few minutes, Ryan murmurs, “You were worried about Brendon.”

Duh. Of course he was.

Ryan pulls away and smiles at him. “It’s all right,” he says. “It’s all right, Brendon’s good for you.”

*

“There’s something strange going on with all my minions,” Rodney says, sitting down across from John in the mess.

“You mean besides the mud-wrestling?”

Rodney waves that off. He’s not worried about the mud pit, mostly because it’s in the lesser greenhouse, but also because the bulk of his newer minions have the maturity level of irresponsible preteens. They obviously needed something to entertain them after the bocce ball season came to a close.

Ronon grunts around a bite of turkey sandwich, then says, “Wentz and Stump are fighting.”

Rodney jabs a finger at him. “Not possible.” Not without him knowing, at least. They tended to yell.

“Okay,” Ronon shrugs, “they aren’t fighting,” and that makes much more sense.

Stump may be a hippie vegan pacifist, but he has a mean temper, and Wentz always seems to enjoy taunting him into blowing up.

So Wentz isn’t taunting Stump and his whole lab is off. Sometimes he laments the loss of his fear-inspired, ironclad grip on the science team.

*

It’s like a chain reaction.

Ryan feels a little guilty for starting it, except someone needed to kick Spencer in the ass, and if not Ryan, then who?

Spencer is avoiding Brendon, and Brendon is dumping all his misery on Pete, and Pete is sort of helpless against big-eyed sad, tragic engineers – who isn’t? – and Patrick is being pissily jealous because Pete and Patrick are desperately in love, even though they’re currently refusing to acknowledge it, and consequently the whole lab atmosphere has been affected.

But Ryan’s a fucking girl, right, because he got to hug Spencer and Spencer just. He let him and, see, he knows it’s because Brendon’s the biggest touch-whore in all of Atlantis, especially with Spencer, and all of Spencer’s boundaries have gone, like, elastic or something. Brendon is awesome for Spencer, Ryan wasn’t lying.

Ryan just has to figure out a way to make Spencer see that, too.

*

Armed with just a tazer and his fists – he’s generally a pacifist, okay, but he isn’t stupid – Patrick stares up at the giant ring. He’s never been through the ‘gate before, not even back at the SGC, and he wonders what he thinks he’s doing now, except the bigger question is, “Who the hell let Brendon and Pete do this, anyway?”

“Wheeler and Kennerty,” Smith says darkly, tugging at the straps on Patrick’s vest.

Patrick is almost too pissed off to be worried. Almost. “Fucking Wheeler.”

The natives of P33 are using technology that isn’t theirs – not Ancient, not that advanced, but in the interest of creating allies for war and trade, Dr. Weir insisted they send someone along who could help repair a few things for them.

Brendon can fix anything, and Pete can MacGyver laser beams out of party hats or something, so of course, of course, the natives of P33 don’t want to give them back. Or, actually, Patrick supposes it’s more a matter of not actually being able give them back. Which is why Patrick is there, about to step through a wormhole and then walk the crust of an entirely different planet.

He probably shouldn’t find that weird, given that he’s living in the lost city of Atlantis and that he traveled there by spaceship, but he still does.

His pack is heavy with books, since the scans of the large hieroglyphics Travis sent back through the MALP look Sumerian, but not Sumerian, and Teyla thinks the text beneath them is perhaps a dialect of Lapes, a nomadic clan they’ve come across before, and Patrick thinks a great deal of the words, though not all, are remarkably similar to phonetically spelled Gaelic.

Colonel Sheppard clasps his shoulder. “Ready, Dr. Stump?”

Not really, he thinks, but he nods anyway, and then Ryan’s next to him, swinging his own bag onto his back and giving him an encouraging grin. They work well together. Mainly because Ryan’s quiet and because he knows lots of obscure facts about aborigines and the Piltdown man and the sexual proclivities of ancient Rome. They’re unbeatable at Genus Trivial Pursuit.

The ‘gate dials out, chevrons locking in a slow, methodical pattern, and then it whooshes open and Patrick’s heart jumps into his throat.

There could be anything on the other side. Well, logically he knows there’ll just be Travis and maybe Wheeler and Kennerty, possibly a few natives acting as guides, but also. Also, there could be Wraith or killer robots or skinny, pubescent native kids with puppy-crushes on Pete or, or—

Ryan pushes him forward. “Breathe, Patrick,” he says.

“Right, um.” Patrick adjusts his hat. “Right.”

*

All the wires spiraling out of their heads are kind of scary.

“Not Ancient,” Dr. McKay says, clicking away at his laptop, hunched down at the foot of the giant... thing. A huge cylinder of softly diffused light, cradling Urie and Wentz’s bodies in mid-air, beams of copper-colored metal spiking up from the carved base.

Spencer has never seen anything like it.

Urie and Wentz aren’t completely unaware, either. Their eyes are slits, and they grumble and shift and yawn and scrub clumsy fingers over their mouths and. There’re wires spiraling out of their heads. That part, even to Spencer with his limited scientific knowledge, seems really, really bad.

Ryan is off interviewing the natives with Sheppard and Teyla, and Stump and McCoy are busy working on translating the writing etched into the walls of the temple, shrine, whatever the hell this is. It’s an open-air columned pagoda made of thick, heavy stone, and Spencer’s not sure translating the script is going to make any sort of difference, since the machine that appears to be eating Urie and Wentz looks way more technologically advanced than its surroundings.

Spencer just sort of stands there next to Ronon, feeling useless, staring at the trapped scientists and trying to tamp down the urge to kill Wheeler and Kennerty for letting them even get near the thing.

After a particularly big yawn, Urie flutters his eyes wider than they’ve been and Spencer sees a flash of recognition as he spots him, a tiny smile twitching across his lips. Spencer’s stomach flips over and he almost stops breathing, because shit.

He’s in so much trouble.

*

“It is called the Skyward Oracle,” Teyla says, standing with Ryan behind Patrick.

Ryan watches Patrick’s fingers as they hover over the wall but never touch.

“‘And when there is famine, so shall you know years before,’” Patrick recites, then says, “Years, years. That might not be years. It looks like a,” he flutters a hand, “you know. It’s remarkably similar to the word for dragon, though that doesn’t make much sense.”

“So what you’re saying,” Ryan starts slowly, “is that this is a giant Doppler radar program that feeds off human brain activity.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Dr. McKay snaps. He’s glaring at them from where he’s still sitting cross-legged on the ground by the machine. “They’re predicting the weather?”

Teyla nods, a frown pulling at her lips. “So it seems. It is apparently a great honor to be chosen, although generally the task falls to a child.” She looks mainly disgusted at that, and Ryan pretty much agrees.

Dr. McKay narrows his eyes and tilts his head back to gaze up at the machine. “There was nothing wrong with this, then.”

“No. And I do not believe they were meant to enter this building at all, except—”

“Wentz is the devil, yes, I know,” McKay cuts in, scowling.

There’s a hint of a smile in Teyla’s eyes. “It was an accident.”

“And accidents can be fixed, right?” Sheppard asks, voice tight. He’s circling the machine, P-90 angled down, but ready.

“From what I could gather,” Teyla says smoothly, “they are only needed until the function is complete. They only perform this infrequently, during important ceremonies, and I believe we are lucky that they are not threatening the doctors’ lives for their intrusion.”

McKay snorts. “Yes, of course, because clearly the lack of pagan sacrifice is what should be focused on here. This makes meteorology actually seem like a legitimate science.”

Ryan bites his lip to keep down a laugh.

“So Dr. Stump and Rodney’ll look for loopholes, and in the meantime we wait,” Sheppard says. He doesn’t sound happy about it, but there’s not much else they can do.

Ryan slips outside to where Spencer is leaning against a pylon, staring off into the distance. The sun is dying, but another one is peeking up over the horizon, bright and orange-red. “You all right?” he asks.

“Sure,” Spencer says, shrugging. He glances over at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” Ryan returns, making sure his eyes are wide and suitably mocking. Seriously, Spencer has to get his act together soon, or Brendon’s just going to stop trying.

*

After Wentz starts spouting the farmer’s almanac report for some distant year – “About three decades from now,” Stump says, pushing his glasses up his nose – the machine starts dimming and the wires retract like spindly little spider legs, curling up into the ceiling, and then there’s a pile of just-freed scientists sprawled over the copper base.

They’re still awake, like before, just languid and slow-moving, like they don’t have the energy to untangle themselves, pale and slumped together like sleepy puppies. It’s arguably adorable, but it’s also so incredibly wrong, because neither Urie nor Wentz really stop moving for anything ever.

Biro is at their side almost immediately, taking vitals, and Spencer relaxes in tiny, minute relief. There’s a flurry of activity as the rest of the med team gets Wentz and then Urie onto stretchers, hooked up to IVs.

Wentz is completely out of it, head lolling and body limp, but Urie grabs hold of Spencer’s arm as the stretcher skims past, fingers biting through the thick material of his jacket. Urie’s pupils are huge and glassy with something like pain and his grip on Spencer is surprisingly strong.

“Spencer,” he says, and his eyes aren’t really focusing so Spencer isn’t sure how he knows it’s him, but he says again, “Spencer,” and then, “Is it snowing? Was it—is it—” He licks his lips, grimacing, and there’s a tiny pinprick hole just over his left temple from a wire, already crusted over with dried blood.

“Hey, hey,” Spencer says softly, lifting a hand, fingers hovering hesitantly over Urie’s forehead before smoothing the line between his brows with his thumb. “It’s not,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry, it’s not.”

*

Brendon is tired. More tired than when he’d first gotten his body back from Jon and his unholy regimen of exercise. His eyes hurt and his bones feel heavy, but his mind’s filled with static fuzz, snowy remnants of the machine, and he can’t sleep, can’t even let his eyelids slide closed.

It’s late, but Jon’s with him in the common lounge. The TV’s on low, and Jon’s whispering softly into his radio, but Brendon just shifts and pillows his head on Jon’s thigh. Jon’s fingers absently card through his hair, and Brendon’s jaw pops on a yawn he can’t help.

Minutes, hours later – time is sort of melting together for him – Ryan stumbles in, hair mussed and t-shirt on inside out, striped pajama bottoms sagging low. He scratches his belly and folds himself up on the couch on the other side of Brendon, pulling Brendon’s feet into his lap and squeezing his ankles.

“Spencer’s still on patrol,” he says, slumping down and tipping his head back against the cushions. “What’re we watching?”

“Frank’s documentary on elephant seals,” Jon says.

Brendon sighs. “My head hurts,” he almost-whines, and Jon’s hand slips down to cradle his neck.

“Few more hours,” he says, because Carson’s a painkiller nazi who clearly wants Brendon’s head to explode.

“My head’s gonna explode,” he mumbles, turning his face halfway into Jon’s leg. Jon’s fingers travel up and gingerly press against his temple, a slow, rhythmic caress. Drifting, he doesn’t notice when Spencer arrives, not until the flat of his palm is against his cheek and his eyes are right there, wide and blue. He says, “Smith,” and he’s too tired to smile, but he hopes Spencer can hear it in his voice.

“Urie,” Spencer says.

“Wanna watch Frank talk about baby seals with us?” he asks.

“Yeah, okay.”

*

Patrick’s jerked out of sleep by his radio crackling a low whisper of, “Patrick.”

For a minute, he thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep fully dressed with his radio hooked onto his ear. And then he realizes he actually did fall asleep fully dressed, radio hooked on his ear, and that he’s also still in his lab, slumped over his desk.

“Patrick.”

“I’m asleep, Pete. It’s the middle of the night and I’m asleep and in bed, so I’ll talk you tomorrow, okay?” Patrick yawns, stretches and cracks his back. His laptop cursor is blinking at him at the end of a long page of js, where his finger had gotten heavy in slumber.

“No, you’re not.”

Patrick scrubs a hand over his face. “What?”

“You’re not in bed,” Pete says. “I’m in your bed, and you’re not here. Unless you’ve, like, shrunk. You didn’t shrink, did you?” he asks, and his voice is more tight than teasing, because they both know that could certainly happen in Pegasus.

“No,” Patrick says, getting to his feet. Pete’s encroachment on his quarters doesn’t surprise him. “No, Pete, I didn’t shrink.” He glances at his watch and sees it’s not quite the middle of the night. It’s late, but the mess is still open, and he briefly contemplates grabbing something quick to eat, maybe one of those really sweet and thick imitation brownies, before heading back to his room.

He’s paused in the hallway by the nearest transporter, shifting on his feet in indecision, when Pete says, softly, “Patrick. Sing me a song, Patrick.”

“Hey, no.” He checks the radio channel to see if it’s on the common science one or one of the more private lines. He usually turns it to a semi-public one just for general emergencies before going to bed.

“Sing me a lullaby,” Pete insists. “Sing me songs of your heart. Sing—”

“Pete, god, shut up, okay?” Patrick says, cheeks flushing, because there’s bound to be someone out there, listening. Chuck, probably, or whoever has the nightshift in the control room. Second patrol.

Pete laughs, tired and thin, and Patrick sighs and palms open the transporter, silently bemoaning the loss of his midnight snack.

*

It’s dangerous. It’s dangerous, but Spencer can’t seem to stop. The little touches, the wrist squeezing, light fingers at the small of Urie’s back.

Urie sends him strange, happy looks whenever he does it and Spencer knows, he knows he shouldn’t encourage him, but the entire atmosphere of Atlantis is so unlike any other post he’s ever had, so close-knit and familial, and it’s not like anyone’s going to call him on it.

“You seem cheerful,” Walker says.

Spencer shrugs, tearing his gaze away from Urie as he bounces his way down the food line. He toys with his watery eggs. “We’re cleared for a puddlejumper.”

Walker’s watching him thoughtfully over the rim of his coffee cup, but his eyes light up at Spencer’s words. “Yeah?”

“Space ‘gate,” Spencer says, grinning. Of course, the downside to that is the stargate’s three hours off-planet, and the planet itself is mostly desert, but. Puddlejumper missions are always more fun.

Ryan’s tray clatters onto the table next to Walker. “I never thought there’d be a day I’d long for toaster waffles,” he says, frowning down at his eggs.

“You should stick with cereal,” Urie says, sliding in next to Spencer. He’s got a huge bowl of Froot Loops, along with—

“Oh no,” Walker says, snatching the mug of coffee out of Urie’s grasping hands. “No caffeine for you. You shouldn’t even be having sugar, man.”

Urie pouts. “That’s so—”

“I was in that body for almost a day,” Walker points out. “I know you now. We’re gonna have to scrape you off the ceiling.”

“Whatever,” Urie grumbles.

Spencer shakes his head. “Briefing’s at 0900,” he says, getting to his feet and collecting his tray. He curls his hands around the hard plastic, resisting the urge to cuff Urie in the back of the head. Then he thinks what the hell, and reaches out, sliding his fingers into Urie’s dark mop and pushing him forward, a light playful shove.

“Hey,” Urie says, batting his hand off and tossing a grin over his shoulder.

Spencer just arches his brows, then quirks half his mouth up and walks away.

*

As far as Brendon is concerned, three things of import happen on the desert planet of PX5-70S.

Firstly: “That,” Brendon says, “is a giant tortoise.” A giant sand tortoise, to be exact, roughly the size of a Buick sedan, and it’s awesome. It even let Brendon pet its giant head.

Secondly: Ryan trips and twists his ankle. He trips, specifically, on what he swears was a rock, but was apparently just his own feet. Brendon doesn’t plan on letting him live that down anytime soon.

And thirdly: Brendon kisses Spencer.

It’s an impulse, because Spencer’s been teasing him for days and he’s laughing over Jon’s tortoise impression – which is pretty great and involves lots of slow-motion chewing - his entire body shaking with mirth, and Brendon just grabs his wrist and tugs him off behind the ‘jumper and leans in and kisses him. It isn’t anything but a peck, really, just a press of their smiles, but Brendon knows instantly it’s a mistake by the way Spencer tenses up and jerks backwards.

The thing is, Brendon doesn’t think he’s been reading the signals wrong, because while Brendon hangs off anyone and everyone, Spencer never really touches anyone at all. He’s been touching Brendon, though. He’s been touching Ryan a little, too, but not as much as Brendon, and the little absent caresses have been driving him crazy.

So Brendon’s upset. He’s mad at himself and he’s mad at Spencer, because Spencer’s an asshole.

“You’re being quiet,” Ryan says.

They’re in the back of ‘jumper, still an hour out from the ‘gate. Cloaking was being sticky, so Brendon’s busying himself testing crystals, and Ryan’s got his bum foot resting on the bench.

“Spencer’s an asshole,” Brendon says without looking up from his datapad.

There’s a pause. Then Ryan says, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Brendon nods. He’s glad they’ve established that as fact.

*

Ryan’s curious. Normally, he’d just ask Spencer what was going on, except Spencer’s got this pinched expression on his face, like his underwear’s too tight, and that usually means he’s spoiling for a fight. Ryan’s got delicate bone structure, and Spencer’s got a mean right hook, and Ryan’s too pretty to risk it.

So instead he asks William.

This is a bold move. Although William eagerly shares his infinite wisdom and knowledge with all who’ll listen, rarely, rarely does anyone ever actually ask him for it.

William is a geologist. He’s a top-of-his-field geologist specializing in explosions, and he’s got a pet rock – “Geode, dude, geode” – named Zippy.

He eyes Ryan through the 3D representation of the largest layered rock face on the mining planet, M45. “Smith and Urie,” he says slowly.

“Yep.”

He steps over to the side, then flicks off the simulation. “Okay, let me put it this way.” He picks up Zippy, a slightly smaller purple geode, and another quartz-filled rock that looks almost exactly like Zippy, the inside a deep, crystallized red. “For the purposes of this demonstration, Zippy’ll be Smith.”

Ryan blinks. He thinks maybe he’s made the wrong decision here. He’s just looking for some gossip. “Um.”

“Hang on, stay with me. Zippy’s Smith and Urie’s the amethyst geode and this jasper one,” he waggles the other red geode, “is you.”

Ryan has no idea where William’s going with this.

Fifteen minutes later, after William has, apparently, made the two red geodes make sweet, sweet love, Ryan still has no idea what he’s talking about. Well, he has a clue, but he thinks maybe William has finally lost his mind.

When William gives up the rock analogies – seriously, rock analogies - and says, “You and Smith are like lobsters, and Urie’s this adorable hermit crab,” Ryan kind of wants to stab himself in the brain, but instead he deadpans, “So you’re saying Spencer’s in love with me.”

“Yeah, man, yeah, exactly. You’ve got some weird dynamics going on there,” William says, nodding, and as he’s ushering Ryan out of his labs – because he’s got “shit to do besides schooling eager young men in the mysterious ways of the heart” - he adds, “Oh, and tell Jon to come see me when he’s not busy being on the gayest team in the galaxy,” which is kind of laughable coming from William, except William isn’t on a ‘gate team, so point.

*

It’s possible that Spencer is freaking out. It’s highly likely, in fact, that Spencer is freaking out.

Urie kissed him. Wait, no, not Urie, Brendon, because he has to keep some sort of perspective here, and Urie is on his team. Urie’s life depends on his objectivity and his capability as a leader. Urie is annoying beyond anything Spencer has ever known, and Brendon sort of has soft lips. Brendon is someone he has to push the fuck out of his mind.

Brendon is standing in his doorway, watching him pace.

Spencer freezes. “Uh.”

Brendon’s arms are crossed, and his fingers are biting into the pale flesh of his biceps, slipped up under the sleeves of his t-shirt. “You’re an asshole,” he says, and Spencer gapes a little.

“I’m.” He pauses, then reaches out and jerks Brendon inside the room, thinking the door shut behind him. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have in the hallway. “What?”

“You’re an asshole,” Brendon repeats, arms dropping to his sides to fidget. “You can’t just—”

“Can we.” Spencer pinches the middle of Brendon’s glasses and pulls them off his face and okay. Okay, yeah, that’s better, that’s different, and he can totally compartmentalize this and be fine for tomorrow’s mission.

Brendon blinks, but it’s more like a fluttering of lashes, and he’s got these big doe eyes and there’s some confusion there, but there’s also some hurt.

“You were saying?” Spencer prompts.

“Right.” Brendon licks his lips and Spencer realizes that he’s staring at his mouth about three seconds too late. “That,” Brendon snaps, jabbing a finger at him, “you can’t do that, Spencer. Not unless you’re going to follow through—”

It is possible that at this point, Spencer is no longer paying attention to Brendon’s words. He thinks he’s maybe rambling about inappropriate touching – which, really, like Brendon can talk – but mainly Spencer’s watching the way his lips move, the way he dips his head, and the way his fingers skate over the side of his neck.

Spencer’s jaw tightens. “I think.” he interrupts Brendon.

“What?”

“I think you should leave,” he says, and his words are so careful and precise and his eyes are narrowed and he knows he wants Brendon to stay. Stay and push his composure, push his boundaries like he’s been doing since they first fucking met.

Brendon’s expression turns half-suspicious, half-sly. “No.”

“No?” Spencer takes an involuntary step closer to him, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.

“I don’t think so, no,” Brendon says, more stubborn this time, and, okay, Spencer has no clue what he’s doing, no clue, but he does it anyway.

*

Brendon is confused, but he’s never let that stop him before.

His hands are under Spencer’s shirt, spread over his bare skin, and Spencer’s not just letting him touch, he’s touching him back, tentative fingers against his side, his neck.

Brendon always thought, if they ever got this far, there’d be a rush, urgency, an overwhelming sense of we can never do this again. He thought Spencer would be forceful, maybe angry, and okay, those are hot thoughts, Brendon isn’t going to lie. He’s had more than one fantasy involving a wall and Spencer shackling his wrists above his head.

But Spencer’s fingers are soft along his jaw, and his kiss is chaste enough to be a question.

Brendon tightens his grip on Spencer’s hips and opens up under Spencer’s mouth, licking over his lower lip, and when Spencer’s breath hitches, he smiles.

Spencer pulls back. “What?”

“Nothing,” Brendon says, then skins off Spencer’s shirt, pressing close against his chest, one palm sliding up his spine to cup his nape, leaning in to bite a pale shoulder.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, slightly breathless, and Brendon turns his face into Spencer’s throat, open-mouthed over his pulse-point.

*

Ryan hesitates at Spencer’s door. He hesitates and then he shrugs to himself and rings the chimes.

There’s a muffled thump, and then the door slides open halfway, revealing Spencer rubbing a hand over his face like he’s avoiding the bright light of the hallway. The room behind him is dark, and Spencer’s hair is spiked up ridiculously above his ears, falling at weird angles over his forehead. He’s not wearing a shirt, and there’re tiny Marvin the Martians all over his boxers. Although Ryan hasn’t born witness to many Spencer-in-boxers moments in recent years, he has his doubts about their ownership.

Ryan checks his watch and confirms that it’s still afternoon. He’s growing slightly suspicious.

Spencer makes an inpatient noise, then follows it up with an irritated, “Ryan?” when Ryan just stares at him.

Right. He’s there for a reason. Ryan clears his throat, then asks, “You’re not in love with me, are you?”

Spencer blinks, thickly, and a slow smile blooms across his face. And then he starts laughing. Like, dying laughing, one arm across his bare stomach, forehead tipped into the doorjamb, eyes not quite closed, but reduced to narrow slits from his huge-ass grin.

It’s kind of insulting, except Ryan hasn’t seen Spencer laugh like this in ages.

Ryan smiles despite himself, hands sliding into his pockets. It’s what he gets for listening to William, really. “So I guess that’s a no.”

Spencer winds down to a few giggles, pressing the heel of his palm into his left eye, still grinning at him. He’s soft in ways Ryan never remembers him being. Then he reaches out and squeezes Ryan’s arm and says, “I’m going to shut the door on you now.”

Ryan thinks that’s okay.

*

Walker’s watching him oddly. He’s darting his gaze from Brendon - who’s alternately jittering around on antsy feet and hanging off Ryan and grinning really, really stupidly at Spencer - and then back to Spencer, and it’s starting to make Spencer’s skin itch.

“What?” he asks, and Walker shakes his head, slow like his accompanying, “Nothing,” is really ‘something.’

Spencer scratches the back of his neck. “You’re not going to say anything, right?”

“Dude.” Walker cracks a huge smile. “Come on. This is great, of course not.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t say great,” he mutters, then sighs and says, “It’s just.” He stops, because he’s never tried to articulate it before, but he doesn’t want this, whatever this is, to mess up their team dynamic. He doesn’t want to favor Brendon, Urie, over Walker or Ryan. He doesn’t want to make decisions based on his emotions, because that’s when people got killed, and.

“Hey.” Walker grips his upper arm. “What’s going to change, right?” he asks, like he can read Spencer’s mind. “Ryan’s your best friend since forever. You really think you’re going to put Urie ahead of him, or vice versa?”

Which is a valid point, Spencer thinks. “And you—”

“Can follow orders,” Walker interrupts, “but I’m not going to follow orders I think are stupid,” and his overall stance is you-don’t-have-to-worry-about-me, and Spencer’s pretty sure if he ever does go suddenly, blindly biased, Walker’ll be there to kick his ass.

Walker claps his shoulder. “Ready?” he asks.

Spencer nods. “Yeah.” He turns slightly and sends a half-wave, half-salute up towards the control room.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Dr. Weir says, and then the ‘gate starts dialing out.

Comments

[starflowers.livejournal.com]

I wasn't actually gonna read this one since I don't know anything at all about SGA but since it was yours, I couldn't resist.

It was amazing and hilarious and I love Spencer's Marvin the Martian boxers. I loved all of it. My favourite part was when Spencer told Brendon it wasn't snowing.

I can't wait to read more Panic! stuff from you.

[skoosiepants.livejournal.com]

You braved SGA for me!! I'm glad you did, and I'm so happy you liked it, and that the SGA parts didn't turn you off or confuse you (I hope!) - thanks, hon!