Solvation: [2/3]

[skoosiepants]

[part i]

[ii]

It’s fucking classic, that’s what it is, Joe thinks. Urie has amnesia, and he’s holed up in the infirmary and he’s pretty sure they’re all shitting him with this outer space crap.

“Fucking classic,” Joe says.

Bob looks up from his mashed potatoes, which he’d been studying pretty fucking intently. “Joe,” he says.

“No, I mean, he’s practically untouched, right? So of course he doesn’t remember anything.”

“Joe,” Bob says again, stepping on Joe’s foot and pressing down. Really, really hard.

Joe grimaces. “We up to footsy now?” he asks, because they have this thing. This buddy-fuck thing, and Joe’s totally happy with it, don’t get him wrong, but he’s maybe getting a little attached. He wouldn’t actually say no to, like, anything soft like that. He’s not a girl, but it would be cool to fucking cuddle or whatever occasionally, you know?

“Joe.”

“Hey, hey, I’m not Urie, right. You don’t have to keep repeating my name for me to remember it, dude.” Joe thinks he’s funny. Bob, apparently, does not.

Bob slides his chair back with an awful screech as he stands up, leans forward, knuckles resting on the tabletop. Joe flinches back at the pure fury in Bob’s eyes.

“What—”

“Just shut up, Joe,” Bob growls, and Bob growling is totally hot, and he’s trained Joe so well, really, even with the scary anger present.

Joe’s turned on in the middle of the commissary at lunchtime, and he would’ve been embarrassed by that, except Joe doesn’t get embarrassed. Joe doesn’t really care what other people think of him.

And it looks like Bob’s still a little raw from his hive ship captivity, Joe totally gets that. There was that adorable little girl, too, and they’d sent her back to her world even while she was wailing for Bob not to leave her, and, okay, probably not Bob’s best week. “Bob, seriously,” he holds up his hands, “sorry, man. I—”

“Joe,” Bob cuts in, and he leans down even further, and people are starting to stare, Joe can feel the unsaid chant fightfightfight in the attentive tension around the room, “my quarters. Fifteen minutes.”

Joe straightens up, beams, which makes Bob glare even harder at him. Cool.

*

Brendon – his name is Brendon, which is weird, since he feels like a Lorenzo or a Caesar, something exotic sounding, but whatever – is so sorry, he really is. “I’m sorry,” he says, because Ryan – the guy’s name is Ryan and he’s skinny and intense - is sort of scary with this pinched scowl.

He’s pretty sure this is one huge joke – another galaxy? Seriously? – but he doesn’t want to piss anybody off.

Spencer – Lieutenant Spencer Smith, apparently, and he’s kind of really hot – grabs Brendon’s arm and, hey, manhandling? Totally one of his kinks. It’s sort of fun to collect all these little details of his old life, even if he’d rather just remember it all.

“Urie,” Spencer says, pulling him over to a window – and the surname Urie totally deserves a Ramón or something, seriously. “Does this look like Earth to you?”

“Hey, we’re on an island?” Brendon asks. There’s blue as far as he can see, a calm stretch of ocean.

Spencer sighs, a short, exasperated sound, passes his hand over a box at the edge of the pane of glass, and the wall slides open onto a balcony.

“What—”

“Just look, Urie,” Spencer says, urging him outside, and when Brendon turns around to protest – manhandling’s one thing, but he can live without the pushing, thanks – his gaze flicks up. And up.

“Holy crap.”

“See—”

“Is this a castle?” Brendon glances back down to find Spencer scowling at him.

“It’s a city,” Ryan says from behind Spencer, hand hovering over Spencer’s upper arm, but not quite touching.

Spencer’s shoulder twitches, like he can feel the touch anyway, and then he spins on his heel and stalks off.

“What’s wrong?” Brendon asks, bewildered. He can’t help it that he doesn’t remember, and he’s already apologized, and it’s not like he even had to, right?

Ryan shrugs, says, “He’s always grumpy,” and that’s fair enough; likely, even, but for some reason it doesn’t exactly ring true.

*

“So Brendon doesn’t remember anything?” Frank asks, sitting down across from Ray.

Ray nods, swallows his mouthful of turkey sandwich.

Andy - Andy the Vegan, who isn’t really a vegan, not anymore, anyway, because it’s tough to be a picky eater on Atlantis, but they named him Andy the Vegan to separate him from Andy the Butcher, even though it never really stuck with anyone other than Joe, who likes shouting, “Andy the Vegan!” because it’s the one thing that’s sure to get a rise out of the laconic biochemist – twirls his pen between his fingers. It’s a space pen. Frank’s had his eye on it for a while.

Office supplies are kind of limited, and a pen that can write upside-down is coveted above most other things.

“One hundred dollars,” Frank says, and Andy arches an eyebrow. It’s his are you fucking kidding me? look, because money is sort of laughable there. They all get paid exorbitant salaries, and it’s not like they need any Earth currency at all on Atlantis. Frank debates offering his hoarded pile of Cadbury bars then realizes Gerard would fucking kill him. Gerard doesn’t understand Frank’s lust for new age writing utensils.

Frank pouts, stabs his fork into his macaroni and cheese. He keeps requisitioning them, but pens always end up up-for-grabs the minute they beam down off the Daedalus, and Frank’s pretty sure it’s some sort of conspiracy. Frank never gets first dibs on the supply crates.

Andy asks, “How’s Smith taking it?” and Ray gets his Schultz on – “I know nothing, I see nothing” – and Andy rolls his eyes.

Frank shrugs a shoulder. He’s pretty sure Smith isn’t taking it well at all, but you’d never know it to look at him. “Who the fuck knows, right?”

“Tough break,” Andy says, grimacing. Andy’s, like, the Casanova of the science team – he’s even got military groupies, and Frank’s not sure how that even came about – so it’s not like Andy can relate.

Which maybe isn’t a nice thing to think, but Frank can’t help but wonder if it’d been him or Gerard, can’t help but think about how tenuous their grip on life is in Atlantis, how much between them would be left unsaid if something, anything, happened to either of them, and fuck. Fuck, Frank’s been a melancholy asshole for weeks now, ever since the alternate dimensions incident, and he’s really surprised Gerard hasn’t called him on it.

He needs to cheer the fuck up, because an emo Frank is almost as bad as a suspected psycho Frank – with paisley ties, seriously. “I’m gonna go toss Joe’s Cheetos to Tito. Who wants to come with?”

*

“Was this thank god I’m alive sex, or just a let me shut you up with my dick fucking?”

Bob watches the curve of Joe’s back as he bends forward to grab his boxers off the floor. “Does it matter?”

Joe looks over his shoulder at him, hair a loosely curling mess, expression sort of amused. “What if I said it did?”

Bob shrugs, tugs the sheet up over his stomach. It’s not like he doesn’t like Joe. Joe’s great, when he isn’t being an insensitive asshole. Joe’s loyal and funny and competent, when he isn’t completely stoned. He’s pale under his tattoos, and Bob reaches out, curls his hand around a hip, eyes locked on his thumb as he brushes the pad over soft skin.

“Bob?” Joe asks, low.

Bob’s fingers clench, pull. “Lay back down,” he says.

“Really?” Joe twists, eyes big, boxers hanging from limp fingers.

“Yeah,” Bob says, gripping Joe’s waist more firmly, tugging at him until he tips over, back almost touching Bob’s chest, side-by-side on the bed. “Yeah. We’ve got no where else to be.”

*

Jon does not exactly understand Ryan, but that’s okay. Jon’s a patient guy.

Ryan’s a little stiff, expressions doled out in these tiny, small amounts that take practice and dedication to spot. He’s not closed off like Spencer, but that somehow makes it even harder to read him.

He’s affectionate, in his own way. Little touches, standing closer than warranted, holding hands even – holding hands seems to be his favorite, linking loose fingers, callused thumb a slow rub. There’s nothing big or sweeping or enthusiastic about Ryan, and Jon kind of likes his strange quietness.

And then he got to experience the extreme opposite, and kind of likes that, too. Likes Ryan out of control, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that alien drugs had made him do it, Jon would be panting at his door every night, begging for more. As it is, he figures that’s kind of presumptuous. Ryan mainly seems painfully embarrassed by the whole thing, like it’s something he wants to forget ever happened.

Or maybe not. Jon’s learned a lot about Ryan in the past year, but he’s never exactly sure what Ryan’s thinking.

“How’s Spencer?” he asks, hitching a hip up onto Ryan’s desk.

Ryan doesn’t look up from his laptop. He frowns, says, “Not great,” but the tops of his cheeks are red. He’s been flushing an awful lot around Jon the past month. Jon’s pretty sure that’s some kind of sign. He’s just not sure if it’s a good one or not.

“Maybe we should try a team bonding night,” Jon suggests, because Brendon always used to enjoy those. “We can put on one of Brendon’s favorite movies.”

Ryan flicks a glance at him and their eyes catch, and Ryan flushes even more, lips pressed together.

“Ryan, hey,” Jon starts, but Ryan just shakes his head, says, “Movie night sounds good. I’ll let Spencer know,” and just like that, Jon’s been dismissed. He can hear it in Ryan’s tone, and Jon’s torn between being pissed off and amused.

He settles for an odd mix, knuckles Ryan’s shoulder. “Someday, Ross,” he says.

Ryan’s eyes widen. “Someday what?”

“Someday I’m not gonna let you get away with this shit.” He leans down, plasters on his best wolfish grin – and Jon’s really sort of easygoing, but he didn’t spend months doing recon deep in the Amazon for nothing; he just hides his hard edges really, really well – and says, “Fair warning.”

*

Spencer is kind of irrationally pissed. He knows it’s stupid, to be angry about Brendon, about something that can’t be helped. So Brendon doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t remember anything about his life, about Atlantis, about Spencer, and there’s no way to tell when or even if any of his memories will come back at all. And Spencer doesn’t know how to react to Brendon, doesn’t know if he should take a step back, be just the team leader again, and fuck. Fuck, he really doesn’t want to do that.

It surprises him, how much he really doesn’t want to do that.

Asking William for advice about it is an accident, honestly. He’s running on little sleep, frustration humming in his bones, and it’s totally an accident that he blunders into William’s lab and lays out everything on the table. It’s not like he can just take it back, though, now that he’s said it. William would never let him get away with that, not without public humiliation being involved.

William leans back in his chair, fingers curling over Zippy. He flips the geode from hand to hand, lips pursed. “Are you sure you’re not secretly in love with Dr. Ryan Ross?” he asks, and Spencer just stares at him, incredulous.

“What?” He’d known this was a bad idea. William may have his fingers in every pie on Atlantis, but that doesn’t make him actually helpful, right?

“Never mind.” William waves a hand, grins. “So. Urie. Feelings aren’t memories, you know,” he says, and Christ.

Spencer isn’t a fucking girl. He doesn’t want to talk about feelings, especially not with William Beckett.

“What I mean is, Smith,” William says, still with that bright, manic grin, like he’s making fun of Spencer deep down inside – and this is seriously his worst idea ever, to visit William - “it’s not going to traumatize him if you jump him.”

“It’s not,” Spencer echoes, because, okay, it’s not exactly what he’d wanted to hear, but it’s a step in the right direction.

“He’s still Urie and you’re still you.” William shrugs, tosses his hair over his shoulder. “Buy him a pony and you’ll be set.”

The sad fact is that if Spencer had the ways and means to buy Brendon a fucking pony, he would. He suspects William knows this, too.

*

“This is entirely unfair,” William says, shuffling his cards. Urie’s won three hands in a row, and they’d had to re-teach him the whole game.

Gabe rolls his cigar between his teeth, staring at Urie thoughtfully. “Makes me think you were losing on purpose before, Dr. Urie.”

“Gabe.”

Gabe flicks Travie a look, one of his darkly amused grimaces that William finds endlessly sexy and equally, wonderfully scary, and says, “You can’t say you haven’t thought the same thing, McCoy.”

Travis laughs. “Yeah, because this is Urie. Not like he doesn’t live for sugar, right?”

Urie blinks, half a chocolate bar stuck in his mouth. “Huh?” he mumbles, and Travis slaps his back.

“Man, don’t listen to Gabe. Beginners luck. Happens all the time,” Travie says, because apparently Travie’s just rolling in chocolate, and he hasn’t been sharing with William. It’s tragic.

“It happens,” William mutters petulantly. “Doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

Gabe’s door chimes, and then Jon’s standing there, hands in his pockets, leaning on the doorframe. “I’m here to collect Brendon for dinner,” he says. And then he straightens up, growls, “Oh, hell, you gave him sugar, you assholes?” and suddenly William feels much better about the whole thing.

“Lots of sugar, dear Jonny,” William says, grinning.

“I hate you all. You realize Spencer’s going to kill him, right?”

“Hey, you know, I’m sitting right here,” Urie says, arms folded over his chest.

“If by kill, you mean—”

“Bill.” Jon narrows his eyes at him.

“We’ll settle this on the mat,” William says grandly. “Would you like to settle this on the mat, Jon Walker?”

“You can’t take Walker, Bills,” Gabe says. He tosses in a few chips, and Travis says, “We haven’t even dealt a new hand, dude.”

Gabe shrugs. “I’m feeling lucky. Care to play, Walker?”

“I need to get Brendon here some wholesome food before we end up scraping him off the ceiling,” Jon says, crooking his finger at Urie. “Come on. Spencer’s waiting.”

“Spencer scares me, Sergeant Walker,” Urie says, getting to his feet. “I think he wants to eat me.”

William snickers. There are so many places he could go with that.

Travie kicks him under the table, though - and he knows it’s Travis, because Gabe doesn’t really care if William spills out a few innuendos; looks forward to them, even – and now Travie is no longer on his short list of possible denizens of William’s Naked Paradise. There’s a planet in the database with hot springs, and if he can just get rid of the fire ants and depressing villagers, he’s planning on retiring there one day, bringing along his own fleet of sexy bodies. “You’ve been back-listed, Travie,” William tells him. “It is indeed a sad, sad day for all mankind.”

*

The melancholy atmosphere of his labs is strangely off-putting. “Why are you all whispering?” Rodney demands, and there’s barely a ripple of response from his minions. They all look tired, but they’ve been tired for years, so this marked lack of flurried activity is uncalled for, not to mention completely irresponsible. They have things to do, projects to work on every second of every waking day.

Radek pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose. “Dr. Wentz has disappeared,” he says, and Rodney rolls his eyes.

“Yes, like that’s a new development. This should be an incentive.” Productivity always slows with Wentz dancing around the lab, flashing his donkey smile and tight pants.

“Badminton finals start this afternoon,” Simpson says, frowning, and his entire department has lost their minds, seriously.

“Do I look like I care?” He might have, once, but then Teyla and Katie had pummeled his team two rounds in and he’d realized badminton was stupid.

“Pete’s missing,” Salpeter says, “and Maja kissed Patrick.”

Rodney jerks his gaze to Ivarsson’s console, and she just gives him an elegant, unconcerned half-shrug.

“Patrick is sweet,” she says, her grin sharp, and Rodney thinks she probably instigated the whole mess on purpose, because Ivarsson lives to be a pain in Rodney’s ass. She’s like a tiny waspish insect, intent on him dying of anaphylactic shock.

He jabs a finger at her. “Keep your harpy tendencies under control, Ivarsson,” he says, but she just laughs.

*

Gerard finds Pete in his room. He walks into his quarters, sees Pete curled up under the unicorn blanket Frank had given him for Christmas, and he stands there, hands on his hips, wondering what the hell he ever did to deserve Dr. Pete Wentz in his bed.

“The fuck, Pete?” he asks, because it’s not like Pete’s even sleeping. He’s just lying there, staring up at the ceiling.

Pete flicks a glance at him. “I got lost,” he says, and that’s bullshit, because Pete had to have spent a goodly amount of time jimmying his lock open. He’d known exactly what he was doing.

“Spin me another one,” Gerard says, but he drops down on the bed next to Pete, pulls his legs up and hooks his arms around his knees.

Pete wiggles his feet under the covers. “You and Frank are easy,” he says, and Gerard goggles at him, slightly incredulous.

“Gee, thanks,” he says, because, seriously, what the fuck?

“You and Frank. How’d you make that work?” Pete asks like he’s genuinely curious, leveraging up onto his elbows to catch Gerard’s eyes.

Gerard shrugs. He’s fucked up a lot of things in his life, beginning and ending with Mikey, although he can only blame himself, he knows it, and when he’d joined the SGC, well. It’s just something that he isn’t going to fuck up, no matter what, and Frank kind of comes part and parcel with that plan. “We just do,” he says. It’s not something he wants to question. He’ll take Frank any way he can have him, and that’s that.

“Patrick kissed Maja,” Pete says. He’s gone from blue to petulant, though, so Gerard thinks he’s already on his way to shaking off his funk.

“You might want to flip that.”

Pete nods. He says softly, mostly to himself, Gerard’s sure, “I can make it work, too,” and Gerard doesn’t say anything to that. Pete may be incredibly smart, but he has even less common sense than Gerard does, and Gerard can be pretty flaky sometimes.

“I’m going to nap,” Gerard says, pushing himself further up onto the bed and flopping down next to Pete, leaning halfway onto him, arm across his chest, because that had been his original plan. Afternoon nap, while practically everyone else is down on the south pier watching the last few cutthroat games of the badminton tournament. “You staying, or are you gonna go help Greta and Wheeler kick team Walker’s collective ass?”

“Shit.” Pete pushes at Gerard roughly, rolls out of bed with a thump and a muffled, “Ow,” as his face hits the floor.

*

“Did you guys know you have a space sea monster in that room with all the pools?” Urie asks, following Walker into the common lounge. “It almost ate me.”

“It’s a starfish,” Walker says. He’s smiling, though.

Urie squishes in between Smith and Ross on the couch. “It’s huge. So, movie night?” he asks. “What do I like?”

“Dogs,” Ross deadpans.

“Puppies, kittens and bears, little Urie,” William says, long limbs sprawled all over the far couch. “It’s adorable.”

“Fuck, you’re watching Milo & Otis again, aren’t you?” Urie turns big eyes on him, and Bob sighs. “You’ll love it, Urie,” he says, and maybe it’ll jar his memory or something, because god knows Smith looks like a fucking zombie, sleeplessness rimming his eyes.

Urie actually doesn’t look much better. He’s in a good mood – Bob’s pretty sure Urie’s always in a good mood, no matter what – but he’s pale, and if he looks close enough, he can see tiny shakes in his hands.

Bob’s comm. link clicks, and Joe’s distinctive giggle is followed closely by, “Bob, Bob, seriously, I think I broke Patrick, seriously, dude.”

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose. “Where are you?”

“Uh, um, I don’t. Wait, wait, we’re in that,” there’s a snapping sound, “you know, that hydroponics lab,” Joe says, and Bob gets to his feet.

“Do I want to know how you broke Patrick?” Bob asks. He wonders idly when it became his job to clean up after Joe, but he figures it must be a trade off for all the hot sex. Plus, teammates. That actually means something out here.

“He’s. He’s an adorable pumpkin, right?” Joe says, and Bob doesn’t honestly know what that means, but he’s pretty sure it has to do with Joe’s stash of pot.

“I’ll be down,” Bob says. It looks like he’s babysitting scientists for the rest of the night. Better than watching Dudley fucking Moore talk out of kittens and puppies, though.

“Hey, hey,” Joe says, “bring my bag of Cheetos with, ‘kay?”

*

Spencer makes Brendon nervous.

He makes Brendon’s skin itch, makes him jittery and dry-mouthed, and Spencer insists on seeing Brendon to his quarters after the movie is over. It’s good, it is, because after a week Brendon’s still getting lost – the city is huge; Atlantis is huge, and, seriously, he’d been so sure they were joking but another galaxy, Christ – so it’s really helpful of Spencer. To help him. That doesn’t make Brendon any less uncomfortable, though.

“Home sweet home,” Brendon says, pressing the crystals next to his door, and Spencer crowds up behind him, pushes his way in, grabbing Brendon’s arm, twisting so they’re looking at each other. Brendon’s heart is pounding so hard he’s pretty sure Spencer can hear it.

Brendon thinks the lights on, and then Spencer narrows his eyes and the room dims again, so Brendon can’t see their color – blue, he knows, this awesome clear blue – but can still catch their gleam, and he says, “Spencer, what—”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t finish, because Spencer is kissing him. He’s kissing him with his whole body, and Brendon doesn’t know how that’s possible, but it is. Spencer’s completely open; his stiff, parade rest posture that he’s been holding all freaking week melting into this boneless, unrecognizable boy, a desperate, almost pained whimper in the back of his throat, and Brendon has to kiss him back, he has to, because he thinks it might break Spencer, otherwise.

Spencer moves from his lips, slips his hands up Brendon’s back, up under his shirt, and Brendon braces his own palms on Spencer’s chest.

“Oh,” Brendon says as Spencer’s teeth nip his jaw line, because that’s. That’s really sort of incredible, actually, Spencer’s mouth. He asks, breathless, “So we do this?” and Spencer hisses, “Yes,” against his neck.

That’s pretty much okay with Brendon. Better than okay, maybe, and he let’s Spencer maneuver him backwards towards the bed.

*

Frank likes Tito well enough. He’s no seal, but he’s friendly and weird and he sometimes gets in these moods where he’ll cling to Frank’s ankle and won’t let him go. In a way, he reminds Frank of Gerard.

It’s getting late, and Frank’s seriously hungry. Tito already ate all the Cheetos.

He sprawls back on the cool tile floor, kicks his free foot in the lukewarm water and sighs. And then Gerard is smiling down at him, hair tucked behind his ears.

“Hey,” Gerard says.

Frank grins back, and Gerard’s smile widens, lights up his whole face, and Frank feels like a dick for not giving Gerard that more often. He says, “Sit with me?”

Gerard sinks onto the edge of the pool next to him, catches Frank’s hand and squeezes. “Mission tomorrow?” he asks.

“Routine trade.” Routine trade missions are boring, but Frank isn’t going to complain, not after their last time off-world. It’s hard to predict hostiles, but they’ve been to this planet three times before so chances are good that they’ll make it out alive.

Frank doesn’t know what’s tougher: leaving Gerard behind or having him along, like Joe and Bob. Joe and Bob might think they’re being discreet, but it’s really kind of obvious; the near hero-worship shining out of Joe’s eyes, Bob gruffly overprotective.

“Frank,” Gerard says, and it isn’t really a question, but his brow is furrowed, smile falling on one side.

“You know,” Frank reaches up, tugs on a chunk of hair hanging over Gerard’s eyes, “in this one universe? You were a total rock star.”

*

Patrick is feeling fine. He’s a little fuzzy, mostly tired, but he smiles at Pete when Bob shoves him into his quarters. Pete is fiddling with his laptop, minesweeper up.

“Patrick, Patrick, hey,” Pete says, snapping the computer shut and getting to his feet.

Patrick shakes his head. “Bed, seriously,” he says, snagging Pete’s waist, ‘cause Pete’s nice and warm, and Patrick’s been in the damp hydroponics greenhouse all night, and the recycled city air is making him chilly.

“Hey,” Pete murmurs against his temple, and Patrick can feel his smile, the stretch of his lips on his skin. He says, “I’m sort of not easy.”

Patrick snorts. Like that’s any kind of revelation. He seriously doesn’t feel like having a Wentz-talk right then, though; he wants to sleep, wants to snuggle into his covers and if Pete’s going to stay, he’s going to have to snuggle, too. Thems the rules.

“Later,” he says, pushing Pete down onto the mattress and climbing under the blankets after him, “you can tell me how hard you are later,” and, oh man, that totally came out bad. He giggles into his pillow, presses his knuckles up against his mouth.

Pete says, “You are so high,” but he wraps an arm around him, pulls him close. “You’re not allowed to hang out with Joe anymore. Joe’s abused his Patrick privileges.”

“Joe’s awesome,” Patrick says through a yawn. Joe is so awesome. “Joe has soft hair.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees. He flops over onto his back, bringing Patrick with him, tugging off Patrick’s cap and tossing it aside, pushing and pulling him until he’s half-draped over his body, head tucked under Pete’s chin.

Patrick sighs into his chest. He says, “G’night, Pete,” and closes his eyes.

*

It’s weird going off-world without Brendon. Normally, Weir would’ve put their whole team on temporary stand-down, but Spencer had been going stir crazy, Ryan could see it, so they’d set off with just the three of them on little scouting missions; boring, uninhabited planets with mildly promising stats.

Of course, their third planet in, they find habitants. The yelling would be a lot funnier if they didn’t have guns.

“A plague of santolanos on your house!”

“May a clardike piss in your well!”

“I shake my thumb at your overly-large breasts!”

“What the hell kind of feud is this?” Spencer asks. They’re hiding in a line of trees just outside the tiny village. There are five houses, each packed with about ten or so natives, gun barrels poking through open windows and broken slats of doors.

They can’t actually see who’s shouting what.

Jon’s laughing his ass off. Ryan just wants to get back to the ‘gate.

“You sagging piece of morlong crap!”

Jon laughs harder. “Do you think they’re just making up words?” he gasps, and Spencer slaps the back of his head. “Oh, come on. It’s funny.”

And then, of course, Ryan gets shot.

“Ow?”

Jon instantly sobers. “Fuck, Ryan.”

“Um.” Ryan’s clutching his arm, and he can. He can smell the blood already, and is that possible? Is that fucking possible? Because he doesn’t even really feel it, he just knows it should hurt, but he’s kind of numb, honestly. And then he panics, starts to hyperventilate a little because that’s shock, isn’t it, and shock is bad, he knows this, they’ve all had, like, emergency medical field training.

Blurrily, he registers Spencer hovering over him, something tight winding about his arm until it does hurt, fucking kills, fire exploding out of his shoulder and upper arm, and he can’t pass out, he can’t. They need to make it back to the ‘gate; he needs to be able to walk. He clenches his teeth, breathes through the pain and keeps his eyes shut tight, face screwed up.

“I’m fine,” he manages.

“Jesus, fuck, Ryan, you’re not fine,” Jon says, and hey, that’s nice, except Jon’s voice is kind of shaky with worry, and Ryan’s been shot so he’s going to make some allowances for Jon’s un-soldier-like – unsoldierly? - behavior.

He hears Spencer growl, “Shut up, Walker,” and then there’s even more pressure on his arm, and stars sort of sparkle in front of his closed eyes and then everything goes dark.

*

The klaxons sound at the unexpected wormhole activation. It’s Walker’s IDC, and they drop the iris, but they only get a radio transmission.

“Ross is shot,” Walker says, and Weir’s already calling for a med team when he goes on, “Fucking planet has warring tribes. They’re not letting us leave, and I don’t think they’d appreciate anyone else stopping by. Sundown’s at approximately 0700, Atlantis time.”

Ten minutes later, Ritter and Gaylor are in the ‘gate room surrounded by cases of medical supplies, and Sheppard’s team is tacked up, snapping the last snaps on their thigh holsters, vests.

Bob feels no desire to get involved, but Urie’s vibrating beside him, hovering on the steps leading up to the control room. “All right?” he asks, slanting him a glance.

Urie licks his lips, bobs his head. “Sure.”

Bob smirks. “You suck at lying.”

“It’s just. They’re my team, right?” He twists his fingers together, tangling with the hem of his shirt. “I should be with them.”

“You don’t remember anything, Urie. You’re a fucking liability, and there’s nothing you can do.” It’s maybe not what he’d wanted to hear, but it’s the truth. Bob doesn’t believe in pulling punches, especially not with lives on the line.

Urie doesn’t flinch, though. Maybe he’s got more sense than Bob gives him credit for.

“I.” Urie pauses, screws his face up. “It all seems so familiar,” he says. There’s a thread of frustration in his voice, and Bob claps his shoulder.

He doesn’t tell him it’ll all come back because Bob isn’t a fucking doctor. He has no clue what’s going on in Urie’s brain. But familiar’s good. Familiar’s better than nothing, right? “That’s something,” he says.

Urie shrugs. “Still means I’m useless, though,” he points out, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Bob rolls his eyes. He’s got no patience for self-pity, and it doesn’t suit Urie, anyhow. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll swing by the labs for Joe and check out what the mess has for dinner.”

“Food will not cheer me up, Sergeant Bryar,” Urie says, but he’s smiling a little. “Food is not the answer.”

Before he can even fully register his words, Bob’s saying, “But Joe is,” and Bob doesn’t do denial. Bob’s enlisted infantry, yeah, and he loves his job and he’s careful, as much as he can be, but he’s not ashamed, and no matter what anyone else says, the higher-ups, the government, the MPs, harsh words and a slip of paper, a kick to his ass, nothing’s gonna make him a disgrace, not in any way that really counts. Hell, he’s been skirting the edge of dishonorable discharge since he smart-mouthed his drill sergeant and his nose and front teeth had ended up casualties in a disagreement with a brick wall.

Urie’s grin widens, turns sly, like he knows something he shouldn’t. “I talk to Joe. I talk to Joe when he’s high,” he says, and Joe’s got no filter when he’s stoned, Bob knows.

That isn’t something Bob worries about, though. Getting eaten, yeah, surviving his tour, seeing the other side of thirty, maybe, but Joe. Joe’s golden.

*

Ryan is really uncomfortable and cranky and he wants to be back on Atlantis, wants his own bed, and the hillbillies of MG3 are really starting to piss him off. It’s dark out. Clusters of fat candles are burning low on a wobbly table in the center of the room.

Jon’s kneeling by his pallet, frowning in concentration as he cleans and redresses Ryan’s wound. “We need to get the slug out,” he says, and that is absolutely the last thing Ryan wants, at least not without a properly licensed medical doctor present.

Spencer ducks inside the clapboard building and says, “No luck yet. No sign of anyone from Atlantis, either. Are you sure they understood?”

Jon nods, bites his lip, tugs the bandage tight.

Ryan hisses, but the pain is banked by their emergency supply of morphine. It makes him slow, tired, but he still hears Jon say, “I’m worried about infection,” to Spencer, still hears the concern in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Ryan says. He’s fine, because he can’t be not fine. Felled by a rogue bullet on a planet where no one can even write their name - Ryan’s convinced they’re all first cousins or siblings or something – is possibly the worst way to die. That’s not even cool. Only Ryan could get shot and killed by Jed fucking Clampett in outer space.

“Sure you’re fine,” Jon agrees this time, curling his hand around Ryan’s wrist. “You’re peachy. Just relax, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”

Ryan can’t see his face anymore, but he’s pretty sure Jon’s talking out of his ass. “Right,” he says.

Spencer’s not talking to him at all, hasn’t said one word directly to him since he woke up in this fucking shack, and Ryan so knows why. Spencer thinks Ryan’s going to die. Spencer is a sucky, unsupportive best friend.

“Hey, hey,” Jon says, and Ryan realizes he’s panting, breathing hard, and he clenches his fist, his uninjured arm, and says, “Spencer, you better not have me fucking buried yet,” because he knows Spencer, and Spencer has this annoying habit of always thinking the worst.

And then a radio clicks, and Sheppard asks for their position, and Ryan silently thanks god for minor miracles.

*

Spencer’s shaking by the time he makes it to his quarters. He’s not sure if the surge of adrenaline’s from intense relief or delayed panic, but he just wants to curl up in bed and wrap his covers tight around his body. He doesn’t even want a shower yet, doesn’t want to wash off the reminder of just how close he’d come to losing Ryan. Morbid, maybe, but morbid’s gotten kind of commonplace in Pegasus.

When his door slides open, though, there’s a familiar figure sprawled out on his mattress. Brendon’s on top of the blankets, fully dressed, a pillow hugged to his chest.

He smiles. Christ, Spencer smiles, despite everything, just looking at Brendon hollowing out his stomach, making his heart speed up in what he reluctantly admits is a giddy dance.

Spencer sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed, bends over to unlace his boots, strips down to his boxers and then starts in on Brendon’s clothes, easing him out of his pants and shirt with little regard to his sleeping state, but Brendon doesn’t even really stir. He just snuffles a little, makes a smacking sound with his lips and tongue, and obediently rolls under the covers when Spencer shoves at his shoulder.

Spencer crawls in after him, shifting in the narrow bunk so he’s curled over Brendon’s side, arm tucked around his waist, and Spencer’s out as soon as he closes his eyes.

He’s woken up less pleasantly, he doesn’t know how long after, by a muffled shout and a kick to his shins and an elbow in his face, fuck, so hard blackness sparks behind his eyes for a few seconds, and there’s no way he’s gonna be able to explain away the shiner he’ll have in the morning.

Brendon’s thrashing, small whimpers in his throat, and Spencer thinks the lights on, dim, sees that Brendon’s eyes are still shut tight, sees that he’s too pale everywhere, that his expression is caught somewhere between pain and fear.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, getting up on his knees, shackling the tops of Brendon’s arms, shaking him. “Brendon, hey, you’re okay, wake up.”

Brendon pulls and twists in his grip, but Spencer holds on. Holds on ‘til the jerky movements become shakes and the whimpers become harsh pants of breath.

“Brendon.”

Brendon blinks open his eyes, dark and haunted, and a band tightens around Spencer’s chest. “God.” Brendon drags in big gulps of air, his body falling limp.

Spencer loosens his grasp, keeps his fingers light on Brendon’s upper arms. “Hey.”

“That,” another shaky breath, voice only just above a whisper, “that really happened, didn’t it?”

“What did?” Spencer asks, soft. Brendon looks small. He looks confused and broken, and Spencer swallows hard, throat dry.

“Those. Those things, right?” Brendon says. “Those monsters, they’re real.”

“Wraith,” Spencer says. “Yeah.” He moves again, up and off Brendon, slides his hands down to Brendon’s wrists, and then Brendon unexpectedly lurches up, kicks the covers aside and wriggles his way onto Spencer’s lap, straddling him.

He wraps his arms around him, tight, and Spencer tentatively slips his hands up Brendon’s back, cups one around his nape.

“I wish I could remember everything,” Brendon murmurs, mouth hot against Spencer’s neck.

Spencer’s not sure why he would want to. He’s a little scared of what Brendon will see, of what had actually happened on that hive ship, but on the other hand, it seems like it’s all spilling out into his dreams, nightmares, anyway.

“I wish I could remember you, before,” Brendon goes on, and Spencer automatically tightens his hold, drags Brendon even closer, his legs falling open on either side of Spencer’s hips.

Spencer wishes that, yeah, but he’s not going to let that change the here and now. “You were and are the most annoying guy alive,” Spencer says. He feels Brendon smile against his skin.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

*

There are a couple things Pete needs to get straight. “There’s some things we have to get straight, you and me,” Pete says, looming over Ivarsson’s console. He’s pretty crap at looming, but Ivarsson’s tiny, and if Greta would stop giggling – he shoots her a glower, but that sets her off even more – he’s sure Ivarsson would be properly impressed.

As it is, she just arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” Pete nods. “You don’t get to kiss Patrick.”

She smiles. It’s got sharp corners. Catching his hand, she digs her fingernails into the soft under skin of his wrist. “Then you will make sure it is not necessary, correct?”

Pete narrows his eyes. “It wasn’t necessary then,” he says, and Ivarsson laughs, husky and mocking.

“Patrick is sweet,” she says. “He should always be kissed.” She loosens her hold, pats the back of his hand, then turns to her computer again.

Pete stares at her. He’s pretty sure Ivarsson just gave him her blessing or something which is weird and still totally unnecessary, but whatever.

“You may go now,” she says without looking up from her laptop. Her sharp nails click gratingly on the keys.

Pete huffs, mutters, “Witch,” under his breath but obediently stalks off.

*

“If you’re going to hide, and I’m not saying you are,” Patrick says reasonably, “this is probably not the best place to do it.”

Patrick can’t exactly say he isn’t surprised to find Ryan by Tito’s pool – Ryan doesn’t normally interact all that well with living creatures – but it’s a fairly high traffic area. Tito’s pretty popular among the city’s denizens.

Ryan blinks up at Patrick. He’s still in a set of scrubs. He’s got a sling on, bandages keeping his arm tight along his chest. “Patrick,” he says. “I have a severely inappropriate crush on Sergeant Jon Walker.”

Well. Patrick thinks maybe Ryan’s on a high dosage of painkillers, too. He nods slowly. “Okay. Are you even allowed out of the infirmary yet?” People escape from the infirmary all the time on Ritter’s watch, so it’s entirely possible.

Ryan crooks his finger at Patrick, beckoning him closer, and Patrick sits, bends his legs, and presses his palms into his kneecaps.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks.

Ryan leans into him, props his chin on Patrick’s shoulder so his mouth is right by his ear. “Jon, Patrick,” he whispers. “Jon. And I’ve already had sex with him.”

“Whoa.” Patrick reels back, because that’s a little bit too much information.

Burying his face in his good hand, Ryan mutters. “Seriously, god. Fucking aliens.”

Patrick’s slightly confused, but he doesn’t really want to encourage more sharing. He stares hard into Tito’s pool, nods, blindly agreeing with whatever Ryan wants. He’s contemplating how he’s going to get out of here without offending Ryan – he’s kind of sensitive, especially on the rare occasions he’s in a talky mood – when Ryan starts snoring. Soft, whiffling breaths, head curled down, mashed up against Patrick’s arm.

He taps his comm. link. “Walker?”

“Yes?”

Patrick grins. “I’ve got something for you. Down in marine lab five.”

*

Jon catches his wrists in a loose hold. “Hey, wait, are you okay?” he asks, and Ryan feels great, feels like his skin is glowing, and he groans, because Jon’s fingers are hot, so hot, and he needs more, needs everything, and he’s sorry, he is, but he can’t help himself.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jon, I can’t—”

“Ryan,” Jon says, and his voice vibrates against his lips, and Ryan suddenly realizes he’s got his mouth pressed into Jon’s throat, slow, sucking kisses, his body frantically sliding along Jon’s, and he can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop.

“Don’t. Want.”

“It’s okay,” Jon says, and Ryan’s closer, Jon’s hands on his back, smoothing up under Ryan’s shirt, petting him lightly as Ryan almost shakes apart. “It’s fine.”

It’s not fine, though, Ryan’s pretty sure it’s not fine at all, but that doesn’t seem to be making any sort of difference.

“Fuck.” Ryan hisses in a breath, covers his eyes with his palm. The steady beep of monitors, hushed voices in the next room, harsh scent of astringent – he’s back in the infirmary.

A deep, throbbing burn radiates down his arm, over nearly his whole left side. Painkillers must have worn off.

“Hey.”

Ryan shifts his hand down, catches Jon’s eyes.

“You all right?”

“Hurts,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t mean to sound like a whiny kid, but it fucking hurts.

Jon pats his good arm, smiles softly. “Soon. Ritter gave me strict instructions.”

Ryan nods, and Jon’s smile hardens at the corners, grows determined.

“Ryan,” he says, and Ryan knows that voice. He hears that voice in his sleep, a low, husky slide.

Ryan swallows. “Jon—”

“No, hey, how ‘bout you let me talk this time?” Jon moves closer, and his fingers are gentle on Ryan’s forehead, pushing back his hair, and he doesn’t say anything for a while, just looks.

He doesn’t say anything for so long that Ryan ventures a small, “Jon?” and Jon shakes his head.

“I suck at words,” he says, and then he takes a deep breath, cradles Ryan’s cheek with his palm and leans down.

Ryan is sure Jon is going to kiss him. He’s really, really sure, actually, and he freezes, eyes wide as Jon’s mouth hovers just over his. They stare at each other until Jon’s eyes start twinkling like he’s laughing inside, even though it never spills out into the air. And then they flutter closed, and Ryan marvels briefly at how light his eyelashes are, how the tips are almost blond.

Jon bites Ryan’s lower lip. He whispers, “Stop thinking, close your eyes,” like he can feel Ryan’s bewildered gaze on him, and Ryan isn’t exactly sure what this means, why Jon’s doing this, but he’s used to trusting Jon. He’s used to doing what Jon says.

Ryan slips his eyes closed, and Jon murmurs an approval, and the kiss is soft, a tentative sweep of his tongue across Ryan’s dry lips, and then he’s pulling back, bright-eyed.

“I want to do that again,” Jon says, and his cheeks are flushed. “Sometime.”

Ryan nods. “Okay.”

[part iii]

Comments

[trackscovered.livejournal.com]

“Yes, like that’s a new development. This should be an incentive.” Productivity always slows with Wentz dancing around the lab, flashing his donkey smile and tight pants.

I will never think of Pete Wentz without thinking of his donkey smile ever again.

[skoosiepants.livejournal.com]

Total donkey smile, right? Hee!

[kws136.livejournal.com]

It’s not fine, though, Ryan’s pretty sure it’s not fine at all, but that doesn’t seem to be making any sort of difference.

But this whole thing? Is fine. Awesome, even. *clicks to next part*

[hobbit-sexual.livejournal.com]

How did you manage to make Gade adorably creepy, how? That's just not right. He hopes it bleeds, hahahaha.

[skoosiepants.livejournal.com]

It's the MAGIC OF GABE!