New SGA/Bandslash Fics: Solvation & Enthalpy

[skoosiepants]

Solvation | 23,000+ | PG-13 | Sequel to Supersaturation
Brendon/Spencer, Patrick/Pete, Frank/Gerard, Bob/Joe, Jon/Ryan
Warnings: This is a little more serious than Supersaturation? Also, there's a long-ago character death.
download the Solvation soundtrack

It’s possible, maybe, that the whole thing is Brendon’s fault. “Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay, this could be my fault.”

It’s imperative that you read Supersaturation first. You might also want to check out my SGA for Bandslashers primer - the Wraith feature heavily in this. Many huge thanks to castoffstarter for the awesome beta. Author notes are at the end, as well as a link to Enthalpy - Frank’s spin-off companion fic. Feedback would rock my world.

Solvation

[i]

It’s possible, maybe, that the whole thing is Brendon’s fault. “Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay, this could be my fault.”

“Urie,” Bryar growls.

“No, no, I know. Give me a minute, I’ll think of something.”

“Don’t.” Bryar gets up to loom over Brendon. He’s really good at looming. “Don’t think of anything, Urie. Just sit tight.”

Brendon isn’t going to argue with Bryar, mostly because he’s never been so scared in his entire life as he is right now. He’d never even seen a Wraith before that day, before the darts screamed onto PX1-300. He figures maybe he was overdue for some Pegasus horror.

The little girl on his lap whimpers, makes this horrible little-lost-puppy sound, and Brendon rocks her, says, “Hey, hey, it’ll be fine, okay? Sergeant Bob’ll get us out of here, and we’ll be fine.” He’s not sure he really believes it, but the words make him feel better anyhow.

See, it’s Brendon’s fault, yeah, but he hadn’t really had a choice, not when he’d seen her frozen in fear, all alone, out in the open – and didn’t their parents teach them how to hide, how to blindly run at the first sign of Wraith? – in the direct path of a dart’s beam. He just hopes the rest of their teams didn’t get caught, too.

Bryar sighs, rubs a palm over his forehead. “I have two knives,” he says, and Brendon nods his head slowly.

“Okay,” Brendon says, then adds, “I’ve got Spencer’s knife in my boot.”

Bryar blinks at him. Brendon thinks he sees a little twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Good, good,” he says. “You hang on to that.” He stares at the cell bars for a few minutes, hands on his hips.

Bryar’s kind of quiet and intense, but Brendon’s always really liked him. He’s got an air of competence, and he doesn’t act like an asshole around the scientists like most of the other Marines do.

Brendon knows, because they all know, they’d had to know, how every hive ship works, even if they were lucky enough to never encounter one during their entire stay in Pegasus. He knows how it’s created out of organic matter, which is awesome for repairs and stuff, is largely fascinating and generally icky, and how it’s definitely to their advantage, since a well-placed severing can deactivate their prison doors. You just have to aim really well. It’s also better when you have more than three knives to throw at the control panel.

Bryar shifts on his feet. Brendon can read the reluctance in his stance, but it’s their only option, other than settling down like mindless cattle, waiting to be eaten. Brendon’s pretty sure neither of them wants to just give up like that, if only because Brendon’s heard the feeding process is incredibly painful. Brendon’s not a big fan of pain.

He considers giving Bryar a You-Can-Do-It! pep talk, but he thinks maybe Bryar would punch him. He settles on a low, half-desperate, “Come on,” that he’s not even sure Bryar hears.

And then Bryar mutters, “They’re coming,” and Brendon just. He sort of gains resolve. Like this is how it’s going to be, how it is, and it’s not okay, not even close to okay, but it’s going to happen anyway, and Brendon’s going to take it. He thinks maybe this is what living in the Pegasus galaxy, living in the middle of a war, does to you.

Brendon has a couple of regrets. If they’re going to die – and Brendon’s usually a pretty positive guy, but they’re going to die; unless they get some sort of intervening miracle, they’re really going to die – he might as well admit that he’s definitely got some regrets. He doesn’t normally hold himself back, he does exactly what he wants to do, except where Spencer’s concerned. Where Spencer’s concerned, Brendon doesn’t go by his own pace. That’s all Spencer.

He regrets not telling Spencer he loves him. Like, loves him, not just in love with him, although he never mentioned that tidbit either, but even if. Even if, for some reason, Spencer doesn’t want to be with him anymore, even then. Even then, Brendon would love him, because Spencer is a pretty special person. Brendon really just wants Spencer to always be happy, always be grinning, no matter whom he’s with or where he is. They’re friends. They’re close; Brendon likes to think they’re best friends occasionally, even though Ryan officially gets that title, since they’ve known each other for forever and a day.

He regrets not having leftover chocolate cake for breakfast. Dr. McKay had gotten away with it, but Spencer had frowned at Brendon and seriously, seriously, they were living on the edge of nowhere, could die at any moment, and he’d given up his chocolate cake. For Spencer. Because they were going on a mission and Brendon needed something nutritional to start his day, and maybe he didn’t regret making Spencer happy on that point, but he regrets the fact that never, ever again will he be able to taste chocolate cake. God. He’s going to miss food when he’s dead.

Brendon doesn’t, however, regret running out into the open to grab this little girl, this skinny little thing who’s got her fingers clenched in his tac vest, face pressed into his shoulder. He’d do exactly the same thing, over and over again – and he feels bad that he got Bryar into this mess, that he was the closest, that he’d tried to stop him; but at the same time he’s kind of relieved he isn’t there alone – but he doesn’t think the Wraith will kill the girl. Worse, he thinks they’ll treat her as a pet, raise her to be one of those freaky Wraith worshippers the colonel’s told them about. He doesn’t like the thought of that.

So when the door slides open, drones flanking a worker bee – the jagged sharp teeth, the tight gray skin, the claws - he hides the girl behind him, makes himself a bigger target, ignores Bryar’s warnings, hisses of being quiet and staying still, and he makes such a fuss that the drones grab him first, before Bryar can do anything about it.

Brendon knows, he knows what the military mind is like on Atlantis: protect the scientists at all costs, protect their invaluable brains. He knows that if they left him in that cell with that little girl, if they took Bryar first, then they’d have no chance at all; there wouldn’t even be a question. It’s not that Brendon’s helpless, but he’s got lousy aim, and at least now Bryar can try to escape, can try to disable the door and hijack a dart or whatever, take that little girl back to her family. He’s bought them time, he knows this, even while Bryar’s cursing him out, worry threading his voice as he yells, “You’re a fucking idiot, Urie,” after them.

*

Urie’s a fucking moron. That’s the only thing Bob’s dead certain of. Christ, now he has to figure a way out of there and save Urie from getting himself fucking killed, and the truth of it is, the honest-to-god horrifying truth, is that Bob would’ve let them take the girl. If they’d taken her, they’d have had a chance of escaping, and he’s not exactly proud of that fact, but he’s almost completely sure that they wouldn’t have killed a kid, anyway. Out of everything he’s gleaned of the Wraith culture, he doesn’t think they’re indiscriminately cruel. They’re too smart for that.

Bob isn’t exactly green, even though Atlantis is his first assignment in the Stargate program. He’s been gating off-world for a solid year now, and he’s come across more than a few Wraith, up close and personal, been detained by rebel Genii forces, but it’s the first time he’s ever been trapped on a hive ship, and he’s lost his fucking scientist. Hell, Urie isn’t even his. Smith’s probably going to rip him a new one if he comes back without Urie.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, racking his brain for plans, anything – he’s heard the story, everyone’s heard the story of Atlantis’ first CO, and he really doesn’t want to have to shoot Urie, he doesn’t want the Wraith to gain any more knowledge of Atlantis or Earth - and when he looks up again, that little girl is staring at him, all big, wary eyes, spindly limbs tucked up, dirty hands clutching her knees.

“Hey,” he says, hoarse, then he clears his throat and says again, “hey.”

She doesn’t answer, but he didn’t really expect her to.

He nods, walks towards her slowly, lowers himself to his knees. She’s still just watching him, but she doesn’t flinch away. “Hey, look, it’s gonna be fine, okay?” he says as confidently as he can. He’s basically lying his ass off because how in hell is everything going to be okay?

“Okay,” she says, voice small, and Bob forces a smile.

“Just like Urie said, you’ll be fine,” he reiterates. He reaches out, tentatively sweeps her hair back from her face.

He knows kids, people, aren’t trusting in his galaxy; he knows they can’t afford to be. The girl looks about six, maybe seven, and there’s no way her village let her just be defenseless, even in the supposed lull between Wraith feedings.

“I’ve got two knives,” he says, repeats from earlier, even though he knows she’d heard him.

She’s smart. Her mouth moves, curves into a grin, a flash of pride in her eyes. “I’ve got one, too.”

“You,” Bob says, tweaking her nose – he’s got sisters; he doesn’t like to think about them, not when they’re so far away, but he’s got two little sisters - “are my favorite girl ever.”

*

Spencer should not be in charge, so he’s really glad that he’s not.

“Right now,” Toro says from the pilot seat, “there’s nothing we can do.”

Spencer feels like he’s being torn up inside. He wills his face to remain stoic, but from Ryan’s grimace, he’s not sure he manages it.

Spencer should not be in charge, because he’d probably order a reckless on-the-spot rescue mission, and it’s completely unfeasible. The hive ship jumped orbit immediately after recovering their darts – they’d dialed the last coordinates, ‘gated through in the puddlejumper just in time to see it shift into hyperdrive, and Spencer’s damn heart had been in his throat – and Toro’s right; there’s nothing they can do.

Ryan reaches over, threads their fingers together, and for once Spencer lets him. He lets him, despite Iero’s position behind him. Despite the fact that Toro could glance back, catch the desperate grip Spencer has on Ryan’s hand, white-knuckled. It helps him school his face, though, helps him collect his composure.

Toro says, “Dial Atlantis, Joe,” and he sounds defeated, too.

They’d both lost a team member, god, but Spencer has to remind himself that it doesn’t matter, doesn’t count that Brendon was closer than a friend, a coworker, a teammate. He can’t hurt worse than the rest of them, not where anyone can see.

When they slide through the event horizon, fly into the ‘jumper bay, the familiar blue-gray walls, everything seems so final, and Spencer is utterly fucked.

*

“Look, I think you’re all forgetting that this is Bob,” Joe says.

Frank’s expression is pinched. “Joe, I know you think Bob—”

“Bob,” Joe says, tone lazily daring anyone to contradict him, “is awesome,” and it would’ve been funny, Joe’s unwavering confidence in Bob, Ray’s sure of it, if that fact actually helped them at all.

They’ve been debriefed, Carson has cleared them, and now it’s a waiting game. Sheppard’s just crazy enough to want to send a rescue mission, and Ray plans on leading them in.

“Bob escaped that Genii prison,” Joe says. “He dug his way out of that underground bunker with his bare hands.”

“Joe,” Frank shakes his head, “Joe, you fucking exploded the shit out of that place first.”

Joe blinks at him. “Oh. Oh, yeah, that was pretty cool, you’re right,” he says, but despite his words he seems mostly dejected, and Ray can relate. They all can, really, because Bob was really good at keeping them together, getting done what needed to be done, competent and focused and solid and always there.

They’re silent then, staring down at the commissary table. No one wants to think about Bob being gone, but it’s the kind of gaping hole that’s hard to ignore.

A chair screeches, echoing throughout the mostly empty mess as Gerard drops down across from Ray. He sighs, tugs a hand through his dark hair. “Smith’s taking this really hard,” he says.

“Smith’s in love with Brendon,” Frank says, and Ray gets to his feet, because there’re some things he’s not allowed to know, even though he totally knows them anyway.

He gives the table a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And that’s my cue,” he says.

Frank grabs his sleeve. “Hey, hey, you’ll—”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” Ray assures him, even though there’s not a chance in hell any of his scientists are going on a rescue mission that’ll most likely take them into the belly of a hive.

*

Things have been a little weird between Ryan and Jon for a while. Mostly because of what had happened on PX4-MM0. The happening that they don’t talk about. Ever. Jon sometimes looks like he might want to bring it up, but Ryan? Ryan doesn’t want to go there.

He gets red-faced just thinking about it, and it’s not that he’s a prude or anything, but it was sort of more than embarrassing. Jon could’ve maybe stopped him, yeah, but Jon’s not the kind of guy who’d ever hurt Ryan, and Ryan might be skinny, but he’s got a grip on him that, in the midst of all that tenacity, that fire – god, natives and their fucking drugs, right? – Jon probably would’ve had to break his arm, knock him out or something to get him off.

Ryan is very good at pretending. He’s not so good at compartmentalizing, but he can make sure his preoccupation doesn’t show on his face. Somehow that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with Jon, though, not when it’s just the two of them.

The door to the balcony whooshes open and Jon’s there, hands deep in his pockets. He nods at Ryan, more solemn than he’s ever seen him – Jon’s, like, this irresistible force of good nature and charm, smile almost constant – and Ryan feels his damn eyes start to prickle.

He rubs his fingers over the side of his nose and turns away to look out across the ocean.

“I thought you’d be with Spencer,” Jon says, stepping up beside him.

Ryan shrugs. “He’s not so much for company right now,” he says, and he thinks Jon understands, that he’s known Spencer long enough now to know that Spencer needs to grieve, rant, salvage some hope, maybe, and that he wouldn’t let any of that out around other people, not even Ryan.

Jon nods, says, “Toro thinks they’ll send out a team.”

“You’ll be on it.” It’s not a question. It was never a question, because if Toro’s going, then Jon’s going too. After nearly a year on the same team, Ryan knows this. “Not Spencer, though.”

“Probably Spencer, yeah,” Jon says, and that surprises Ryan, because he doesn’t think that’s such a good idea, expecting Spencer to be clear-headed when Brendon’s on the line. Jon jostles his shoulder, like it’s a joke. “You think we’d be able to stop him?”

Ryan purses his lips. It might be a colossally bad idea, but no. No, he doesn’t think they could actually stop him, short of a direct order from Toro or Sheppard, and then that’d be coming too close to asking and telling. Ryan sighs. He says, “I think Spencer’s more of a mess than he thinks he is.”

Jon doesn’t flat out disagree. “We don’t leave men behind,” he says instead, off hand, light, belying the utter seriousness of the words. “Spencer would never leave you behind, either.”

Ryan stills, body quiet but belly doing tiny somersaults. Jon’s good. That’s kind of exactly what he’d needed to hear, because apparently he’s still a teenaged girl where Spencer is concerned. He forces himself to say, “Yeah, I know.”

*

“Are you crazy? No, seriously, have you lost your mind?” Rodney demands, leaning a finger into the conference table. “We have no idea where they are, what hive ship they’re even on, and you want to just, what? Blindly go after whatever ship is closest?”

John grins. One of his wide, I am doing this to piss you off grins. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“Are you doing this to piss me off?”

“No, Rodney.” John sighs, deflates a little. “It’s a good—”

“It’s a horrible plan. Tell him, Elizabeth.” Rodney waves his hand. “Tell him how terrible this plan is.”

Elizabeth pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a deep breath, and says very carefully, “John.”

“There, you see?” Rodney tips his chin up. “She thinks it’s a ridiculously bad plan.”

“John,” Elizabeth repeats, sending Rodney a small frown, “we don’t know if they’re even still alive.”

“It’s barely been a day,” John points out. “They never.” He shrugs, the deliberately lazy one that always manages to spin Rodney into even more of a rage, because it means John’s going to be reckless and stupid no matter what anyone else says. “They’re probably not going to drain them, not all at once.”

“Like you would know,” Rodney scoffs, even though out of all of them, John probably does know.

“It’s worth the risk,” John says stubbornly. “Elizabeth, it’s worth the risk.” Rodney recognizes his look. It’s his I want you behind me on this but you’re not going to stop me look, and it’s, okay, it’s a sexy look, Rodney isn’t going to lie, but that doesn’t make John any less completely insane.

“Look,” John goes on, “this was a feeding, not an attack. Chances are better than good that there was only one hive ship.”

Elizabeth seems contemplative, and Rodney snaps, “Oh, you can’t even be considering this, Elizabeth,” but he knows she’s already made up her mind.

She leans onto her elbows, hands clasped, shoulders sharp, one brow raised. “Fine, John,” she says. “I want three teams, one on the ground.”

“Toro should be involved,” John says, and just as Elizabeth’s nodding Rodney cuts in with, “Wait, wait, we don’t have the Daedalus,” but he’s already thinking ahead. He hates wasting his brain power on fruitless arguments, and he’s learned when to switch gears when John’s involved.

“If they’re feeding, they’ll drop out in a centralized location near several inhabited planets,” Rodney says, opening up his laptop. “We won’t know where, but—”

“I think you and Zelenka can figure that out, Rodney,” John drawls, leaning back, smug half-grin on his face.

Rodney flaps a hand. “Please, we’ve done it before,” he says, and they can do it, this could work, but it still doesn’t make it anything more than a suicide mission.

*

William’s always been fond of little Brendon Urie, the adorable wee lad. He’s a smart cookie, one of the very best handy men Atlantis has – though Urie prefers the term engineer, but whatever – and he rounds out Tuesday night poker games over in Captain Gabe’s quarters. He mainly loses spectacularly, too, and that’s important to William. It’s important, because Urie always has the best stash of chocolate, and William has a demanding sweet tooth that must be soothed, or he’s bound to get bitchy.

“You’ll bring him back hale and hearty, of course,” William tells Gabe sternly, or as sternly as he can manage, which perhaps isn’t very much, since William’s hair has been doing this whimsical feathering thing ever since he borrowed Greta’s conditioner, and it’s hard to be serious when his hair is having so much fun. He pushes it back behind his ears, tries to keep his lips from curling up at the corners as he stares at Gabe.

Gabe tucks a few cigars into his tac vest and grins at William. “Of course,” Gabe echoes.

Gabe’s confidence does not exactly ease William’s mind, since Gabe’s confident about nearly everything, even when he’s got no hope of winning – the mud wrestling tournament comes to mind, and William never would have guessed Gabe would be so horrible at it, except that might’ve been Gabe’s point, getting tossed around and pinned in the slick, slippery mud.

There’s the small matter of Jesse Lacey, too. William absolutely does not like or trust Jesse Lacey. Jesse Lacey is a slimy rat bastard. William has no proof of this, but he’s absolutely certain it’s true.

“You won’t let that rat bastard Lacey shoot him by accident?” William asks, eyes narrowed.

“I can’t speak for Lacey, Bills, you know that,” Gabe says, still grinning, and William normally likes Gabe’s grin – it’s creepy, and always gives him the nicest shivers – but Lacey just ruins everything, right?

“I’m depending on you, Captain Gabe.”

Gabe snaps a smart-ass salute.

William pokes him in the chest. “Don’t make me set Maja on you,” he says, and Maja might be Gabe’s teammate, Gabe’s trusty astrophysicist, but she doesn’t stand for any of Gabe’s shenanigans.

“Don’t worry, Bill.” Gabe grabs his sidearm, buckles his thigh holster and tugs the straps tight. His eyes are nearly black. “If Urie’s there, we’ll bring him back.”

If they weren’t murdering alien scum, William might feel sorry for any of the Wraith that happen to get in Gabe’s way.

*

Brendon seriously has the worst ideas. This one is easily in the top five, right up there with the whole miniature dragon planet last month – and, hey, how was he supposed to know they actually breathed fire, right? They were so cute! – and that time he traded some native kids a chocolate bar for those beans that tasted like licorice but apparently made you invisible. And okay, that one had been pretty cool, at first, until the degenerative skin disease came into play. So, yeah, he has bad ideas. This is not a surprise.

“Hey, so, you really don’t want to eat me, right?” Brendon babbles when the drones shove him in the middle of the back, make him stumble to a halt in front of this toweringly huge Wraith. “I’m kinda small and, like, stringy.”

The Wraith – Queen? King? Royal ugly dude? – bares its teeth and hisses.

Brendon wishes he were witty, quick on his feet, ‘cause he kind of just wants to pee himself and huddle in a corner. He’s never telling Spencer that, but, hey, he guesses that doesn’t really seem likely to happen, seeing as how the Wraith are just going to suck him dry. Like those evil Skeksis in The Dark Crystal, only even they were pretty neat looking. Jim Henson was a freaking genius and, oh god, he’s never going to have another Muppet conversation with Wheeler – “Boober, Nick, you can’t like Gobo over Boober, seriously, are you retarded?” – and that’s. Well, that’s the least tragic of all this maybe, but it’s still on the list. The List of Things Brendon Will Never Do Again. Because he’ll be a dead and dried-out husk. It’s vain and all, but he hopes Spencer never has to see his old-man corpse.

Brendon suspects he’s a little hysterical.

The Wraith cocks its head at him, and things didn’t normally take this long, right? It’s, like, dinner time, Brendon supposes, and it’s leaving him hanging, and then the Queen – King? – says, “Kneel, human,” in this horrible wet voice, and, okay, Brendon would have totally kneeled if his brain was functioning properly.

But it doesn’t really give him a chance to respond, just reaches up a clawed hand, barely touching his temple, and repeats, “Kneel.”

It hurts. God, it hurts, even though he’s not resisting. He doesn’t care. He’ll do whatever the hell the Wraith wants if it means Bryar has time to plan an escape. And then its hand is on his forehead, the pain spreading faster, harder, snaking through his nervous system and expanding and he thinks, Shit, right before his mind whites out.

*

It’s pure dumb luck. Three knives, three fucking chances, and he gets it on his second try. The one time he knows about this plan actually working, he’d heard it had taken dozens of knives to trick the door mechanism – and he’s always been curious about how they’d hidden that many knives on them, but it was Dex, and Dex is the sort of guy who’s prepared for any contingency – and Bob really hadn’t been holding out any hope at all.

When the bars slide back, though, he doesn’t waste any time pondering the fucking miracle of things going his way for once. There’re others, he knows - trapped in similar cells, probably villagers he’s met down on the planet, people he’s greeted with a handshake and a guarded smile - and he’s a shit, maybe, but he does a cursory scout, clicks his radio, and after none of his own people respond he grabs the little girl, tucks her fingers into his belt and tells her to hang on, stalking off as quietly as possible down the closest hallway.

He’s not there to save everyone. He needs to find Urie, needs to get to him before the Wraith pick his brain apart, because Bob’s been there before, he’s got the marks on his chest to prove it, but it hadn’t been a Queen who’d interrogated him.

Urie, Bob suspects, is sort of unbelievably easy to break.

*

The air in the lab is eerily subdued. Ryan tries to convince himself that he likes it, that it’s a break not having Brendon sprawled all over his desk, his notes, talking his ear off.

Patrick resettles his hat and stares at him, and Ryan tries not to let on that his skin itches, that his brain’s basically numb, because his best friend is off on what is possibly the most dangerous mission in a series of dangerous missions – although normally Ryan’s with him, and that makes a difference – trying to rescue his other best friend, and Ryan has never before thought of Brendon like that, but he is. He really kind of is.

And then there’s Jon. Ryan is not sure what to do with him yet, but there are no guarantees, right? Jon may not come back, either.

“Ryan,” Patrick starts, slow, and Ryan shakes his head.

“Yeah, no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Patrick narrows his eyes behind his glasses, but it isn’t any sort of glare. He’s wearing his thinking face, the one reserved for particularly hard puzzles and Pete on his gloomy days.

The thought of Patrick comparing Ryan to Pete makes him grimace. “I’m fine,” he insists, scrounging up some kind of smile.

Patrick draws back, hands curled over the edge of his desk. “Looks it,” he says, but he smiles back, fleeting. “If you ever want to talk, you know.” He nods his head.

He looks earnest, and Ryan’s head feels tight, like someone’s squeezing a band around his skull. He forces out, “Jon.”

Patrick’s brows climb up his forehead. “Jon,” he repeats. His lips quirk, and he fists a hand, props his chin on top of it. “Jon’s pretty hot.”

Ryan covers his face with a palm, skin heated. “That’s not. I mean, he’s.” God, Ryan’s so embarrassed.

Patrick laughs, though, and some of the stillness, the quiet, gets jostled aside.

*

Frank once found a quantum mirror. It’d been freaky, getting spilled into alternate universes, one where Frank Iero was a repressed accountant who had this blinding expanse of bare skin – and, sure, he might’ve found that out by tackling his other self to the ground and stripping off his staid button-down, but seriously, there was nothing, not even one tiny tattoo, and it’d been like looking at a stranger, a total ghost version of himself – and Frank’s pretty sure he’d been some sort of serial killer, too, because a Frank Iero that calm had to have a special brand of crazy behind his eyes. He’d had a wife there, Jamia, two stubby-legged dogs, and a baby girl.

He’d jumped through two worlds where he’d never lived past age ten, cut down by all those fucking childhood illnesses. There’d been one where he’d never gone to Atlantis, where he’d gotten infected by the Ori like a damn red shirt, mind boiling past anything survivable, even though his body was technically still living, hooked up to a machine in a VA hospital just south of DC. He’d landed for a couple days where he’d been a rock star, seriously, with Gee at the mic, Ray and Bob the boys in the band, and Mikey. Fuck, that’d been a shock, to see Mikey so alive, and he’d never told Gerard about that one, even though he probably would’ve loved to hear about it, anyway.

In this world, in his real world, Frank’s friends could get eaten by space vampires, have their brains destroyed by nanobots, get shot or stabbed to death by hostile natives, the Genii brotherhood, if they’re feeling ornery. Sometimes, Frank can’t sleep at night.

He feels Gerard shift behind him on the bed. He sits up and hooks his chin over Frank’s shoulder. “You’re worrying,” he says.

“Yeah.” Frank never bothers lying to Gerard. He’d just call bullshit and tickle him until he caved. Frank doesn’t feel like laughing, right then.

“Bob?” Gerard asks, and Frank just half-shrugs, because he’s not specifically worrying about Bob, but he’s not not worrying about him, either.

“Okay.” Gerard yawns against the side of Frank’s head, wraps his arms around Frank’s waist. “I’m worried about Bob.”

“Ray’s got Saporta and Lacey with him,” Frank points out. Gerard is warm against his back, and he smells like the noodle casserole they’d served at dinner, heavy with that tomato-like plant they’re growing on the mainland.

“Yeah, somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Oh, come on.” Frank jabs Gerard in the gut with his elbow, grinning at his pained oof. “If anyone’s gonna pull this off, it’ll be Gabe.” Gabe’s a creepy motherfucker, ruthless to a fault, and it wouldn’t surprise Frank at all to hear he’d blown the entire fucking hive to smithereens. He likes getting a job done, and getting it done as destructively as possible.

Gerard makes a sleepy sound, tugs on Frank’s body until he’s got him lying down again, pulled half across his chest – the beds are fucking tiny, and Frank’s small, but he still wishes the Ancients had been a little bit more into comfort, seriously – and Frank shuts his eyes, listens to the lazy thump-thump of Gerard’s heart.

*

If Frank had to pick a favorite animal, Joe knows he’d pick seals. He’s a freaking xenobiologist, studies alien life forms, animals that have fucking furry beaks or saber teeth or horns for eyes and shit, but Frank loves seals. He doesn’t have to say it – Joe doesn’t think he ever has, actually – but it’s pretty obvious whenever he catches any of Frank’s documentaries. Leopard seals, specifically, although Frank’s voice gets kind of soft whenever he talks about Weddells, too.

They haven’t found anything that even remotely resembles any of them yet, not in the water, anyway, and for some reason that makes Joe a little sad. Frank should have seals to play with.

Joe strips off his boots and socks and sticks his feet in the little pool. It’s late, the lights dim, and the little silver fish shimmer and flash as they skim past his ankles. The pool mostly just houses Tito, though, Frank’s giant red starfish.

He feels a tickle on the bottom of his foot, and a thick arm slides over his ankle, up his calf, the tip just peeking out of the water, wiggling.

“Careful, he’ll pull you under,” says a voice behind him, and Joe nearly topples over into the pool.

“Pete, fuck,” Joe says, twisting around.

Pete beams down at him. His eyes look tired, though, dark smudged, and Joe wonders where Patrick is.

“Can’t sleep?” Pete asks.

Joe rubs a hand under his nose. “Half my team’s gone.”

Pete bobs his head. He doesn’t offer any words, which is good, because Joe knows that everything Pete loves is on Atlantis. He drops down next to Joe, though, folds his legs up away from the edge but reaches forward, slapping the surface lightly with the flat of his hand.

Tito’s clearer now, a huge dark red mass directly below them. Another arm comes up, playfully pushes against Pete’s palm. The pool is open to the ocean, way down deep, but Tito always finds his way back. Joe thinks it’s for the food. He’s seen Urie tossing in Doritos after Daedalus runs.

“Bob’ll be fine,” Joe says, because he knows Pete isn’t going to say it. “Bob’ll be fucking golden.”

“Yeah, Joe. Okay.” It isn’t quite an agreement, Joe knows. Pete wraps his other hand around Joe’s wrist, shakes it a little. “Okay.”

*

Saporta’s singing. Saporta’s singing something about fucking snakes, and Spencer kind of wants to punch him in the mouth. He clenches his hands into fists on his lap, stares down at the metal floor.

There are five of them in the puddlejumper. It’s not crowded, but Spencer feels hot, stifled. Walker sits down next to him on the bench in the back and nudges him with his knee.

“Hey,” he says.

Spencer doesn’t look up. He says, “Remember when you said you’d tell me.” He takes a deep breath. “You’d let me know if, if this was making me reckless.”

Walker doesn’t ask what he means by ‘this.’ He just nods his head. “Yeah, Spencer.”

“Okay. Okay, as long as you remember,” Spencer says, slanting him a glance.

Walker’s watching him, mouth an unwavering line, but his eyes don’t look judging. Finally, Walker smiles. He reaches over, tugs on the front of Spencer’s tac vest. “Leutenant Smith,” he says, “we don’t just let our scientists die,” like it’s that simple. Like Spencer’s heart won’t be carved out if they only find Brendon’s remains, if they don’t find him at all.

It helps, though. Fuck, it helps, because Walker promised, Walker won’t follow orders he doesn’t believe in, and thank god, thank god Spencer gets to try.

*

There are cocoons tightly lining the corridors, one after the other in seemingly endless rows. Bob knows what’s inside them, but he doesn’t look. There are no noises. Bob doesn’t know if that means the people encased in them are dead, or if they’ve just given up hope, and he doesn’t want to know.

Patrol drones almost catch them once or twice, but Bob’s quick, and the little girl is quiet, solemn, hands tight on his belt. Bob spares a fleeting thought of pity for her. He never had to grow up that fast.

It’s like a honeycomb inside, hallways spawning more hallways, a maze of twists and turns that just go deeper and deeper into the hive. When they spill out into a circular chamber, Bob stumbles to a stop, frozen, because there’s a table in the middle, huge chairs pushed snug up against its wooden edges, and Urie’s on the ground, curled into himself, a tiny, unmoving lump.

“Fuck,” Bob breathes.

There’s no Wraith, he sees that straight off. They’ve just left him there – dead? – and for the first time Bob starts panicking, because they don’t teach you these things at boot camp. They teach you how to follow orders, how to not get your fucking face smashed in, but they didn’t say anything about finding your fucking scientist dead, or how to deal with honest-to-god B movie monsters whose main goal in life is to eat you, and find out where there’s more of you to eat.

Maybe they were right about his lack of experience at the SGC. Maybe if he’d gated off-world from Earth before, been involved like Walker, he wouldn’t have found this so hard. He’d been attacked himself before, yeah, but it’s different, it’s apparently much worse, when it’s a civilian under his own protection.

The girl makes a sound, a small sound, and then the pressure at Bob’s waist is gone and she’s darting in front of him, falling to her knees next to Urie.

She tugs at Urie’s arms, pulls him over onto his back, and even from where he’s standing across the room, Bob can see how pale he is.

He makes his feet move, rushes even, and then he’s staring down at Urie’s body, and. His chest moves. Urie’s chest moves, a slow up-down, and his face is unlined, hair not even peppered gray, and it’s fucking unheard of, maybe, but Urie, he’s. He hasn’t been fed on, not by any outward signs.

“Jesus, Urie,” Bob mutters, hunkering down to check his pulse. “You’re so fucking lucky.”

*

Urie’s heavier than he looks. That isn’t the problem, though. The problem is that their only way off the ship is in a dart, and Bob isn’t a pilot. He isn’t a pilot, he has no idea how to read Wraith, and he’d have to dematerialize both Urie and the girl to fly them out. So, basically, they’re still screwed. They’re just all screwed together again.

Bob knows, in theory, where the dart hangar is. They’d all seen diagrams in their prep for going off-world. But he’s pretty sure they’re lost. Everything looks the same, every turn an exact replica of the one before, all the corridors lined with the exact same cocoons, pillars of flesh and veins.

When a couple drones stumble on them Bob’s almost relieved. It’s something different, at least. Except they’re kind of powerless, with Urie a limp weight over his shoulder and the kid clutching at his waist, so Bob does the only thing he can think of. He slides Urie to the ground, pushes the girl behind him and launches himself at the nearest Wraith.

He’s tossed aside easily - Wraith are freaky-strong - his back hitting a cocoon with a sickening squelch, and then the drone has a Stunner raised, and Bob doesn’t remember anything past the first bright flash of pain.

*

Sheppard radios them from the other ‘jumper just after they make orbit around PX4-00S. He says, “Let’s keep things quiet, kids,” and they’re cloaked, hovering, clock slowly ticking down to the ETA Zelenka and McKay had given them.

They’d ‘gated to the largest inhabited world that was directly in route from PX1-300, leaving Kennerty’s team on the ground and praying for the best. There’d been several smaller planets between there and here, and it was a risk, skipping them, but if the hive ship had jumped into hyperspace, this is the first one that actually makes sense as a feeding stop.

They’re waiting now. Spencer looks pale, but determined, and Jon meant every word he’d said to him.

Spencer might only be thinking of Brendon right now, but there’s no doubt in Jon’s mind that Spencer would’ve reacted the same exact way had it been Ryan on that ship, or even Jon. They’re remarkably like a family.

It isn’t really odd, thinking that. Jon’s heard Dr. Vogel talk of his Atlantis family before. He’s seen Dr. Simpson lean into Lieutenant Miller, seen them laugh, give one-armed hugs. Patrick says it’s the first wave syndrome, that all the original expedition members are like that, except Dr. Parrish seems just as close to Major Lorne, and Lieutenant Cadman and Dr. McKay have this strange sort of sibling rapport, and Jon has always loved that. Jon thinks maybe a family like that so far away from home is one of the best things ever.

He hears Spencer suck in a noisy breath and glances up towards the front of the ‘jumper, his own inhale catching at the site of the enormous hive ship. He’s never actually seen one before, a huge black-green mass, lit intermittently with eerie yellow lights.

“That’s motherfucking ugly,” Saporta says. He looks eager, like he wants to blow the shit out of it, and Jon’s never been quite sure about Saporta. There’s a chance he’d take any opportunity to destroy the Wraith, destroy any of their enemies, without any regard to human life.

Lacey’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, hands resting on the butt of the P-90 angled down across his chest. He grins at Saporta. “Thing’s practically alive, man. I wonder if it bleeds.”

“I fucking hope so,” Saporta says, and Jon’s just really glad he’s on their side.

*

They maintain radio silence as they land precariously on the beams crisscrossing the dart hangar. Spencer memorizes their position, stepping out the back hatch of the ‘jumper. Several beams away, he sees Colonel Sheppard and Dex do the same, followed closely by Teyla and Dr. McKay. Sheppard catches his eyes, motions to the exit. Spencer nods, nudges Walker, and they slip towards the doors, then move aside for McKay and his deft fingers to trigger the release. He shoots them glares until they back away even further, and Spencer can tell he’s just dying to say something, biting his lip in the effort to not comment on how mammothly stupid they all are.

Spencer knows McKay isn’t too thrilled with the whole rescue, and he’s honestly not sure why McKay’s along, anyway, other than the very obvious fact that he knows his way around a hive ship and is familiar with Wraith technology. Still, Sheppard hovers, eyes sharp, lips pressed together, and Spencer thinks he isn’t very happy with having McKay along, either. If he had to guess, Spencer would say McKay bullied his way onto the mission against Sheppard’s protests.

The door slides open with a quiet hiss, and McKay tips his head back to smile triumphantly at Sheppard. Sheppard rolls his eyes, but claps McKay’s back companionably as he stands.

There’re three corridors winding away from the bay. Sheppard jerks his head to the left, indicates that Toro should lead the other way, and Spencer points directly ahead, waiting until Sheppard nods before gesturing for Walker to follow.

Communication’s reduced to Morse code, clicks of their radios, as they split up. Even that’s risky, though, so they keep conversation to a minimum, the burble and hum of the hive ship around them more than a little unnerving. Spencer steels his spine, passes the yellow pods, the cocoons lining the hallways with barely a shiver.

*

Bob can’t fucking breathe. He can’t move, can’t feel his face, the tips of his fingers or toes, and he knows that’s partly because of the Wraith Stunner. He’s been hit by one before, is familiar with the paralyzing numbness, the pins-and-needles pain creeping slowly back into his limbs. The other reason he can’t move, though, is because he’s surrounded by some seriously disgusting goo. Fuck.

He can see, and if he calms the fuck down he can breathe, too, because the Wraith aren’t going to suffocate their meal before they can properly feed, right? He can feel his left arm. Kind of. But that doesn’t exactly matter, not when it’s pinned in place, stuck fast to his side, but he wriggles his hand anyway, testing the elasticity of the cocoon, sees how far he can squirm before the sticky stuff stretches taut. Not very far.

And then he thinks he’s so far gone he’s fucking hallucinating because Ray, Major Ray fucking Toro, who has these manic curls springing out of his bandana, testament to too much time away from Earth and not enough downtime to worry about a proper military buzz, is slinking down the hallway, P-90 up, Lacey and fucking Captain Saporta holding steady behind him.

He can’t talk, he finds, mouth muffled by the goo, but he can make sounds, and thank god Ray isn’t like him, that he turns at the first sign of life in one of the pods, eyes widening as they lock with Bob’s.

Ray’s on him almost immediately, fingers tangling with the strands around his head, his mouth, and Bob finally breathes out, “Urie,” and Ray just shakes his head, one shoulder jerking up in what could be a shrug, but could just as easily be the effort he’s taking in stripping Bob out of the cocoon.

Lacey helps, Saporta poised behind them, alert and angled away, and soon Bob’s stumbling into the corridor, a sticky mess, his whole body tingling as feeling races back to all his limbs. He shakes his hands, his legs, his arms, rolls his neck and takes deep breaths.

“Urie,” Bob says again, ignoring Ray’s signal for quiet. He says it in a hush, eagerly taking the sidearm Lacey holds out to him. “There’s a girl, too.”

Lacey rolls his eyes, and Bob mouths, “Kid,” because he gets the need for silence, but Bob doesn’t have his radio anymore, it seems, and some things are important to get across. There’s Urie, yeah, but that little girl had been depending on him, no matter how much he’d been bullshitting their chances of survival, and Bob may occasionally be a shit, but he’s not going to just leave her there, not if there’s a chance they can find her.

Ray gives him a sharp nod, and Bob falls in line behind Lacey, in front of Saporta.

*

When Spencer crosses paths with Sheppard again, Sheppard has a small army of villagers behind him, gray-faced and grim, obviously reserving happiness at their release until they’re off the entire fucking hive ship.

Spencer hasn’t seen anyone. His belly is hollow, throat sore from constant swallows, the effort it’s taking not to shout Brendon’s name. He recognizes some of the natives, though, knows they’re on the right ship, and a little bit of hope swells, makes him blink his eyes rapidly to tamp down any premature relief.

And then he spots Dex, towering behind the civilians, a familiar figure cradled in his arms, face pale against his brown leather shoulder, and he doesn’t know if Brendon’s okay, if he’s alive or if they’re carrying back his body for a proper goodbye, but a surge of joy rushes through him anyway, short-lived and so strong Spencer thinks, fuck; fuck, I’m in love with him.

He doesn’t have time for any freaking out, though, not with Bryar – thank god, Bryar – racing towards them along with Toro’s makeshift team, not with the sudden burst of sound, the high-pitched whir of the hive ship alarm.

They’re only one level up from the hangar, and Sheppard shouts, “Run,” all orders for silence revoked.

Spencer hangs back, waits until Dex scowls at him and grunts, “You should move it, Smith,” before picking up his pace, making sure to keep a length behind him. It’s ridiculous, because Dex can handle ten times the amount of danger that Spencer can, but it makes him feel better anyway.

Spencer thinks maybe the look Dex throws him as they dive into the hangar, the last ones through the door before McKay jams it closed, is a little amused at his expense. Spencer doesn’t really care.

*

“Fuck,” Bob says, dropping his head into his hands.

Jon clamps a hand on his shoulder. “All right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bob breathes. “Yeah, that was just really fucking close.”

Jon completely agrees. He’d seen Spencer’s face as he’d blindly followed Dex onto the other puddlejumper. They’d instinctively split the villagers that Sheppard had picked up, shoving them in wherever they could, and now that they’re out of the hive, Jon can afford to be a little amused by that, how Sheppard always manages to rescue more than his fair share of victims.

“Sergeant Bob,” someone squeals, and then there’s a blur of movement and a little girl practically throws herself at Bob, wraps her arms around his neck and Jon has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, Bob’s bewildered face shifting into happy relief.

Bob pulls her into a brief hug, says, “Hey, kiddo,” and when he tries to set her back a space, her fingers lock and she just climbs right up onto his lap.

Jon does laugh then, because Bob’s pained expression is pretty hilarious.

Bob shoots him a glower, then tentatively cups the girl’s head, fingers tangling in the spill of dark hair. “Told you we’d be fine, right?”

She nods against his shoulder.

“Right,” Bob says, and sighs.

*

When Brendon wakes up, Spencer is going on his fourth hour at his bedside. He would’ve been there longer, but they’d had to debrief, and he’d had to go back to his quarters to at least pretend to sleep before Carson would even let him past the infirmary doors.

Technically, Brendon’s been unconscious for fifteen hours, but god knows how long he’d been out on the hive ship. Spencer’s just relieved Carson had only found him suffering from dehydration, a few cuts and bruises, one nasty slice high on the back of his shoulder.

There are no marks on his chest. Carson had assured him of that, but Spencer had checked himself, once he was alone, pushing up Brendon’s scrub top, running his fingers over his ribs, sternum, pressing his palm flat against Brendon’s heart.

And when Brendon’s eyes finally flutter open, Spencer shoots to his feet, shouting for Ritter, the night doctor on duty.

Then Spencer says, “Brendon,” curling his fingers tight around the bedrail to keep from reaching for Brendon’s hand.

Brendon glances up at him, licks his lips, and rasps, “Who?”

[part ii]