Butcher is one of William's very favorite people, despite his penchant for short shorts and calisthenics. Or maybe because of that. There's nothing quite as exhilarating as Lieutenant Mrotek's morning jogs through the Atlantis hallways. Watching them, at least.

William isn't so sure it was a good idea to form an interplanetary team with him, though.

They'd set Greta on him. Sweet-mouthed Greta with curves that make his fingers itch, and Sisky'd low-balled him with his mischievous, up-to-no-good grin that he knew William had no chance of resisting - nor did he normally want to - and now he's a permanent member of SGA-15, and well on his way to getting eaten by the large, gorilla-like beasties on P54-S13.

"They're not going to eat you," Greta says, standing dangerously close to one of the furry monsters, slavering away on some sort of leaf-root-berry thing. There's an unwarranted amount of drooling involved.

"Step away, Greta, before you lose a precious limb."

"They're like monkeys," Siska says. He looks like he maybe wants to hug one. "Iero'll have a ball with these guys."

William is not a very big fan of animals. He likes Tito, because Tito's an excellent listener, but other than that animals sort of freak him out. They have entirely too much hair, for the most part.

"Well, Andy?" William asks, and he's known the Butcher for forever, so he can get away with calling him Andy when he's particularly upset.

Butcher arches an eyebrow over his mirrored sunglasses. "Bill."

"This is why I retired from regular off-world missions, you know," William says, cocking a hip. He's perfectly fine with the occasional jaunt to locations alien for the greater good of geology, but - pterodactyl debacle aside, since dinosaurs will never not be awesome in any form - he's honestly had enough of getting attacked by innocent-looking fuzzy animals and indigenous peoples with long, pointy spears. At least before, at the SGC, he'd had Jonny Walker to protect him. Sisky's barely out of diapers, and the Butcher has this incredibly strange aversion to violence that's just unsettling in a military officer.

Greta's proficient with her sidearm - she shreds the target at the range every time they practice - but William has his doubts that she'll ever be able to actually shoot any living thing, so basically William thinks this whole idea is idiotic.

Butcher scratches the back of his head. "I'd kind of like to discuss the fact that there's no one here," he says, and that's an excellent point.

There's supposed to be people living there, not just furry ape-dog things, and no one's even popped up to say hello. Word had trickled down through their many and varied Pegasus contacts that they apparently sold Wraith-repellant charms, and Weir had been anxious to broker a trade. Not that they actually believe in Wraith-repellant charms, of course, but there's a chance it's Ancient tech at work, so it was worth a trip out.

No one's home, though, so perhaps the Wraith got to them, after all. "I think the monkey beasts ate everyone," William says.

"Let's take a look around," Butcher says. "Bill, you're with me. Corporal, take Dr. Salpeter. Keep in contact."

They split up, and William and the Butcher stalk steadily towards the settlement. Sisky and Greta disappear in the opposite direction, the wooded forest bare and stark against the gray sky.

"It's creepy," William says, a chill running up his spine. The entire village looks abandoned.

Butcher smoothes his fingers over the outer wall of a squat building, over a black scorch mark. "Wraith," he says, and William nods. It looks like the Wraith had taken out the whole village, and that isn't exactly commonplace. They aren't after genocide. Destroying their food supply wouldn't actually benefit them in the long run.

And then Butcher's radio crackles and Siska says, "Sir, you're gonna want to see this."

*

The device is about the size of a small horse, and Brendon's got its belly open, poking at different wires, humming Space Cowboy under his breath. Spencer very valiantly does not tell him to shut the fuck up. It helps that thirty or so big-eyed kids are standing off to the side, silently watching them. Spencer's not sure where they all came from, since the rest of the place looks deserted, wasted by Wraith.

"So are we thinking Star Trek?" Corporal Siska asks, craning his neck to see over Brendon's shoulder.

"Planet of the creepy kids." Ryan, behind Siska, cups a hand over his eyes. The sun's bright and tinged blue. "Seriously, they've got a staring problem."

"Didn't this already happen to Colonel Sheppard?" Dr. Salpeter asks. She's got her datapad out, recording energy readings.

Approximately twenty paces away, Mrotek's standing guard over Beckett and a pile of rocks that Beckett had seemed really excited about. They look flat and gray to Spencer.

"Yeah, except—uh oh." The thing Brendon's working on lights up, and Brendon grimaces, drops his hands from the innards and rocks back on his heels.

"Uh oh?" Spencer grabs hold of Brendon's shoulder and makes him stumble backwards. "Uh oh, what?"

Brendon starts, "We might want to—" and then whatever he says next is swallowed by a pulsing alarm and a bright flash of light.

Spencer automatically tucks his body over Brendon's, drags him down to the ground. He doesn't feel an explosion so much as a lash of hot air that leaves his skin tingling and tight, then burrows deep into his bones, burns, and then the burn fades to an ache, and when he blinks his eyes open again there's entirely too much hair falling over them.

*

Jon bites his lip to keep from smiling. Ryan as a sullen teenager is pretty much the most adorable thing ever. Except maybe for Spencer, because holy shit those are some chubby cheeks, the grin he flashes Ryan nearly gorgeous; if gorgeous was ever a term that could be applied to a bumbling fourteen-year-old. Approximately. It's hard to judge their exact ages, since Brendon's roughly the size of Jon's pre-teen niece.

"Oh my fucking god," Brendon says, looking down at himself. Then a slow grin breaks across his face, evil at the edges, and he tugs on the hem of Spencer's shirt. "Hey there, pretty girl."

Spencer sweeps long, long hair out of his eyes and sort of fails at glaring at Brendon. It's a total fail, Jon can tell, pink blooming on his pale skin, until Brendon goes on with, "You're totally a pudge, Spencer," and Ryan punches him in the back of the head.

*

William is not exactly sure what's going on, but he's feeling very fourteen. Very awkward with his limbs, very sore, and he does not like it.

"I do not like this, Sisky," he says, and Siska's practically an amoeba, he's so baby-faced, and if William's bones didn't actually hurt - he'd almost entirely forgotten that tremendous growth spurt he'd suffered through during the summer of 1995 - he'd probably appreciate that more. "Also," William goes on, "your hair is frightening."

Sisky's hair is beyond frightening, and William's used to Major Toro's wild mop, as well as Joe's.

Sisky pushes his curls off his forehead. "Bill."

"No. No, really, I hope you realize it's never the right time for a semi-permanent."

"Bill," Siska says, and he's as pink-cheeked as Smith at this point - and Smith's another one that William would love to bundle up and eat, if his hands could be trusted to do anything but grasp a pencil, and even that's sort of pushing it.

If William remembers correctly, the summer of 1995 had been the summer of oops. It's where his drunken dropsies originated from, he's sure of it.

"It's natural," Siska insists, and William arches a skeptical brow, but he knows for a fact that he's sporting an ironically inspired mullet, so he doesn't press.

"All right," Smith says finally, and his voice cracks on the end, so it's hard to think of him as their current off-world leader, but William puts forth an excellent effort.

"Right. Let's all hear what Smith has to say." William nods at Smith encouragingly.

Smith's mouth tightens. "Beckett."

"Go on," William says, waving a hand. "Lead us."

"Beckett," Smith starts, then shoots a pinched look at Butcher - who's looking mighty fine, actually, in all his teenage glory - and says, "The machine's too big to transport, so we'll have to radio for reinforcements. Urie, how's your brain?"

Brendon blinks. "Just fine, Spencer, thanks."

Smith, William thinks, is remarkably insensitive, given all the trouble little Brendon's had with his mind the past couple months. "Your boyfriend's insensitive," William says to Brendon, but since Brendon's on the opposite side of both Smith and Sisky, sandwiched between the Butcher and Ross, William basically says it to the entire crowd.

Smith tenses and Brendon's eyes go wide, and William has the distinct sense that he's done something horribly wrong.

*

Jon looks almost exactly the same, only his hair's just a little longer. He's got the same loose grin, the same way of slouching. Ryan kind of wants to punch his amiable face, but he's pretty sure that's just his irrational teenage rage kicking in. He'd forgotten how angry he'd been there for a while.

"Who the fuck came up with this device?" Ryan asks, because a teen maker, what? How can this possibly be useful in any way? No one should ever want to relive puberty.

Spencer comes back from the direction of the 'gate frowning, but that isn't anything new. What's new is the way his frown totally doesn't work on his face, and Ryan might be full of impotent anger, but a Spencer that young just makes his heart twist. He remembers that Spencer, the one who had sleepovers in his bed, who squished up against him to watch movies, who flopped over his lap when he was tired and gave him hugs when he was happy.

Ryan melts a little, and Jon pokes his side, grinning knowingly, and Ryan's insides are still all topsy-turvy, so he doesn't even bother batting his hand away.

"Half hour," Spencer says unhappily, hands on his hips. "They want us on the other side to get checked over by Carson."

"We're fine," Brendon says, and Brendon's this tiny speck of energy, and Ryan kind of wants to punch him, too. Or, like, again, because no one insults Spencer and gets away with it.

"Spontaneous age-regression. Physically, at least," Greta says. She hikes up her pants, wraps the excess material in her fist as she walks over. "I don't know. I'd kind of like to get reassured that we aren't all going to die from this."

Ryan really agrees with that.

"I am going to die," William says dramatically, stumbling behind Greta. "My knees hurt. My knees. Sisky," he tugs on Siska's hair, and Corporal Siska has always been pretty easy going, but it looks to Ryan like he's almost at the end of his tether, "Sisky, my body wasn't meant to do this twice."

Brendon stares at William for a minute, wide-eyed, then says, "You're still pretty tall," and William nods, mouth turned down just the slightest bit at the corners.

"And I shall be even taller tomorrow," William says. "It's horrible."

"Hey. Anyone else curious about where all the kids went?" Butcher asks, and yeah.

Ryan kind of wants to know where, because even though they could infer what had happened to the adult population of the village, it hadn't made their silence and staring any less creepy. He's had more surprise attacks from seemingly harmless natives than he wants to think about.

Jon slips a hand around Ryan's wrist, pins the under skin with strong fingers. Ryan quirks an eyebrow at him and Jon shrugs.

Ryan maybe doesn't want to punch him anymore. His cheeks heat and he suddenly remembers what else made puberty so hellish, beyond the bad skin and general pissiness.

Then, "Hey, little dudes!" rings over the field, jerking Ryan's thoughts away from Jon's mouth, his lips, the little glimpse of tongue, and he glances up to see Pete grinning hugely, just cresting the top of a lazy hillock.

*

"We're Wentz and Way," Pete says. He pushes on Ryan's back, shoving him towards the path back to the 'gate, and Gerard rolls his eyes a little. "We're an unstoppable force of world-saving awesome!"

Brendon grabs hold of Gerard's sleeve. "Hey, so, don't cross the wires?"

"Okay." Gerard nods. "No crossing wires, check. Should I not think about the Stay Puft marshmallow man, too?"

"Oh, yeah, funny, right," Butcher says, and the Butcher has always scared Gerard a little, but he's smiling, sort of like he does find it funny, even though his words were kind of flat.

"That's a given," Brendon says, nodding sagely. His hair doesn't move at all. It's sort of like a helmet, Gerard thinks. Gerard resists the urge to reach out and ruffle it, just to make sure it isn't one.

"All right, kiddos. Time for the grownups to get to work," Pete says, grinning this huge, mocking grin.

Smith nods tightly at Ray, shoulders his P-90, and stalks off.

Brendon shrugs, points at Gerard, and says, "Remember. Keep the blue wires separate at all costs," before running to catch up with his team.

Gerard's pretty sure he can handle that, even when Bob, standing over the machine, says, "So what happens when all the wires are blue?"

*

"Are you kidding me?" Rodney stares Way and Wentz down, but Way just looks bewildered, and Rodney can't even see Wentz's eyes, hiding behind the truly hideous fall of his fringe.

Finally, Wentz says petulantly, "We didn't even touch it," and Rodney, for a brief, fleeting moment, considers retirement. Blissful, tropical retirement, far far away from Dr. Peter Wentz in all his distracting forms.

"Oh," Ivarsson exclaims, hands clasped in front of her chest. "Oh, how precious."

Ivarsson, of course, is completely unhelpful. Rodney has no idea why she's even in the infirmary, and he certainly doesn't want to know, even though he suspects it has something to do with the mini Major Toro that'd trudged in with Wentz, Way and Bryar.

Ivarsson hugs Way - and, oh god, Way's possibly even more big-eyed and helpless looking than usual; the labs are going to be anarchy.

"Rodney," John drawls, swaggering up and being all lets-get-this-done-already, that special brand of I-expect-miracles-from-you that Rodney openly hates but secretly preens about. He knows John does it on purpose, too.

Rodney says, "Yes, yes, I'm handling it," because he's handling it. He needs competent minions. This is getting sort of ridiculous.

He taps his radio, says, "Radek, I need someone who isn't an idiot."

"I am afraid that is only you, Rodney," Radek says, voice tinny through the comm. link.

"I sense your sarcasm, but you happen to be absolutely correct. You're coming with me."

"What? Rodney—"

"Unless you'd like to turn the city into Atlantis High, I suggest you meet me in the 'gate room in ten minutes."

Radek growls something unintelligible, and Rodney flashes John a smug grin. "Coming?"

*

Elizabeth leans forward onto her elbows and tries hard not to smile. "So you're saying it's not Ancient."

"For all its utter uselessness, it might as well be," Rodney says and huffs some hair out of his face. He's got wispy soft curls all over his head, and Elizabeth thinks he looks almost like an angel.

She bites her lip and tries very hard not to giggle, either.

John, lounging in the seat next to Rodney, says, "The kids refused to talk to Teyla, so we have no idea when this will wear off—"

"Or how to reverse it, or if it can be reversed, or if we're going to die like this—"

"Rodney." Elizabeth palms her forehead, stares down at the conference table, because this is serious business and she can't focus on John's boneless insolent sprawl, the ridiculous fauxhawk cresting the top of his head, or the way Rodney keeps poking John's arm with his pen. "Rodney," she says, careful, "Carson says you're perfectly fine."

"For now. Who knows what could happen next? We could get even younger, or age too rapidly and snap limbs, don't think I haven't heard William complaining about his bones being on fire, or-or-or get eaten by whales, and why the hell aren't you looking at us, Elizabeth, this is serious."

Elizabeth's palm slips down over her face to cover her mouth, and she glances up at Rodney, eyes wide. She has to bite the skin a little. Rodney's cheeks are all rosy with anger and his hair is literally floating around his head like a cherub.

John snorts.

She darts her eyes over and John arches an eyebrow, hooks an arm over the back of his chair.

"She thinks you're adorable, Rodney," John says, and Rodney sputters, gets to his feet and jabs a finger at Elizabeth.

"I am not adorable," Rodney says, then backtracks, "Wait, of course I am," and John snorts again. Rodney turns his glare on John and says, "I haven't even begun to make fun of whatever your hair thinks it's doing, Sheppard."

"Hey." John straightens up, runs a hand through longer scruff on the top of his head, then scrubs his fingers over the shaved parts behind his ears. There's some sort of zigzag design going on that Elizabeth hadn't noticed before.

She needs to get out of there before she loses it completely.

"Gentlemen," she says, standing up. "I believe there isn't anything else to discuss at the moment?" And then she hightails it out of the room before either of them can stop her.

*

William is an equal opportunity flirt, but he hasn't gotten laid in months. People tend to not take him seriously, and that's okay, that's fine, because William's friendly. He's friendly, not slutty, and he's totally okay with that.

Not getting laid isn't the pathetic part, though. The pathetic part is that he's uncomfortable. He's achy and sore and miserable, and he's all alone, curled up on his bed. He'd much prefer having a snuggle-buddy.

The door chimes, and William waves his hand vaguely towards it, says a dejected, "Come in," and it slides open to reveal the lovely Greta in miniature, hair pulled back in the same whimsical butterfly clips she always wears, only there's considerably more of the stuff, spilling over her shoulders.

"I knew you were moping," Greta says. She settles down next to him on the bed, squirms close to his side, tiny and plump.

"Not now that you're here," William says, and shifts to cuddle even closer, only his elbow bumps her head and she slaps at him, says, "Watch your bony limbs, Bill."

"In theory," William says frowning. "In theory, this should be awesome." He's not sure if he's referring to Greta-cuddles or age-regression or both, but everything is turning out very disappointing. And painful, he thinks, rubbing his chest.

Greta says, "I brought chocolate and Goodfellas," though, and William instantly cheers. There's nothing so heartening as sugar and mob movies.

"You are my very favorite, Salpeter. Don't let Gabe tell you any differently."

*

Ryan has a fleeting moment of intense déjà vu as he stares into his bathroom mirror, shirtless, flexing his arms a little. He's all right. He thinks maybe he should eat more, but he's pretty sure that's just his inner Brendon talking - and how weird is it that he has an inner Brendon now? It's kind of battling with the teenage part of his brain, the part that makes his eyes hard and encourages everyone to fuck right off.

He frowns, and doesn't even notice Jon until he's directly behind him.

"What—"

"Dude, Ryan, I'd give you a hug, but I think maybe I'd break you."

Ryan's lips thin. "Funny," he says.

Jon doesn't stop smiling. His eyes - god, his freaking kind, wonderful eyes - are sparkling. Doing this ridiculous happy dance as his fingers creep up the back of Ryan's bare arms.

Ryan flinches, but doesn't move away.

"Look at you," Jon says.

"Stop." Ryan crosses his arms over his chest.

Jon hooks his chin on his shoulder, catches his gaze in the mirror. "Hey," he says softly. "Hey, little boy."

Ryan bites his bottom lip, rolls his eyes. "Seriously, stop." He knows Jon's game. Jon's got this stupid idea that Ryan has a gooey hidden center, and adult Ryan may be a big old pushover, but there's irrational rage at play here, and Ryan has a hardened core. A frame of pure unbendable steel.

"Stop what?" Jon noses his neck, grin pressed into his skin. He hums. He hums Here, There and Everywhere and Ryan's spine goes fucking liquid. Damn it.

"Jon," he says, a little exasperated.

Jon flicks his gaze up. "Smile, Ryan Ross. Smile or I'll serenade you. I'll serenade you in the mess." He pokes Ryan's side.

Ryan's mouth twitches.

"Oh, oh, it's like watching Bambi take his very first steps," Jon says mock-reverently, and Ryan spins around and punches him in the stomach.

Jon oofs and catches Ryan's fist and laughs, booming, and then he crowds Ryan back against the sink, pushes him up to sit on the porcelain and keeps laughing and says, "I'll totally make you smile, Ryan Ross," against Ryan's lips.

*

Brendon knows he's in trouble; oh god, does he know it. He stifles a nervous giggle and shrinks further into the corner of the common lounge, knees pulled up to his chest.

He'd called Spencer fat, and he hadn't meant it like that at all, because Spencer at fourteen is pretty much adorable, this tiny mass of chub and clear rosy skin. Brendon just wants to squish him close and never let go.

But things have just, like, gone steadily worse since the whole thing happened, what with William blurting out about his boyfriend, and how Spencer had—Spencer had looked stricken and, okay, Brendon's totally down with discretion, but it still sort of hurts, the way Spencer seems to be ashamed of him.

"I can see you, you know."

"You see nothing, Jon Walker," Brendon says, shaking his head. "I'm hiding."

Jon nods. "Pretty badly, though."

"No, no, I'm—is that a hickey?" Brendon asks, incredulous, because that's totally a hickey on his throat; high, even, just under his jaw. "Have you been necking, Sergeant?"

Jon quirks his lips, slides his hands into his pockets. "I'm a gentleman, Urie, and gentlemen do not talk about their conquests."

Brendon finds that hard to believe. Everyone's just against him today.

"Spencer's looking for you," Jon says, and of course he is.

Spencer probably wants to beat him with his shoe. Or, okay, that's probably unfair to think, because Spencer's great and Brendon, well. Brendon's pretty sure Spencer loves him. He's, like, ninety-five percent sure.

"Jon, I'm." Brendon stops, buries his face in his knees. He feels Jon slide to the ground next to him, lean into his side.

"Hey," Jon says. "Hey, it's fine."

"I called him fat, Jon. I said he was pudgy, and he's not. He's, like." Brendon looks over at him. "He's perfect."

Jon makes some sort of sound, a little like a laugh. His eyes are twinkling. He says, "Maybe you should go tell him that, then."

*

Patrick had not wanted to believe it, but there Pete is, not all that much smaller than normal, but sort of softer in the face, skinnier in his limbs, torso, and the smile he flashes Patrick is, if possible, the most mischievous one Patrick's ever seen stretching his mouth. Coming from Pete, that's sort of amazing. And suspect.

Patrick gives him a preemptive, "No."

"Oh, come on. I'm at least," Pete's eyes turn thoughtful, "thirteen? Fourteen?"

Patrick shakes his head. "No. No, Pete, no." He's not having sex with mini Pete; that's so wrong. Patrick can't even properly express how wrong that is, he just keeps jerking his head, hands up and spread to ward off any attack Pete might launch.

Pete scowls. "I'm still me," he says, and that does nothing for Patrick, because of course he's still Pete. Pete is Pete, and Patrick's pretty sure his teenage behavior had been just as manic as his adult. Noting the similarities kind of only makes Patrick feel worse.

"Yeah, no."

"Patrick," Pete whines, "you realize my brain hasn't regressed, right?"

"Your other parts have," Patrick points out. "That's good enough for me."

Pete slips closer, looks down at Patrick through his eyelashes - and how much does that suck, that even mini Pete has, like, at least two inches on Patrick? - tries for a sultry look that sort of fails around twitchy. "Patrick," he says. "Patty, Pat, Pat."

"You're thinking making me want to punch you is going to help?" Patrick asks, but some of his resolve is weakening in the face of Pete's sort of adorable teenage awkwardness. It's got its own charm.

"Paaaaatrick," Pete says, leaning closer, and Patrick's lips twitch.

"Pete."

"Hugs? Sunny little harmless hugs? I've been traumatized, Patrick," Pete argues, and it's not like it isn't true.

"A hug," Patrick says, and before he even gets the words fully out, Pete's wrapped around him like a monkey, tight arms, mouth open against Patrick's neck, and maybe Pete had been holding up great, maybe he'll be fine later, but Patrick feels the tension thrumming up and down his entire body, feels the nails Pete digs into Patrick's back as he grasps his shirt.

Patrick pulls Pete even closer, cups a palm over the back of his head, and Pete's breathing shudders.

Pete says, "This is so fucked up," voice muffled.

Patrick says, "Yeah."

*

Gerard is fourteen and he's hands down the most miserable kid Frank has ever seen.

"Gerard."

"Yeah." Gerard juts out his lower lip, ridiculously petulant. Frank's pretty sure his brain didn't regress - at least, that's what everyone keeps telling him - but Gerard certainly sounds like it has.

"It's dinner time." Technically, it's closer to midnight, Earth standard, but Gerard had been keeping some strange hours before the whole age-regression incident, and for the past three weeks they'd been catching dinner just before the mess closed.

Gerard's scowl deepens. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh for." Frank rubs his fist over his forehead, eyes squinched closed. "This is getting stupid," Frank says, because he's been sitting in Gerard's quarters for the better part of an hour and Gerard just won't even fucking smile at him, and maybe Frank's freaking out a little. This isn't fun for either of them. "I can't," he says, hand falling, and he gets to his feet.

Gerard watches him, eyes getting bigger and bigger, and, fuck, they were huge to begin with. It's so surreal.

Frank turns and almost reaches the door before Gerard's on him, arms wrapped around his stomach, face buried in the back of Frank's neck. "What—"

"Frank, Frank, I'm sorry, I didn't, I don't mean—please don't leave me," Gerard says, and Frank freezes.

"Gerard," Frank says, drawn out, slow.

Gerard mutters, "I'll be better, I promise."

"Gerard." Frank turns around; squirms a little to do it, since Gerard doesn't loosen his grip, just opens his mouth over Frank's heart when he manages to get them chest to chest. "Gerard, why would I—"

"I fuck up. Sometimes. I don't mean to, I'm sorry," Gerard says dejectedly, voice muffled by Frank's shirt.

Frank curls his hands over Gerard's upper arms, squeezes. "Gee," he says. "Gee, I'm just hungry. It's okay if you don't want to come." He's not sure what's going on, but Gerard doesn't let him go.

"I want to eat, too," he says, eager now, tipping his head back to give Frank a watery smile, and it's wrong. It feels wrong, but Frank's not exactly sure why.

"You don't have to," Frank says, careful and soft.

"I want to. I want to go with you." He's got a stubborn glint in his eye, corners of his mouth tightening, and Frank has always thought that he got Gerard, that Gerard shared everything with him, but he's sort of—uncertain now.

Frank just squeezes his arms again, though, and says, "Okay."

*

Butcher is a handsome devil, William thinks. He could certainly do worse - although not by much, because Atlantis happens to be full of ridiculously good looking people.

He knows the Butcher swings any which way, so long as he's careful, so William doesn't think it'll be a problem. A little snuggling between teammates. Sex would be nice, but he's not going to push.

Greta always slaps him when he gets too fresh, but she'd let him nap on her breasts the day before, and hadn't that been wonderful?

William looks into his mirror and says, "You're a handsome devil, too," because he occasionally needs to pat himself on the back, boost his confidence. Months. It's been months; six long tragic months, ever since Tom got sent back to earth, and he's not desperate, he isn't, but he's fifteen or fourteen and he's the very slightest bit horny, really, just a little, and he wants some comfort. He'd settle for dry humping, even.

He's uncharacteristically jittery under his skin as he takes the transporter down to Butcher's quarters, tugs on the hem of his t-shirt as he presses the door chime. He fluffs his hair back, plasters on a winning smile.

Butcher blinks up at him as the door slides open, then cocks his head, smirks. "Bill," he says.

"Andy." William leans into the jamb, waggles his eyebrows.

"No fucking way."

"Uh." William isn't exactly hurt. There's a bit of a sting in his heart, though, a lurch sideways, and he swallows hard.

Butcher's eyes widen in alarm. "Oh, shit. Shit, don't cry, Billy, fuck."

"I'm not going to cry, you fucker," William says, but oh god, he's tearing up, and he isn't a pre-menstrual girl, Christ. He fucking hates puberty. And he fucking hates cursing, shit, it's been his goal this month to clean up his mouth, and now Butcher's got him cursing again.

"Bills," Butcher says, pulling him into his arms. He pats his back. The Butcher isn't the best hugger around, but William makes allowances for his suppressive military background.

William sniffs, digs his chin into Butcher's shoulder. "I'm fine," he says.

"Yeah, yeah, come on." He maneuvers William into the room, door closing behind them. "Come on, I'm about ten minutes into the final season of Dawson's Creek. We'll just start over, okay?"

The Butcher is so very accommodating, William thinks, except when he's spurning his perfectly awesome advances. William nods. "I would like that very much," he says, and he's absolutely sure Butcher will let him snuggle, too.

*

It isn't so much that Spencer's upset that people know. He's not stupid. It's hard to keep anything a secret in a closed society like Atlantis. Still. There'd been that flare of panic when Beckett had said boyfriend, that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Spencer really wonders what that means.

It doesn't help that Brendon is avoiding him. It's starting to piss him off, actually.

Ryan eyes him warily across the mess table. "What's wrong?"

"I'm five feet of pudge, that's what's wrong," Spencer snaps, stabbing at his eggs.

"I'm going to kill Brendon." Ryan sounds very, very serious.

Spencer sighs. It's not Brendon's fault, not really, but he doesn't want to talk about it. "It's fine," he says, then sets his fork down and looks at Ryan, really looks, because Ryan had been sullen when they were younger, had been angry at the world for every shitty thing it dealt him, but Ryan actually seems sort of happy, right then.

"It's not fine," Ryan says, "but I'm going to let you handle it," and that's something else fourteen-year-old Ryan would never have said, would never have done.

Spencer arches an eyebrow. "Had a good night?"

Ryan grins, sloppy. "Fantastic night, thanks," he says, and Spencer does not want to know the details. He doesn't want to know who on base was interested in fucking a teenager. Or maybe he is interested. Maybe he wants to pound that person's face in.

"Ry—"

"Oh my god, Spencer, relax. No one took advantage of me."

"But—"

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Ryan says. He hums, picks apart a cinnamon roll, and then Walker slides into the seat next to him and Ryan's face fucking lights up and Spencer's stomach flips over.

His, "Are you—?" slips out before he can stop it, and Ryan pins him with a careful glare.

"Not talking about it," Ryan says.

Walker bounces his gaze between them. "Not talking about what?"

"Nothing," Spencer says, and gets to his feet.

*

Pete likes to get naked in front of Patrick. Normally, this isn't a problem. Normally, this is something Patrick loves, looks forward to, even, but Pete is still underage and Patrick is still not interested.

"You want to put that away?" Patrick says absently, flipping through a two month old issue of Vogue. He's not even sure where it came from, but he's sort of not picky about his reading material anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick sees a flicker of bare skin as Pete bounces onto his bed. "Look, Patrick, look," he says, "I don't even have any of my baby tattoos yet."

"You have tattoos of babies?"

"You're hilarious."

"I try."

"Patrick," Pete says, frustrated, and Patrick is really getting sick of Pete's whining.

Patrick glances up, focuses on Pete's face - because, hell, he's, like, sprawled there, but thank fuck he at least put some boxers on - and says, "I'll send you back to your room. If you can't behave, Pete. Pete—"

"Patrick." Pete scrambles up on his knees in the bedclothes, grabs a t-shirt and yanks it over his head. "Patrick, I want to go out to the mainland, come with me?"

"Pete." Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. Pete always switches gears so fast it makes him dizzy, but he's even worse now.

Pete pulls on his jeans, loose on him, and cinches them tight with a belt. "It's springtime, Patrick. Spindly baby slags! Berries!"

"They're not actually berries, Pete," Patrick says, but he's already reaching for his jacket. The baby slags are always fun to watch, and Patrick thinks the fresh air will do them both good.

"They're delicious," Pete says, hooking his arm through Patrick's.

They'll be delicious until Morris makes fifty thousand pies, muffins, cakes, and sauces out of them. Patrick just says, "Come on," though, and, "Let's go ask Lorne for a pilot."

*

"There's something wrong with Gerard," Frank says to Bob.

Bob just grunts, flicks his gaze over at him before focusing back on cleaning his sidearm.

Bob's just as gruff as he always is, but it's somehow less effective in his surprisingly gangly teenage body. Bob's got big hands and thin wrists, and for all his adult solidness, Frank had always figured Bob for a chubby kid. This was not, apparently, the actual case.

"I'm serious," Frank says. "He's acting strange."

"He's fourteen," Bob says.

Frank is only a little disappointed that Bob's voice has already dropped. Squeaky Bob would've been fun. "He's—he's." Frank doesn't know how to describe it. He slumps down in his seat, folds his arms on the table and buries his face.

Finally, Bob asks, "Do you guys ever fight?"

Frank shifts, blinks up at him. "Huh?"

"You don't fight. You." Bob shrugs. "He just gives in."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

Frank's been practically living with Gerard for eight months, been in love with him since nearly a year before that, when he'd opened his front door to see this rumpled mess of a guy, grinning so hard, eyes nervous, and Frank hasn't noticed, not once, that they never ever fucking argue, really, not about anything important.

"Huh," Frank says again.

Bob says, "He's got some issues," and Frank thinks maybe that's the understatement of the year.

Frank thinks maybe he has some issues, too.

*

"Can you at least wear a hat?" Rodney asks, because he's trying to work - well, not work, exactly, because Elizabeth's frozen them out of the network and placed Hurley in charge, and if Rodney hadn't been busy preparing to squash Radek like a bug, then he'd probably be more upset about that - and John's hair is disturbing him greatly. It's just looming there. Watching him.

"It's cool," John says, shrugging tightly. That shrug that means he's pissed off, but isn't going to make a big deal out of it.

"It's the very opposite of cool, John," Rodney says, flicking absent fingers at him, "and I spent a great deal of my formative years getting stuffed into lockers." Rodney knows uncool. Rodney perfected uncool and John's hair is sort of horrendous.

"Hey, so," John gets up from the couch. "I'm going to go. Feel free to continue mocking me after I leave."

"Oh, come on, you can't be that sensitive," Rodney says. He spins around in his desk chair, hands on his knees.

"I think I can." John cocks a finger at Rodney. "I think I'm enough of a loser to be."

Rodney huffs out an annoyed breath. "Right. Do you want to help me, or do you want to go sulk?"

John grins at him, thin-lipped. "Bye, Rodney," he says, and Rodney rolls his eyes, says, "For the love of god, Sheppard, you've got zigzags shaved into your head and you don't expect me to make fun of you?"

"Of course not," John says, and Rodney can't believe John's mad at him over this completely justified teasing.

"Fine," Rodney says. "Fine, if I promise not to mention the youthful indiscretion sitting on top of your head, will you please help me?"

John slides his hands into his pockets. "What are we doing?" he asks.

Rodney jabs a finger at his computer screen. "We're building a faster robot than Radek."

John's eyes light up. "Cool."

*

Brendon stumbles over Spencer just outside his quarters, and he barely has time to squawk before Spencer's crowding him backwards, before he's shoving him down on the bed and crawling on top of him, and it's not like Brendon minds, but he really thinks they need to talk.

"Spencer, Spence, wait." He catches Spencer's wrists, says, "Just. We should talk."

"I'd rather not," Spencer says, and wedges their hips together, and that's. Nice. Oh so nice.

"Hi," Brendon breathes.

Spencer grins down at him, sharp. "Hi."

Something's a little off, but he let's Spencer kiss him anyway, lets him wriggle his hands up under his shirt, curl under the small of his back, jerk their hips closer.

"Less clothes," Brendon says, panting, and Spencer says, "Yeah, yes," against his neck, but he doesn't move.

He doesn't move, just sort of breathes there, mouth open, and Brendon bucks up, whines, "Spencer," and Spencer barks a rough laugh.

"Walker's fucking Ryan," Spencer says.

"Wait, what?" Brendon pushes at Spencer's shoulders and Spencer arches away, turns his head so Brendon can't see his eyes, hair falling in front of his face. "That's—"

"Yeah."

"No, that's fine," Brendon says. "Are we really having this conversation?"

"No," Spencer mutters. He tries to roll off Brendon, but Brendon hooks his legs around him so they end up on their sides, locked together, and Brendon butts his forehead into Spencer's cheek.

"Spencer, it's not a big deal."

Spencer presses his lips together, nudges his head sideways until their cheeks are touching, until Brendon's mouth is close to his ear.

Brendon says, "Jon's not going to hurt Ryan, not ever."

Spencer relaxes a little against him. "Whatever," he says.

Smiling, Brendon asks, "Can we get naked now? I've been really looking forward to the naked part, okay, because you're like—"

"Don't say it," Spencer warns. He's tense again, but his hands tighten over Brendon's back.

Brendon pushes at him until he falls backwards, squirms on top and presses his palms down on Spencer's belly, stares at his full pink cheeks, the way his hair fans out over the pillows. Spencer's eyes are downcast and he's so young and so un-Spencer-like and Brendon may be tiny - he remembers, okay, and he'd been the size of a bug back then, and the only thing going for him is that he's slightly less blind - but he still feels fourteen and he really, really, really wants into Spencer's pants. Like, immediately. Spencer is hot at any age, no lie.

He slides his hands down to the button on Spencer's pants, but Spencer's fingers catch his before he can even tug at the zipper, squeeze hard around them, and Spencer's mouth is frowning.

The lights dim and Brendon thinks them back up and then Spencer's frown tightens. He hisses, "Brendon, no," forehead creasing with concentration, and Brendon fights him, because he wants—needs to see everything; this is a once in a lifetime thing.

"Please," Brendon says as the lights flicker. "Please, Spencer, please."

Spencer's gaze flits up to Brendon's, and Brendon can see his age there. Can see the hard gray beneath the blue.

"Please," Brendon says again, and he thinks mine and always, and Spencer can maybe see all that in his eyes, too - Brendon has never tried to hide anything from him.

Spencer says, soft, "Alright."

*

There's a conspiracy going on, William's sure of it. It's just starting to make sense. Or not make any sense at all, depending on how you look at it, but William hasn't been laid since Tommy left, and it's not as if William isn't attractive. William is fantastic looking, William knows exactly how pretty he is, how his hair does lovely things for his face, so he doesn't understand why no one will sleep with him. Someone is conspiring against him. Someone is meddling in his love affairs.

Tom's transfer is starting to smell fishy, too.

Siska stares at him. Siska, with his ridiculous hair and sparkling eyes and his complete unwillingness to even give William a hug, if his incredulous expression can be believed.

"I do not like this," William says.

"You've said that before."

"I've said that about my inability to grasp simple objects," William says, nodding, "and the way my bones grow two feet every night while I'm sleeping. What I do not like now," he pokes Sisky in the chest, "is that everyone else seems to be humping like bunnies, and I'm getting lonely with just my hand."

Siska grimaces. He says, "Fuck, Bill."

"That's the idea, yes," William says, and he cares not a wit - not one - that he's been reduced to banal come-ons. He even gives the old leer a college try.

"I can't say—" Siska blows out a stuttering breath, shifts on his feet and flashes William an awkward smile. "Look, I'm not supposed to say anything about this, but."

"But?" William prompts.

"Not like I would," Sisky says, "but Captain Saporta's sort of. Intimidating?"

William blinks. That's entirely the truth. Gabe's largely frightening until you get to know him, and then he's harmless as a pussycat. A large, feral pussycat with big teeth. He doesn't see what that has to do with this, though.

"Gabe can be an intense presence, yes," William agrees.

"Right," Siska says, nodding. He grins. "So that's why."

"Why what?" William feels like he's missing something.

Siska's face falls and he shakes his head a little, like he's trying to get water out of his ears. "Why you're not—look, I don't actually want to talk to you about this," he says, and then shuts the door in William's face.

William is definitely missing something, he's sure of it.

*

Pete's a little wild. He's a little crazy, which is nothing new, but he's just. Something else, streaking across the clearing with a bunch of Athosian kids, laughing louder than any of them.

Patrick's standing in the shade, watching, and it makes him smile. Pete's running flat out, knees pumping high, and Patrick's seen him teach the kids how to play soccer before, seen him going for runs with Butcher in the mornings, but he's never seen him run. Not like that.

Pete has this nonchalance, this almost forced who-the-fuck-cares? attitude, but he always acts like everyone's looking, like he has to be someone for everyone else but himself.

It's kind of nice to see Pete just being a kid.

"Patrick," Pete yells, and then he's tearing up the field with the sewn leather ball. "Patrick, watch!"

The strange, maybe really perverted thing is that Patrick feels a little like a dad. He just nods his head and waves, grinning as Pete drives the ball down the clearing, laughing as three of the littler Athosians come out of nowhere and tackle him down.

They're all covered in mud, and Pete's hoarse from laughing by the time he stumbles to a stop next to Patrick, breathing hard.

"I'm awesome," Pete says, practically pants, beaming. He's got the game ball under his right arm, and then rolls it across his chest to tuck it under his left one. Other than that, though, he's standing completely fucking still, like he wore himself out, like he's tired, the good kind of tired that Patrick rarely, if ever, sees.

Patrick nods. "You are very awesome."

So the age thing might be weird, might be fucked up, but Patrick's finding he's kind of grateful for it, anyway.

*

Ryan as an adult had been sort of ridiculously thin, but Ryan as a teenager has hipbones that could slice Jon's hands. Jon holds him down anyway, palms curved over bone, and settles half his weight on Ryan's legs, curls over so his head rests in the hollow of his ribcage, just above his belly.

Ryan tugs on his hair, murmurs, "I like you like this."

Jon snorts and flexes his hands. Ryan's skin is warm and soft.

"Your hair," Ryan says, tugging again before smoothing it flat, carding his fingers through it.

Jon's eyes flutter closed and he sighs. "Mmmm. S'nice." His mom had been a nut about keeping his hair neat and trimmed, but it's still longer than he usually wears it.

"Yeah." Ryan lets out a noisy yawn, and it's sort of early yet, but it's not like they have anywhere else to be.

Dr. Weir isn't letting them do much in their current pint size, and Jon doesn't blame her. They're a risk in these unpredictable forms, so he has no problem standing down for a few days. He's hoping this whole mess will just run its course.

"Hey, Jon?" Ryan says softly.

Jon breathes out, and he can feel Ryan shiver, can feel the little ripples under his skin, against his cheek. "Yeah?"

"I think Spencer knows." He sounds wary, a little cautious.

"That's okay," Jon says. He smoothes a hand up Ryan's side, fingers tracing the indent of his ribs. Spencer has no room to talk, really, but he understands Ryan's worry. Spencer is Spencer, and he's always been really protective of everything he considers his, and that includes Ryan. "It's fine. It'll be—"

"I'm gonna be really fucking pissed if he accidentally kills you off-world."

Jon laughs. He shifts, squirms up Ryan's body, props himself up on his hands on either side of Ryan's head. Ryan is awkward and beautiful and, like, a stick, seriously. "It'll be fine," Jon says, and dips his head down to kiss him.

*

Joe's kind of freaked out about Bob.

Everyone else seems, like, perfectly fine dealing with all the suddenly-teenie expedition members, so he feels like maybe he's overreacting, but Joe's. Joe's really freaking out.

Bob doesn't look like Bob at all.

Bob looks like this gawky kid, awkwardly put together, like maybe a stiff breeze could push him over, and Joe's suddenly busy. They've found a new spore on the mainland, and Joe would like to claim his preoccupation as just coincidence, but he's not much of a liar.

The fact that Bob seems just as intent on avoiding Joe is slightly worrying, though.

"You're freaking out," Bob says, sliding into the seat across from Joe in the mess.

If Joe closes his eyes, he can almost, almost imagine regular Bob is there instead. Their voices are so close. Joe says, "Dude, you're like."

Bob arches an eyebrow.

"Small?"

Bob nods. "Fair enough. Want to watch Lethal Weapon in the lounge later?"

Joe wavers. Danny Glover is so very tempting.

"Or we could go back to ignoring each other," Bob says, and Bob hardly ever tries to draw Joe out, because Bob is normally taciturn and Joe's a natural chatterbox. Joe thinks maybe the ignoring again thing would be unwise, no matter how weird everything is. Joe's going to have to deal with it.

"No," Joe says. "No, okay, a movie would be great."

Bob's expression doesn't really change, but Joe thinks maybe his eyes look lighter.

*

Gerard doesn't like losing things, especially when he doesn't have very much left. He has the SGC and he has his work and he has Frank, and he isn't going to lose any of that, not if he can help it.

"Gee," Frank says, sitting across from him on the low table in his quarters, caging Gerard's knees with his own. "We need to talk."

Gerard nods, sitting up a little straighter on the couch, because Frank's right. Gerard had never talked enough with Mikey, never knew what had been going on in his head, and he'd never talked to his parents, not really. And it's not like they want to talk to him now. They'd said maybe two words to him when he'd gone home to say goodbye before leaving for Atlantis, and he doesn't blame them.

He'd fucked up with Mikey. He'd fucked up most of his life, but Atlantis is his, Atlantis is theirs, he can feel it every time he opens up a control panel, lights up a hallway, steps inside a transporter.

Frank looks a little like he doesn't know what to say, though, and Gerard's chest gets tight, because that's usually a bad sign. It's usually when people end up saying stuff like, "We're really better off as friends, right?" or, "The police called," or, "Your grandmother didn't make it through the night." It's usually stuff that hurts.

But then Craig scuttles up his thigh and into his palms and nibbles on his thumb a little, and Frank's face breaks out into a smile, and okay. Maybe it can't be that bad.

"Frank?"

"Right." Frank takes a deep breath. "You know you're very. I mean. You—oh, fuck it." He scrubs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. "I love you," he says, and he's looking at his knees, so Gerard kicks him. Well, it's an awkward angle, so Gerard sort of just shoves him with the side of his shoe.

"Frank."

Frank glances up at him and rolls his eyes. "I love you, dickhead."

Gerard feels a smile tug at his lips, creep over his face. "Okay."

Frank punches him in the thigh. "Gee."

Gerard ducks his head, snuggles Craig up under his chin. He nods, looks over at Frank and says, "Okay. I love you, too."

"Christ. You can maybe call me on being an asshole every once and a while, you know," he says.

Gerard scrambles over a, "But you're not—"

"Gerard, Gee, please, just. You need to tell me," Frank says, staring him down.

Gerard feels awkward in his body, but he's always felt awkward. That's not something he ever really got over. It doesn't seem to matter whether he's a pudgy fourteen-year-old or a pale mostly-out-of-shape scientist sneaking up on thirty-five. Sometimes he still can't believe Frank - awesome acclaimed shark diver and friend-of-the-seals Frank - actually wants to be with him. Gerard nods jerkily. He says, "Yeah, okay."

"Promise?"

"I, um. You're not going to get mad, right?"

Frank rubs the end of his nose. He bobs his head, says, "Yeah, right, of course I'm going to get mad sometimes. We'll just deal with it, okay? You can get mad, too."

"I don't—"

"If you tell me you don't want to get mad, Gee, I'm gonna fucking bite you."

Gerard blinks. "Um."

"Good, good. Progress." Frank beams at him, squeezes one of his knees.

Gerard's a little lost, but Frank seems pleased, so he doesn't think it matters.

*

Since a great deal of William's unhappiness in life is because of a certain rat bastard Marine sergeant, William assumes the whole mess is Lacey's fault. This is only cemented by the fact that Asher - sexy Asher, with her shapely calves and breasts - answers Lacey's door in his t-shirt and boxers.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Corporal Asher," William says, because he is. That rat bastard Lacey is a sneaky son of a gun, undeserving of her attentions.

Asher arches an eyebrow. "Did you need something, Dr. Beckett?"

William is all set to spout a pithy remark when Lacey appears behind Asher's shoulder, naked as a jay, and while on the surface Lacey is an attractive specimen, William must remember that underneath the skin Lacey's some sort of crab demon, with extra legs and eye stems.

William says, "You'll not tempt me with your devil ways," and Asher tilts her head in question. Lacey just scratches his balls and grins really, really evilly. William swallows hard, because Lacey's evil grin has none of the endearing qualities that Gabe's has. "Have either of you seen Captain Gabe?" he asks.

"I imagine he'd be in his own quarters, Billy," Lacey says, still unabashedly naked, and William has to admire his complete lack of a social conscious. Polite company dictates some sort of dressing, yet there Lacey is, in all his rat bastard glory. Lacey's evil grin dips into an evil smirk, and he says, "You're staring."

William's cheeks burn. "Of course I am," he says, all false bravado, really, because William is staring, and Lacey will never let him live it down. This abstinence business is messing with William's head, not to mention the fact that his body thinks he's fourteen, and fourteen had been a perpetually horny year for William - horny, clumsy, and growing like one of those capsules that insta-expand into dinosaurs or washcloths when soaked. Under normal circumstances, a bare-assed Lacey would make him want to vomit his last four meals.

Asher leans up against the doorjamb, cocking a distracting hip. "Is that all?"

There is really something fabulous about Asher's legs. William's no slouch in the limb department - and he's a boy besides - but he's just the slightest bit envious.

"I'll just, uh, go find Gabe, then," William says, and when the door slides closed, he applauds himself for keeping cool. He'd lost entirely too much money to the swear jar the day before.

*

Brendon desperately wants to apologize, but Spencer isn't letting him.

Spencer's acting like everything's okay, and maybe it is, but sometimes apologies have nothing to do with the person wronged, and everything to do with the person who's sorry. Avoidance of the issue is actually making Brendon feel crappier.

"I feel crappy," Brendon tells Bob.

Bob says, "Okay," and discards a three.

Brendon likes to think he and Bob are tight now, now that they've been on adventures together and everything, but Bob still has problems sharing.

They're playing cards in the back of 'jumper five - Carlotta, 'cause Colonel Sheppard says she's sassy - and it feels suspiciously like they're hiding. Brendon isn't going to mention that, though, if Bob doesn't.

"I mean. I never had this much sex when I was really fourteen," try at all, "so I shouldn't be complaining, right?"

"I'm probably not the person to talk to about this," Bob says, but he doesn't actually seem all that put off so Brendon just rolls his eyes.

"Bob, seriously, you're like. The only one I can talk to." Brendon stares hard at his cards. He has a really shitty hand, but Bob's trying to teach him how to bluff. He's starting to get tired of losing all his chocolate to William.

Bob glances up then, and there isn't exactly a grin on his lips, but Brendon can tell he's amused.

Bob just says, "You have a really shitty hand," though.

"I have a great hand," Brendon says, careful not to place any emphasis on 'great,' even though he really, really wants to. Bob always says to not back down, no matter what, and sooner or later someone's gonna think you're actually telling the truth.

Bob nods. "Better. You still have a shitty hand."

Brendon gives up, beams at him, because it's not like he was ever going to fool Bob anyway.

"We're going to try sunglasses next," Bob says, and Bob is so great, Bob's the best, and Bob is a little unhappy, Brendon can tell.

He thinks maybe he's gonna have to go kick Joe's ass.

*

William drapes himself all over Greta's console and gives her his very best sexy grin. "Greta. Greta, pookems, golden-locked love of my life."

"Bill," Greta says. She smiles, leans forward onto her elbows. "I managed to wrangle Casino away from Dr. Z."

"That is indeed good news," William says, because they've been on the waiting list for that particular movie for months, and he knows for a fact that Dr. Z is at least ten names ahead of them. They'll need a solid three hours to watch it, though, and William is still on a mission. Gabe's gone all ninja on him, which is uncharacteristic and suspicious.

Greta nods. "We've got it 'til eight tomorrow morning, so clear off your schedule tonight, okay?"

Greta has these precious, irresistible plump cheeks that are even more adorable in her teenaged face. William's resolve is no match for them. It's Greta. And Robert De Niro. "Just you, me and the mob," William says, and then he leans in slightly more, because he's got good gossip, and Greta is the absolute best to gossip with.

"What?" Greta asks eagerly, chin cupped in her hands.

"You'll never guess," William says, "who I stumbled across in Lacey's quarters."

*

Radek, being the sly ass that he is, has recruited Ager and Simpson late in the game, giving him the very slightest advantage. Very slight, since there is no actual way their heap of junk will be able to do much more than bleep at them and spin in circles.

Rodney and John's robot has laser beam capabilities - limited, of course, since Elizabeth would likely kill them - and can hurl insults in three different languages.

"Yes, but can it race," Radek says smugly, sitting across from them in the commissary. He's got a ridiculous amount of Yahoo Serious hair and he's wearing Miko's glasses - huge, round things - since apparently his own prescription is too strong for him to see through. Rodney would consider taunting him about this, but his own teammate has some sort of unfortunate half-shaved weasel on his head, so it's not like he can throw many stones.

"It can do more than race, Radek," Rodney says. "It can fly."

John elbows him in the back. This is possibly because their robot can't actually fly. Yet.

Radek scoffs. "Right. I will believe this when I see it."

"Rodney," John says.

Rodney bats him away, says, "Shut up, shut up, I'm handling this."

"We can't make it fly," John whispers, and Rodney snaps, "Are you questioning me? Is this a challenge? Are you issuing a challenge, Colonel Sheppard?" and Rodney's aware he's a little on the defensive, but he'd been sort of high-strung and touchy as a teenager. It came from being light-years ahead of his peers in terms of brain function, while conversely stupendously backwards in the social scene.

"Whoa, buddy," John says. He pats the back of Rodney's hand. "Calm it down, there. You can make it fly if you really want to."

Rodney thinks John's patronizing him - no, he knows it, but whatever. He'll show them all. Making it fly will be the easy part.

*

"We," Brendon says firmly when Spencer opens his door, "are going to talk."

Spencer arches an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yes. And you aren't going to distract—what are you doing?"

"Taking off my pants."

"Okay." Brendon nods, steps inside so the door can slide shut behind him. "Okay, but see. We're going to."

"Talk," Spencer prompts. "Right." He kicks off his pants and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt.

The lights dim just as the material skims over his belly, and Brendon doesn't fight him on it, because, damn it, he's not going to get distracted! They're totally going to talk about this, discuss everything like rational adults.

There's a golden glow over the room, mimicking candlelight, and it's entirely unfair, because Brendon's brain sort of stutters when Spencer climbs up onto his bed and sprawls out on his back.

Which is a total dirty play, there, so Brendon spins around and faces the wall. "No, seriously, you're going to have to listen to me apologize here," Brendon says.

There's a rustle of fabric, and then Spencer's boxers go sailing over Brendon's shoulder, landing in a blue cottony heap at his feet. Brendon crosses his arms, bites his fingernails into his skin.

"Spencer," he takes a deep breath and just dives head first and says, "Spence, I didn't mean to call you a girl or fat or anything, not the way you took it, anyway, and maybe. Maybe?" Brendon's rambling. He's totally aware that he's babbling like an idiot and he doesn't care.

"Brendon, hey—"

"No, wait, wait, I have to—it hurt a little when Bill called you my boyfriend, you know, because it's not like I'm-I'm repulsive or anything, so you didn't have to flinch—" If he doesn't get this all out now Spencer's never going to let him, and this is important. "This is important, Spencer Smith."

"Okay."

Brendon jumps, 'cause he totally hadn't heard Spencer sneak up on him.

But Spencer hooks his chin over Brendon's shoulder, wraps his arms around his middle, and Brendon settles. He relaxes, leans back, because his shape's a little different, a little softer, but he still feels like Spencer.

"Okay," Spencer says again. Brendon feels him shrug. "I guess I just didn't think about us like that before."

"You didn't?" That's kind of surprising, actually, considering they've been sleeping together for months, considering that Brendon's declared his everlasting love to Spencer several times.

Spencer squeezes him. "Give me a break, Brendon, I'm Air Force."

"Well." Point.

"Are we done talking?"

Brendon nods, turns slowly around in Spencer's arms. "I'm a little overdressed," he says.

Spencer grins. One of those utterly gorgeous fourteen-year-old grins that Brendon's going to miss like burning once he's older again.

"Spencer," Brendon breathes, almost an accident, and Spencer says, "I can help with that."

*

Frank jerks awake to frantic whispers and shaking.

"Frank, Frank, wake up, Frank."

"Gee, wha—?" Frank turns over, digs the palm of his hand into his eye socket. His alarm clock is blinking 2 AM. "What's going on?"

Gerard's crouched over him, a hand on his arm. "Frankie, I can't find Craig."

Frank thinks the lights on and leverages up onto his elbows. Gerard's a sleep-blurred smudge of messy dark hair and huge, worried eyes, and Frank blinks, slow, pressing his eyes shut for an extra second to clear his head. He's not as used to night emergencies as everybody else on Atlantis, since they've never needed his limited expertise in engineering, and Tito, the only indigenous Pegasus creature other than Craig living on Atlantis, has yet to go on a killing spree.

"Hang on," Frank says, yawning. "Lemme just get dressed."

He kind of doubts Craig's gone - his cage is huge, and he's bound to be in one of the nooks or crannies or tubes - but he figures Gerard isn't going to go back to sleep unless they find him.

In Gerard's quarters, all the lights are on at their brightest capacity, and Frank squints a little, eyes watering.

Gerard says, voice hushed, "I left his cage open." His teeth are biting into his lower lip, and Frank reaches out, slips an open hand over his cheek, behind his neck and pulling him into a half-hug.

"It's okay," Frank says.

"I fell asleep."

Frank squeezes him, tight, then lets him go. "It's fine, Gee, we'll find him."

An hour later, Frank isn't so sure anymore. Craig's a wily little guy, and Frank's really fucking tired. Plus, Gerard's room is a complete fucking mess. "This is sort of impossible."

"I know," Gerard says, frowning. His eyes are tinged with red.

"In the morning," Frank says, curling a hand around Gerard's arm and herding him towards the door. "In the morning, you and Pete can come up with something, okay?"

Pete can recalibrate a lifesigns detector to pick up rats or something, and Frank's sure Craig's still somewhere in the mess of Gerard's room. Craig's a homebody, for one, a nester, and Frank knows he'll want to stick by things that remind him of Gerard, smell like him, too. They just have to figure out which pile of dirty clothes he's hiding under, and that's something they need to do when they're both not so exhausted they can hardly stand.

Gerard looks like he wants to protest, but his mouth opens up into a yawn instead.

"Yeah," Frank says, "Come on."

*

Patrick wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest and he says, "Oh, hell no."

He tries to roll Pete off him, but Pete just clings tighter. "Patrick."

"Seriously, no."

Pete snuffles into his neck. The action's familiar, and Patrick has to force himself not to pull Pete closer. "You're comfy," Pete says.

"Pete."

Pete shifts, loosens his grip and digs his chin into Patrick's chest on a wide yawn. "I feel older."

Patrick frowns. "You don't look it."

"I feel at least fifteen," Pete says, and Patrick rolls his eyes, says, "Oh, well, fifteen," and then tips Pete off of him and struggles out from underneath the covers.

He needs coffee. If he's going to have to deal with teenaged Pete again all day, he needs his special stash of Kona and one of Morris's homemade cinnamon buns. And then he actually has some work to do, so Pete's gonna have to figure out how entertain himself.

The thought's only a little scary.

Patrick sighs, pulling on a pair of pants, then reaches for his radio, hooking it over his right ear as he makes his way into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, he leaves the lights on low, highlighting the almost-permanent smudges of exhaustion under his eyes. There never seems to be enough time for sleep, and he's strongly considering asking for a couple vacation weeks on Earth after the whole mess with Pete is straightened out.

"Come on," he says to Pete, coming out of the bathroom and slipping on his shoes. "Breakfast."

"You know what I want?" Pete asks, bouncing to his feet. He's wearing purple sweatpants, and Patrick's pretty sure they're Brendon's. He works with really weird people.

Patrick shrugs into his science jacket, tugs on a hat. "No, what?"

"A puppy, dude. Like, an alien puppy. Think Frank can find me one?"

"No." The last thing in the entire world Pete needs is an alien puppy. Patrick's head aches just thinking about it.

And then his radio crackles, Frank's voice a tinny, "Patrick?"

Patrick says, "Yeah," and Pete leeches onto his side, saying, "Whossit?"

"D'you know where Pete is? He's not answering his radio."

Patrick flicks Pete's ear, because Pete's an irresponsible asshole sometimes. "Yeah, he's here," Patrick says.

Frank says, "Awesome, look, we've lost Craig. Can you have Pete meet Gee in the labs?"

*

Gerard doesn't mean to be so upset, but he's sort of attached to Craig.

It's nice to have a focus, though, and Pete's hunched over a lab table with one of the lifesigns detectors split open, humming under his breath, and Gerard consumes a dangerous amount of coffee in the hour or so it's taking Pete to fix it.

"Okay, so," Pete says finally, "I've fiddled with the sensors. Let's try this sucker out."

He beams at Gerard, and Gerard isn't sure how he got stuck with Pete Wentz - he'd had a small say in recruiting scientists for the program, and, first impressions and all, Pete hadn't really impressed him, though they'd somehow gotten foisted together anyway - but he's really glad for it, now.

They practically race for the transporters, Gerard only a beat behind Pete, barely panting as they skid to a stop. It's nice to have the lung capacity of a kid. A kid who hasn't started smoking yet, since Gerard hadn't picked up that particular bad habit until he'd hit sixteen. He's still mainly glad he's kicked that, but sometimes he misses it so much he actually eats at the same table as Lacey just to smell the nicotine on him.

"Wow, okay," Pete says when they reach Gerard's quarters. "Did something explode in here?"

Gerard looks around at the mess. "No." He hasn't done laundry in a while, but Frank's the one who normally reminds him about that.

"Huh."

Gerard frowns. "Do you think—"

"Hey, wait. Wait, there's something." Pete stalks farther into the room, hops over a pile of old socks, then digs into a sort of dark and scary corner. He stops, holds up the lifesigns detector. "Yep, definitely something back here."

"Craig?" Gerard creeps up behind him, looks over his shoulder.

"Unless Atlantis suddenly became infested with Ancient rats."

Gerard thinks that would be cool for a split-second, then thinks maybe Ancient rats would hurt tiny little Craig, so he really hopes that isn't the case. And then Pete folds back Frank's favorite Misfit t-shirt and there's Craig, nestled in a sleepy ball, and Gerard's entire body relaxes.

"There you go," Pete says. He flashes him a smug grin.

"Thanks, Pete," Gerard murmurs. He scoops Craig up, who stirs a little, blinks at Gerard, then curls into an even tighter ball in the palm of his hand.

Pete grabs the t-shirt, thrusts his fingers through a little gnawed hole. "Hope you weren't that attached to this," he says.

Gerard blanches. Frank is totally not going to be thrilled about that.

"Seriously, man, this room is scary. I hope you're living with Frank," Pete says, and Gerard.

Gerard is totally living with Frank. Gerard never even noticed before, but he's living with Frank. That is so exciting.

*

It's only when Joe spots Ray in the doorway of greenhouse lab 7 that he realizes he hasn't seen him for days.

"Where have you been, Toro?" Joe asks, because Ray looks a little worn down. He's two feet too short, hair cropped, and he has his BDUs cinched tight and high with a belt, the amount of overlap totally laughable. Joe isn't actually going to point it out, but he looks like a geek. And Joe knows geeks.

Ray smiles. "Have you seen Bob?" he asks, and Joe should definitely know where Bob is, but he doesn't. He'd parted ways with Bob last night after the movie, an awkward see-you.

"Not since yesterday," Joe says.

Ray tips his head to the side. "All right, thanks."

"No, seriously, you've been missing for—"

"Gotta go, Joe," Ray cuts in, and his grin just grows, takes over his entire face, and then he's gone. Huh.

"I think Miss Maja's corrupting him," someone says from behind him, and Joe jumps about three feet in the air, spins around to find a tiny little Urie hiding half behind a hydroponics banana tree.

"Christ, Urie, what the hell?"

Urie crosses his spindly arms - seriously, he looks eight or something - over his chest. "You should know where Bob is," he says, frowning, and this is not something Joe wants to talk about with Brendon Urie, shit. Or anyone, for that matter, considering it's a very sensitive subject.

"Dude, why would I want to discuss this with you?"

"Because you're hurting Bob's feelings," Urie says, and Joe feels a little pang in his chest, rubs the heel of his palm over it, but he just shakes his head.

"None of your business," Joe says.

"Bob might be fourteen forever," Urie says, and, wow, way to make the situation seem even worse.

Fourteen for now or forever, it's still weird to be in love with him.

Urie's eyes widen. Joe thinks maybe he might have said that last bit out loud.

"Holy crap, Joe." Urie's mouth moves into this huge-ass grin. "Holy crap."

"Wait, dude, no." Joe shakes his head, because he loves Bob, but Bob's one scary-ass motherfucker, and Urie is a giant blabbermouth. Possibly worse than Beckett.

Urie mimes zipping his lips, practically vibrating in place. "Mum, Joe. Freaking mum, you have no worries."

Urie means well, Joe knows this. Bob is totally going to know by nightfall. Which means Joe's gonna have to say something first. Awesome.

*

Joe tracks Bob down to the armory. Bob's sort of noticeable, so it really isn't that hard to find him. Of course, it'd taken a few hours for Joe to work up his nerve, and half of him had kind of wanted Urie to just say something, because that'd save him some heartache, right?

His first plan's pre-emptive denial, but Joe— Joe really, really sucks at lying. He's, like, epically bad. He thinks maybe it's from years of doing weed; he's lost all ability to control his facial expressions, and bad shit usually just makes him break out in nervous giggles.

"I know what you're going to say," Bob says. He snaps a clip into his sidearm, walks over to the target range.

Joe jogs after him. "You. You do?" Joe doesn't even know exactly what he's going to say. "But—"

"It's fine." Bob slips in ear plugs, and Joe watches him lift his arms and aim, adjusting his stance a little, and he looks sort of like the recoil from the gun'll topple him over. He squeezes out a round, though, and Joe just stands there, hands at his sides.

"Okay," Joe finally says.

"We probably shouldn't—" Bob takes a deep breath, sets the discharged gun on its side, and reaches out to pat Joe's shoulder without really looking at him. "No hard feelings."

Okay, wow. Joe's eyes start prickling, and how fucking embarrassing is that? He's pretty sure Bob's breaking up with him. Joe rubs the side of his hand under his nose. "Um."

Bob's avoiding his gaze, reloading his gun, turning away, and Joe guesses he's, like, being dismissed or something.

Joe'd figured this reaction was a possibility, yeah, but he sort of feels like he's been punched in the chest, and that's kind of unexpected. He clears his throat, says, "Bob, I."

Bob glances over his shoulder at him, face expressionless.

Joe shakes his head. "Yeah, never mind."

*

William has always appreciated Gabe's height. He's one of the very few people on Atlantis taller than him, and it's refreshing. William has a way of leaning on things to appear less lanky, but his posture improves around Gabe, and he mostly ends up leaning on him. Gabe's nice about it. He never shoves him off or gets pissy.

They have a decent camaraderie, a bosom buddies sort of vibe, so it's downright odd that Gabe has made himself scarce for so long.

William never has to hunt Gabe down.

"You," William says when Gabe opens his doors, "are a sucky best friend." He pushes past Gabe, dropping down onto the low, uncomfortable Ancient couch. "You may begin apologizing at any time."

Gabe slowly rubs his towel over his face. He's bare-chested. William enjoys the view for a moment before remembering he's angry, and there's no room for ogling while being mad.

"Bill?"

"I'm waiting," William says. He crosses his legs and taps his toes, counting off the ridiculous amount of seconds it takes for Gabe to actually say something, because Gabe is apparently a bigger asshole than William has given him credit for.

"Bill. You're."

"Wonderful?" William prompts. "Lovely, gracious, tolerant?"

"Little."

"Oh, fuck off, I'm not that—" William covers his mouth. Damn it. He'd almost made it another day curse free.

"Bills—"

"I'm having a bad week," William says, jabbing a finger at Gabe. "Every single bone I've ever had hurts, Gabe, aches. I dropped three datapads yesterday, and I think Dr. McKay wants to kill me, and I've completely run out of conditioner, and have you been comforting me?" It's not that he doesn't love Greta and Butcher and Pacey Witter, but Gabe's Gabe, and William has missed him.

"Bill," Gabe says, and his brow's creased, a pinched scowl on his face.

"What?"

Gabe says, very carefully, "I've been off-world with Kennerty's team, William," and oh, he's using William, and Gabe hardly ever uses his full name. It sends a deadly shiver up William's spine.

William swallows. "You have?"

Gabe nods. "I'm not sure what's going on."

"But. Asher?"

"Put in for time off," Gabe says.

Come to think of it, William hasn't seen Travis at all, either. "Oh."

"Yeah. So you want to explain everything now?"

"There was an accident off-world," William says. "I'm fourteen. Or maybe thirteen, since there's roughly two or three years of unrelenting teenage misery in my past. I need love and comfort, Captain Gabe. And possibly lap naps." Purely platonic lap naps, of course, because William isn't going to ever try to get into Gabe's pants.

For one, Gabe's in his thirties, and William's currently having problems growing facial hair. And for another, he's William's very best friend, and William does not have sex with his best friends. Excepting Jeremy Logan in eleventh grade. And Sarah Hanning in college, but Sarah had been a political activist, so it never would have worked out, anyway.

Gabe says, "Okay," and, "So which planet did this happen on?"

*

Gabe, William knows, has a way of getting things done. It has something to do with his military prowess, and perhaps the way he can threaten death with a silent eyebrow arch.

"Gabe has gone off to win the day," William says, settling down next to Sisky in the common lounge. He presses his face into his very scary hair and inhales, because Siska is using some sort of coconut shampoo and it smells delicious. There's just so much of it. "You smell like frosted dessert and winter nights. I'd like to snip a curl and sleep with it always."

"Bill." Siska tries to shove him away with his shoulder.

William's a practiced limpet, though, so the jostling only maneuvers him closer. "Give up, Adam, my boy. I know you love me dearly."

Siska sighs and slumps down into the cushions, and William adjusts himself so he's snug against his side.

Greta's on the couch across from them, her legs draped over the Butcher's lap. "I don't know," Greta says. "I'm kind of getting used to this."

"Because you've already grown breasts and hips, Salpeter," William says. "You're a lovely young woman, and I'm a veritable scarecrow."

"You're always a scarecrow, Bill," Butcher says.

"I'm svelte. I'm all the rage. I'm a slip of a man-boy made of sunshine and rainbows, direct from the mouth of Captain Gabe."

Siska laughs and the Butcher rolls his eyes. "Bill," Butcher says. "Capt—"

"No, don't tell him," Greta cuts in, eyes dancing. She slaps the Butcher's arm lightly. "It's more fun this way."

William frowns at her. "You're supposed to be my friend," he says.

"Oh, I am, Billy, I am." She grins. "You'll thank me later."

William highly doubts that. You'll thank me later generally applies to underage sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, and William's still miffed at his mother for not letting him attend Roxy Malone's unchaperoned birthday extravaganza in tenth grade.

"I hate you all," William mutters. He worms his way under Siska's arm for pets and snuggles, and Sisky sighs and tugs him closer.

*

Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard let Captain Gabe take his team out to P54-S13, and somehow - some way, because Captain Gabe is amazing, William knows - Gabe, Lacey, Nolan and Ivarsson do not get eaten by the Fourteen Machine, and step back onto Atlantis still in their adult forms mere hours after they'd left.

There's dried blood on Gabe's forehead, and Lacey's got a bruise cresting his cheek, but they're both grinning like mad, and Captain Gabe sends William a cheeky salute across the 'gate room. Lacey sticks his tongue out and gives him a lewd gesture, and really. Really, there is something honestly wrong with that man.

"It'll last another day or less," Gabe says, and then Dr. Weir calls them all in for a briefing, so William doesn't know the specifics, but he doesn't really need them. William believes whatever Gabe tells him.

Perhaps that's dangerous to do, but Captain Gabe hasn't failed him yet.

"You see," he says to Greta.

"I see," Greta says, grinning up at him.

William tugs on one of her pigtails. "We'll be adults again in no time, and then I can have grown up sex."

Greta bites her lip, but a giggle slips out anyway. "Oh. Oh, of course," she says. "As opposed to all the sex you're having now. Which is clearly—"

"Look, Salpeter, I'm well aware that I haven't been laid in months, thank you very much," William says, tossing his hair over his shoulder, and Greta just laughs, lets out one full-bellied guffaw before slapping a palm over her mouth.

"Sorry," she mumbles. William can see her huge smile behind her hand.

"I'll bet."

"No. No, really, just think of all the people you can proposition when you're older again," Greta says. Her eyes are dancing, but she sounds serious enough.

William gazes at her carefully. He says, "I know," slow and thoughtful-like, just in case she busts out in mocking amusement again, but her demeanor doesn't change.

She nods earnestly. "Lacey, even," she says, and William gags back his breakfast, because what the hell?

"Lacey?"

"Clearly—" Greta clears her throat. "Clearly, your mutual animosity is just, um, sexual tension?"

"Sexual—" Huh. Huh. There's a possibility that William has let his pure hatred of Lacey overshadow the fact that Lacey is sort of desirable in a sleazy whore kind of way. "You may be onto something there."

"I." Greta looks startled for a half-second. "I am. Of course I am."

*

It takes most of the afternoon, but Pete helps Gerard move all the little pieces of Craig's cage into Frank's room.

Gerard figures if he's going to be living with Frank, Craig might as well be living with him, too. He hopes Frank doesn't mind how it nearly takes up half of the lounge nook, and that they added a few more tanks that they'd scavenged out of Carson's lab. Craig likes to explore.

Frank does a double-take when he walks in before dinner, but he just tosses his shoes in a corner and collapses onto the bed, dragging Gerard down with him. Gerard snuggles happily into his side.

"So we live here now," Gerard says. He wants to get it all out in the open, since Frank had made such a stink about having meaningful relationship conversations. At least, that's what Gerard thinks Frank had been talking about.

"The giant habitrail clued me in," Frank says, but Gerard doesn't hear anything bad in his voice. He sounds amused.

"I promise to clean up after myself."

Frank chuckles. "Gee, you've lived here for months, and you've never cleaned up after yourself."

"Oh."

"I'm gonna make you shower more now, though."

Gerard pulls a face. He hates getting wet. "Okay," he says.

"Yeah." Frank jabs his elbow into Gerard's side. "You sound thrilled."

"I totally am," Gerard lies. "I love showering. I'm just all absentminded and shit."

"Oh, that's total crap, seriously, Gee, what the hell?"

Frank pushes at him, digging his fingers into his sides and Gerard flails back on the bed, laughing. He kicks out and catches Frank's thigh, and Frank smashes the side of his head so hard he sees freaking stars, and then his eyesight gives out just as a streak of fire shoots up his spine.

*

When Rodney blinks open his eyes again, Simpson's staring down at him with an unwarranted amount of amusement and not nearly enough concern.

"Well, that was not fun."

Rodney turns his head and glares at Radek, who's sprawled on his stomach, blinking owlishly at him. If possible, Miko's glasses look even more ridiculous on his adult face. "Really?"

John's sitting just beyond him, legs spread, a hand pressed over his right eye. There's blood seeping through his fingers, and a dazed expression on his face. "You hit me," John says.

"Yes, well." Rodney struggles upright. He spots the mangled mess of metal and wires heaped in the middle of the lab. "You completely ruined our robot."

"You flew it into my head," John says.

Whatever. Rodney waves a hand. He'd gotten it to fly, so he doesn't know what John's complaining about. He's looking pale, though, so perhaps a trip to the infirmary's in order.

"Huh," Rodney says.

John pulls his hand back, makes a face. "What?" he asks.

"I think I might actually miss your hair."

*

"Oh. Oh, this is disgusting," Ryan says, wiping his face with both his and Jon's napkins.

Brendon licks his lips. "Mmmm, cheesy." Morris makes the best French onion soup.

Jon laughs, even though he's got a smudge of baked beans on his nose. He says, "Hey, we're big again," and swipes at his hair. "I feel weird."

"I feel sort of," Brendon twists in his seat. "Tight." His skin feels like it's stretched thin over his bones. He pokes at the side of Spencer's head, since he's still passed out in his mashed potatoes.

"Blurgh," Spencer says. His eyelashes flutter. "What the fuck?"

Brendon pokes his head again, and Spencer snatches his finger, quick as anything, but doesn't squeeze.

"Hi," Brendon says, beaming down at him.

Spencer says, "Hey," then yawns and slowly pulls himself upright. It's so awesome, because Spencer's got his shoulders back and everything, and Brendon maybe misses some of his softness, the pudgy belly, pinch-able cheeks, but he's missed this Spencer more.

"So this is nice," Jon says, grinning dopily at them.

"Jon. Jon, you've got." Ryan motions to his nose.

"What?"

Ryan says, "Here, wait," and steals Spencer's napkin, reaching out to wipe Jon's nose, steadying his face with a hand on his chin, and hey.

"Hey. Hey, you're—" Brendon cuts off with a yelp, 'cause Spencer kicked him, and Spencer's got big old boots on that hurt. "You kicked me."

Jon laughs again, and Jon's a sneaky bastard, because Brendon had not seen this coming at all. He glares at Ryan. Ryan totally should have told him about how he's in love with Jon Walker and how Jon's so obviously in love with Ryan. Sex is one thing, but love should be shared. Ryan knows all about Brendon and Spencer's future retirement-slash-commitment ceremony, and how Brendon's totally gonna make them live on that planet with the rhinos that look like horses that look like unicorns.

Ryan blinks at him, like he's oh so innocent.

Brendon jabs a finger at him. He hopes his face is talking, because he thinks maybe Spencer'll punch him if he opens his mouth again. Brendon's a master at being discreet when he actually wants to be, honest.

Ryan arches both his eyebrows as if to say I don't think so, but Brendon's persistent and Brendon wants to gossip about their boyfriends. Ryan totally doesn't stand a chance.

*

Patrick's used to getting tackled by Pete, so it doesn't really faze him when he ends up on the floor of his lab, papers everywhere and Pete sprawled on top of him.

"I'm adult sized again," Pete crows.

"That's great. Can you move your knee off my crotch?"

"Sure." Pete shifts agreeably around until he's got their hips nicely snuggled together. "Wanna head back to my place so I can stick other, more pleasant things on your crotch?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, even though Patrick's kind of got the idea already from all the thrusting going on.

Patrick would be embarrassed, except this is Pete, and this kind of thing happens all the time. He's pretty sure no one's even paying them any attention.

"Patrick," Pete says. He sort of wraps his arms around Patrick's head. "Patrick, Patrick, I missed you."

Patrick grins. He really, really missed Pete, too.

*

Since William had been taking a delightful evening catnap, it's all very anticlimactic when he wakes up big again. The lack of drama would be disappointing, truly, except for the fact that he no longer has screaming pain in his limbs.

"I'm growing a mustache," William says to Greta when he's tracked her down to the lower labs. She's full sized again, too, and he folds her up into a hug.

Greta tips her head back to look up at him, still in the circle of his arms. "Are you going into porn then?" she asks.

"Maybe. Maybe I am." William strokes a finger over his upper lip. He thinks a mustache would be kick-ass, but perhaps the teasing wouldn't be worth it. Still. He feels there should be a difference between regular William and seducer of that rat bastard Lacey William. Facial hair is a classic choice.

"Butcher's hosting a Dawson's Creek finale party tonight," Greta says.

"Oh, that's nice," William says, because he's seen it dozens of times, but the finale never ceases to give him warm fuzzies in his chest.

One thing William absolutely adores about being on an off-world team again is all the bonding. They're exactly William's sort of people.

*

Butcher's Dawson's Creek finale party is held in the common lounge, and Butcher serves popcorn and hot chocolate to the mass of people who show up. William snuggles down in between Greta and Travis, and he hasn't see Travis in forever, so he ends up mostly in Travie's lap.

Travie has an incredibly comfy lap and big hands, and he doesn't mind when William whispers about Pacey's handsomeness, and how huge Van Der Beek's forehead is. It's truly monstrous.

During intermission - which will be a solid half hour at least, William knows, because these are Rare Nights, worthy of capitalization, and must be drawn out as long as possible - William gets up for a stretch and pulls Greta over to the hot chocolate corner, because Joe and Sergeant Bryar are on complete opposite sides of the room, and that's somehow very wrong.

"Tell me everything you know," William says.

Greta snags two mugs and commandeers one of the thermoses, so William is forced to follow her towards the very back of the lounge, the dark and scary nooks reserved for necking during particularly boring parts of movies. William used to spend lots of time back there with Tom. It's sad now that he only has Greta to gossip with. Not that Greta isn't awesome; he just wishes maybe she'd let him feel her up.

Greta tugs William down next to her on the couch and says, "You'll have to be more specific, Bill."

"Bryar and Joe," William says, bending his head close to hers. "I fear they've done something stupid to each other."

Greta hums, sips at her chocolate and bounces her gaze around the room. "I see your point," she says finally. Greta almost always sees William's points. She's wonderful like that.

"How should we fix this?" he asks. He wishes his mustache was full grown so he could twirl it thoughtfully. He settles for tapping a finger on his chin.

"We'll split up. Tomorrow," Greta says, "I'll take Joe and you take Sergeant Bryar."

William does not exactly like this idea, because Bryar's a relatively big guy. Bryar has never expressed any fondness for William. Bryar has never actually deigned to have a conversation with William, nor have they ever been in the same room alone, without Joe's soothing presence. William is understandably leery of Greta's idea. "I do not know, Salpeter. Are you willing to pay for my funeral expenses?"

Greta pats his arm, grinning. "I'm sure the military'll take care of it."

*

William spots Captain Gabe at breakfast and drops into the seat across from him, because William hasn't spent near enough time in Gabe's company over the past week, and it's truly tragic. He's heard tales of Gabe's heroics on the Planet of the Creepy Staring Age-Regressed Natives - although the exact use of the Fourteen Machine is still a mystery, and William rather likes the idea of just completely forgetting about the entire incident and subsequent days upon days of misery - and how Gabe had manfully cajoled them into giving him certain answers, with promises of painful retribution if any of their words were vicious lies. Gabe, William thinks, is the very, very best.

"What's on your face?" Gabe asks.

"I'm growing a mustache."

Gabe arches an eyebrow. "Okay."

Little known fact: adult William actually has to shave daily. He's already got a shadow on his upper lip. William thinks he's looking dapper, but Captain Gabe is twinkling his eyes at him.

"It'll be awesome," William insists.

"Sure. You going into porn?"

William scowls. William finds porn jokes just as hilarious as the next person, but that's going to get old fast. "I'll have you know, Captain Gabe, that I'm totally going to seduce that rat bastard Lacey with this mustache."

"Well." Gabe makes a face William has never seen before, like perhaps how a serial killer might smile before chopping up several fluffy malamute puppies, but he just says, "I suppose the porn mustache makes sense, then."

"I thought so." William nods.

Gabe pushes back from the table and gets to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, Bill. I've got a little business to take care of."

*

Even though his mustache is not at fully awesome capacity yet, William's impatient, has always been notoriously impatient, so he goes off to enact his genius seduction plan slightly ahead of schedule.

Lacey opens his door looking tremendously worn down. His black eye's already turning sickly yellow, and he winces slightly when he spots William. And then he starts laughing.

William hasn't even said anything, so the hysterics are a little uncalled for, he thinks.

"Ow, ow, fuck." Lacey wraps an arm around his middle gasping for breath, still with this huge-ass grin on his face. "Fuck, he was telling the truth?"

William frowns. "I don't know—"

"Seriously. Bills—"

"Don't call me Bills." William curls his fists on his hips, and Lacey just sets off laughing again.

"God, stop it, this fucking hurts," Lacey says, hanging off the doorjamb, panting.

"Lacey. Lacey, it's come to my attention, Lacey," William's getting louder, nearly shouting, because Lacey's seriously laughing like a hyena, "that what we say to each other could be construed as flirting."

"Shit. Shit, okay. Beckett." Lacey takes some shaky breaths, seems to barely, barely get a hold of himself. "Beckett, right, we in no way flirt at all, and you need to go talk to the captain, and, oh my god, shave your face. Or don't, I don't care, it's kind of hilarious."

William's frown deepens. This conversation is not going anywhere near the way he'd planned. It's disheartening. "Are you absolutely certain we don't flirt?"

"I hate you," Lacey stresses, eyes suddenly hard. "I spend my nights lying awake plotting ways to make your life hell."

"I knew it!" William says, because no one ever believes him when he says Lacey has it in for him, but he'd known it. Lacey has arch enemy stamped all over him.

"Saporta just beat the shit out of me because of you," Lacey goes on, "so I've—"

"Wait." William frowns. "Wait, Gabe just. What?"

Lacey waves a hand, grimaces. "Sparring. Just, you know, friendly sparring where Saporta fucks me up a little and tells me to keep my hands off you."

"Well that. That doesn't make much sense." Gabe has always been a staunch supporter of Lacey, and he's never quite called William delusional, because Captain Gabe never, ever insults William at all about anything, but this beating up of Lacey business doesn't exactly sound very Gabe-like.

Lacey gazes at him blankly. "I don't understand why you're even here."

"I'm sure we've already been—"

"Here, Beckett, on Atlantis. You have got to be the densest jackass I've ever met."

William bristles. William is in no way a jackass. William's perfectly delightful to everyone except Lacey, and can anyone blame him?

"Go away, Bill," Lacey says, and slides the door closed in his face. Some people have no manners.

*

Divide and conquer or something. That had been their original plan, William is sure of it. He doesn't think Greta meant get completely shitfaced with Bryar, but that's exactly where the afternoon seems to be heading, so William's just going to go with it.

Brendon happens to be there as well, but Brendon's a wee little thing, even aged correctly, and William doesn't anticipate him being conscious for very much longer.

"There is something drastically wrong, Robert," William says. He takes a gentlemanly sip of some sort of swill Travis got off-world last mission. It seems to be burning through William's esophagus, but he mans up and takes the pain.

Bryar grunts.

"Yes, exactly." William passes him the bottle. "So what we must do. What we must do, Robert, is make things not wrong."

Bryar blinks at him, sticky. William thinks perhaps Bryar's just as drunk as he is. William's a champ at holding his liquor, but he's not planning on getting up any time soon. The world's sort of doing this spinney thing, and they're out in the open up very, very high. Supposedly there's shielding to prevent freefalls off of towers and such, but William's not willing to test that out.

"Oooo, oooo," Brendon sings from his sprawl on the balcony floor, "oooo, I made up this song for you."

"That's lovely, Brendon," William tells him, because it's important to remain positive in these dire times. "Now. Now, Robert, I need you to tell me what's happened with Joe."

"Nothing," Bryar says.

"Jooooe," Brendon lilts. His fingers are dancing in the air above his head. "Oh, oh, I made up this song for Joe."

William absently pats Brendon on the stomach and says, "It can't be nothing." Nothing wouldn't require them sitting as far away from each other as humanly possible.

Bryar might be glaring at him, it's hard to tell.

"We could. We could make this a game?" William tries to snap his fingers, but his thumb keeps getting caught. "I could guess. Let me guess what's wrong, all right? Joe," William says, "has broken your heart." William doubts this is the case, but he figures it's safer than accusing Bryar of this same horrible, horrible deed.

Brendon giggles. "Jooooe's in looooove," he says.

Bryar grimaces and tips the bottle up towards his mouth, and William watches him swallow hard. He does not seem surprised about Brendon's off-key revelation.

"Bryar," William says, aghast. "Bryar, you didn't."

"It wouldn't have worked out," Bryar says. He rubs a hand under his right eye, and William thinks he detects a small, suspicious sniffle.

This whole thing is completely ridiculous. "Robert, Robert, listen to me." William waves a hand around. He's hoping it'll help him gather his thoughts into something coherent, because it's important that Bryar understand this, and William is drunk. William is one of those rare drunks who can speak clearly and concisely, but that doesn't actually mean the words automatically come out of his mouth in the correct order. "You can't break up with someone for being in love with you, that's. That's asinine. That's shitty," and, oh, fuck it, he might as well just give up on the not cursing thing, right? It hasn't been going all that well anyway.

"He might think that," Bryar says. "But he isn't."

Bryar is apparently very, very dumb. "We aren't all emotionally retarded grunts," William says. "You've broken Joe because you're scared."

"I didn't." Bryar narrows his eyes at William. "I didn't break Joe."

"Oh, you did. Mark my words, Robert, you've broken him." William shakes his head. It's so very tragic. He steals the bottle of alcohol back from Bryar and takes a large gulp to take the edge off how very tragic the whole situation is. "I'm done with you, Sergeant Bryar."

"But—"

"Done. Finito. The dream is over." William pokes Brendon with his boot. "I think little Urie's passed out."

*

Joe figures the mainland is a good enough place to hide from Greta and her well-meaning hugs. Joe is totally not a crier, but Greta's hugs are hardcore, and he can hardly stand her sympathetic pouty lips and eyes.

Unfortunately, it's springtime and the male slags are feeling ornery.

"Whoa, dude," Joe says, hands up. He doesn't bother trying to run, but the slag - which looks like some sort of moose-cougar hybrid with wide hooves and huge sharp teeth - snorts, nostrils flaring, and paws at the ground.

Joe has no idea where Kennerty and Wheeler are, but Joe totally isn't armed for this. The mainland's a safe haven. And now Joe's about to be killed by a rabid deer.

"Doc, where the hell are you?"

"Oh my god, radios are awesome," Joe says, because he'd forgotten he had one hooked on his ear what with being all frozen in fear.

Wheeler sighs. "That's great. Where are you?"

"Um." Joe darts his gaze around without actually letting the slag out of his sight. "A field? Like, a really, really blue field. With a giant slag about to mow me down, seriously, do you think you guys could just, uh, come scare this beast off or something?"

"Joe," Kennerty says. "Joe, calm down, okay, and let us know exactly where you are."

Joe remembers wandering off behind the settlement. He remembers trees with light-skinned bark, remembers the magnolia-like blooms on a fat cluster of bushes. "Somewhere, like, five minutes back behind the village."

Five minutes. A lot of bad could happen in five minutes, Joe thinks, but Kennerty says, "All right, just don't move," and Joe snorts, because he isn't going to fucking breathe.

It seems like forever, standing there staring the slag down, before he hears Kennerty again, tinny voice saying they can see him even if he can't see them yet.

And then the thing makes this noise, this inhuman yowling, and it starts charging right for him and Joe doesn't remember pain or anything, but he remembers screaming this totally embarrassing high-pitched scream and stumbling over his feet and then everything had gone black.

*

Spencer can hear them through the walls.

He cringes a little, because he's pretty sure that's Brendon singing. And maybe Bryar.

"Spencerrrr. Grrrrrrrr. Open up, open up, open up." There's a flurry of knocking and Spencer hears some giggling and shushing and he rolls his eyes as he thinks the door open.

Beckett's practically holding Brendon up in the doorway. "Smith," Beckett says, smiling. "Hey, Smith. Present."

"I've got a golden ticket," Bendon sings, flopping forward, and Spencer quickly grabs him under his arms to keep him upright. He's flushed and messy-haired and he's got this sloppy grin stretching his face, and Spencer tries very hard not to grin back. "I've got a golden twinkle in my Joooe."

Brendon's chorus is echoed by a deeper voice somewhere out of view, and maybe Spencer does grin then.

"Robert, wait," Beckett says, turning away. "Wait, wait, you're going the wrong way." And then he mutters something about being, "distressingly sober and how is that even possible?" as he wanders off, still calling for Bryar.

Spencer shakes his head. "Come on," he says. "Bed."

"Bed, bed, bed. I love bed."

Brendon drunk is pretty adorable. Spencer's never ever going to tell him that, though, and he pushes at Brendon's shoulder until his feet start moving, until he sort of lurches towards the mattress and collapses onto his face. The snoring starts even before Spencer's wrestled off both his boots.

*

"Special delivery for Joe," Bill says when Joe opens his door, and then he punches a slightly swaying Bob on the upper arm and flounces off.

"I broke you," Bob says, staring at Joe's head.

Joe winces, touches his bandaged forehead with light fingers. Saying he fainted in terror and hit his head on a rock isn't really any cooler than saying he'd been attacked by a rogue slag. "Just an accident on the mainland."

Bob frowns. "Who was watching you?" He leans forward, way too far into Joe's space.

Joe holds up his hands. "Wheeler and—are you drunk?"

"Yes?" Bob's frown deepens. "Are you sure I didn't break you?"

"Bob—" Joe staggers as Bob steps up close and wraps his arms around him. "No," Joe says entirely too softly, but something's lodged uncomfortably in his throat.

"Sorry," Bob mumbles, breath hot and sticky with alcohol along the side of his face.

"It's, um." Joe's hands come up to grip the back of Bob's shirt. He's not exactly sure what he's supposed to say.

Bob says, "Sorry," again, and Joe feels his mouth open and close at his temple, feels the faint kiss.

Joe's really, really confused. "Why?"

Bob hums against his cheek, shuffles his feet a little, arms still banded tight around Joe. Then he tilts his head back and blinks down at him blearily. "Tell me who broke your head."

"What?"

"Who—who d'I have to kill for—"

"Bob, hey, dude," Joe pushes against his chest. "This isn't. You don't have to do this."

Bob's arms slacken slightly. "Okay." He clears his throat, and Joe thinks maybe Bob's not as drunk as he wants Joe to believe.

"I'm." Joe shrugs, feels his cheeks blush. "I'll be okay, man. You don't have to—"

"Fuck."

"What?"

"Beckett was right," Bob says, voice thick. "I really." Bob pauses, and Joe's feeling a burn, a growing flare of irritation, because normally when shit like this happens his ex isn't in his face all the time afterwards and Joe knows it's a hazard of attempting relationships on Atlantis, yeah, but Bob's seriously pushing now.

"Stop, just. Stop it, Bob," Joe says, struggling a little. "You should sleep this off."

Bob lets him go and Joe gives a sigh of relief, but then Bob's hands are on his face instead, big palms cradling his cheeks.

"Hey," Bob says. "I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that," Joe says weakly, anger sort of seeping out of him as Bob stares him down. Bob's eyes are a little out of focus, but his mouth is set.

"I'm an asshole."

Joe swallows hard, uncomfortable, because Bob and conversations like this just don't mix well in Joe's head. He tries to jerk out of Bob's grip, but Bob doesn't let him go, just sort of smushes his face.

"Bob," Joe says, reaching up to tug at his wrists.

"Yeah, um." Bob drops his hands, palms the back of his neck.

It's awkward and weird and Joe just wants to curl up under his covers and, like, fucking sob or something, because apparently he's a giant girl.

And then Bob mumbles something like, "Can we go back to the way it was before?" and Bob had fucking hurt Joe, and he hadn't even let Joe say anything, so no.

"No," Joe says, and Bob's eyes. Bob's fucking eyes are bare and raw for a millisecond, long enough to punch Joe in the gut, and then he's his old stoic self again.

Bob nods. "Right—"

"You'll have to start over," Joe says, and he's not sure he meant to say that, but he's going to go with it anyway.

Bob freezes. "What?"

Joe says, "You just have to figure out how," and then he thinks the door closed and collapses against it, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in this throat. He smiles. He's totally gonna make Bob work.

*

"Gabe," William crosses his arms over his chest, "tell me something true." He's had just enough to drink to make him recklessly brave, and confronting Gabe seems like an excellent idea.

Gabe arches an eyebrow, leans up against his doorjamb. "What?"

"Tell me you haven't been cockblocking me," William says, because it's all falling into place now. Captain Gabe has maliciously decided that William should never ever get laid again.

"Billiam—"

"No, no, don't you Billiam me, Captain Gabe. I am furious with you." He jabs a finger into Gabe's chest. "You are my very best friend, and you've been warning off all my potential suitors and beating up—" William cuts himself off and blinks at Gabe.

Gabe doesn't look the least chagrined. He looks expectant, and William is possibly the densest person to ever step foot on Atlantis, with the possible exception of Ritter, who happens to think Wheeler is just that accident prone - the whole infirmary's like a soap saga, actually, what with that new medic, DeLeon, being a paranoid, clumsy mess over that baby-faced corporal dating that other new medic, Simpson, and how Biro's taken to wearing low-necked shirts around DeLeon despite being at least ten years his senior, and William knows entirely too much of the goings-on in Atlantis' sickbay, and it's all besides the point. William is dense and that rat bastard Lacey had been right. "Well," William says, deflating a little. "Well, shit."

"Bill?"

"You realize you've taken a circular route," William says. He's maybe pouting.

There's an extra sharp edge to Gabe's grin. "Oh, but I've certainly had a lot of fun."

"Typical." William's lips twitch, even though he is so not amused. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Gabe curls a fist in the front of William's science jacket and tugs him forward, smirking against his mouth when William tips his face up to meet him. "You want to come in, Bill?" Gabe asks, their lips brushing.

William's all shivery and pleased and his cheeks heat. "I believe I do, Captain Gabe," he says. "I think that would be lovely."

Next: Allotropy

 

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