Fic: Domestics
Apr. 27th, 2006 04:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneShiny links:
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fatuorum made a gorgeous manip for the Four Quarters-verse. (wychwood, is that what we're calling it? Help me come up with a better name!)
*anna_luna drew an illustration for Are You Experienced? which features Rodney's naked ass. If I can inspire more people to draw Rodney's naked ass, then I will have lived a rich and valuable life indeed.
*Also, for those sorry, sorry souls who missed it,notpoetry wrote me How to Tie a Bow Tie, based on this photo (which I'm now thinking might be a First Monday publicity shot--what do you think?) and my desire for academic AUs. I promised fic in return.
And here it is.
Title: Domestics
Rating: PG
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~1300 words
Summary: Two people, three worlds, and life as a series of not-so-pointless tasks.
A/N: Fornotpoetry, who asked for a John/Rodney domestic story. “For varying values of ‘domestic,’” she said, and hopefully, I listened.
Domestics
I. EARTH
John was watching Rodney pack his suitcase, slowly and carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he was ever coming back.
Earlier, he’d helped Rodney carry a load of laundry up the stairs. It lay between them on the bed, soft smell of warm cotton and the brand of detergent Rodney used. John wanted to stick his nose in it, but that would be inappropriate. Not something that friends did.
Friends didn’t generally watch friends carefully fold their underwear, either, but then John supposed that the rules changed once you had been to another galaxy and back. Or were Rodney McKay.
Rodney was looking down at two t-shirts, one draped over the left, the other over the right hand. “I don’t know,” he said for the third time. “Which should I bring?”
John looked at the two shirts. They were both black. John approved of that much. They also both had white writing on them. One said, “There’s no place like 127.0.0.1”; the other, “Resistance is futile (if <1 ohm).”
“Um,” said John. “Neither?”
“Oh, brilliant, Major,” said Rodney, defiantly stuffing both shirts into his bag. “I’ll just run around Atlantis naked, shall I?”
John gulped. “Colonel,” he said.
Rodney waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever.” It was such bullshit. Last night, when John had told him the news, Rodney had practically glowed.
It was all such bullshit. They were standing at either side of Rodney’s bed, with his unfolded laundry and all this other crap between them—stuff they hadn’t needed, not for an entire year. They certainly didn’t need it standing in their way now.
He felt a flush of recklessness as he clambered up onto the bed. “Hey!” said Rodney. “Those are clean, I just washed—” But John pushed the laundry aside and found the shirt that Rodney was wearing. Plain grey cotton, soft under his hands as they fisted it, drew him close.
“Oh,” said Rodney, tasting him. Then tasting him again, and again, and again.
They rolled through Rodney’s clean clothes, the bed creaking beneath them. Rodney pushed John back into a pillow of warm cloth, still hot from the dryer, or warmed by the press of bodies. “Resistance,” he breathed.
“Is futile,” John agreed. Although clutching Rodney tightly to him, what he was really thinking was: There’s no place like home.
II. ATLANTIS
The sheets were crumpled and askew, the air heavy with the smell of sex. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots. If he turned around, he knew he’d see Rodney still sitting there, blankets pooled around his middle. He knew he’d see the mark he had left above Rodney’s collarbone, bright red press and suck of lips. Rodney would have to be extra careful for a few days, not wear low-necked shirts.
They had to be so careful.
He could feel Rodney’s eyes on his back as he strapped on his sidearm. His voice hollow and low, “You better get going. It’s late. Or rather, it’s early.” Sky pinking outside the curtains. “Very, very early.”
He turned around. Kissed Rodney quickly. It had to be quick—there was no in between for him. Fast and quick or long and dangerous. Clinging tenaciously, unable to let go—he was that kind of guy.
“See you,” he said, and started for the door.
In the doorway, he made his usual, fatal, mistake. Like Orpheus, he turned around. Looked back. Rodney didn’t disappear, however: he was sitting exactly where John had left him, pulling at the messy blankets, starting to tug the ends together. John stared at the twisted sheet, at the pillows, squashed with the imprint of a pair of heads. Pretty soon Rodney would rise alone and shake them out, until they were smooth and white again. Untouched.
It had to be done, but John didn’t like it, or the leaving. He was sick of it, sick of lying back on sheets cleaned by another’s hand, and leaving behind nothing but an unmade bed.
“Here,” he said suddenly, turning around. “Let me help you.”
Plumping the pillows together, John smoothed until every last crease was gone. But Rodney’s fingers brushed his as they set each pillow at the top of the bed. Side by side, secure in the secrets hidden by crisp white sheets.
III. ALPHA
In the fall, he raked the leaves from the lawn and in winter, he shoveled snow. In spring, he cut the grass (by hand), and in the summer, he watered it. He did all of this, season after season, and yet still on some level he really couldn’t believe that this was it, his life. Staring up at the alien sky with two suns, and no gate to step back through, into more familiar climes.
He liked to think he handled it better than Rodney did. Rodney was a genius but he still wasn’t brilliant enough to build a whole civilization up from nothing. Not an equal one, anyway: he and Radek had rigged ways to purify the water, and to get them some cursory power. But it was erratic, and they had to set priorities, make sacrifices. They learned to blow out the candle before they went to bed.
They made candles. John and the remaining Marines: made candles and cut down trees and built the houses they lived in, the living quarters and the big communal kitchens. They were all of them still clinging, in each other’s pockets, but some people had started to branch away, set up homes of their own. Rodney complained again and again about the lack of indoor plumbing, and John couldn’t give him that, but he could build him his own outhouse off the cabin John found himself spending more and more time in until he finally had to admit it was shared.
John liked to think he was handling it better than Rodney, who missed flush toilets and Minesweeper and MREs. But sometimes he would catch himself staring up into space, looking not for Earth but for Atlantis’ star, and the fact that it was gone never stopped him searching.
He paused, now, with his hands curled around the handle of the rake and his chin balanced on the rounded top. He could hear Rodney approaching, crunching footsteps across the fallen leaves. Neither of them said anything, but Rodney wrapped strong arms around his back, and they just stood for a while, feeling the warm weight of the suns.
“I should finish up,” John said finally, reluctantly. But he let Rodney take the rake from his hands, prop it up against the base of a nearby tree.
“It’ll keep,” Rodney said, and tumbled him over into the leaves.
Rodney was leaner these days—they all were—but still the weight of him knocked the breath out of John. “Ooof,” he said, coughing a leaf out his mouth, pushing on Rodney’s shoulder until they were side by side in the pile. Rodney was grinning, hopeful and a little too hesitant, so John did what he ought to do, what he wanted to, and grinned back.
They were kissing, John working his hand up under Rodney’s sweater, Rodney complaining about leaves worming their way down the back of his pants, when they heard footsteps. John looked up, still not—good at, used to this. But it was only Lorne and Parrish, walking side by side, sampling the last of the autumn fruit. Lorne gave an abstracted wave, then turned back to watch Parrish bite into an almost-apple: the sharp crack of teeth breaking skin, then the explosion of juice that John could almost taste, in his own mouth, in Rodney’s.
He rolled and licked at Rodney’s chin, tasting sweetness there; and in the trees and the grass; and in the twin suns, spinning above them, high in the sky.
tzeentch, jaebi_lit, someinstant, megolas, and randomeliza—you can all still request something if you want it. I can't promise I'll be this fast, but I'll add your prompts to the (ever-growing) list.
*
fatuorum made a gorgeous manip for the Four Quarters-verse. (wychwood, is that what we're calling it? Help me come up with a better name!)*
anna_luna drew an illustration for Are You Experienced? which features Rodney's naked ass. If I can inspire more people to draw Rodney's naked ass, then I will have lived a rich and valuable life indeed.*Also, for those sorry, sorry souls who missed it,
notpoetry wrote me How to Tie a Bow Tie, based on this photo (which I'm now thinking might be a First Monday publicity shot--what do you think?) and my desire for academic AUs. I promised fic in return.And here it is.
Title: Domestics
Rating: PG
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~1300 words
Summary: Two people, three worlds, and life as a series of not-so-pointless tasks.
A/N: For
notpoetry, who asked for a John/Rodney domestic story. “For varying values of ‘domestic,’” she said, and hopefully, I listened.Domestics
I. EARTH
John was watching Rodney pack his suitcase, slowly and carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he was ever coming back.
Earlier, he’d helped Rodney carry a load of laundry up the stairs. It lay between them on the bed, soft smell of warm cotton and the brand of detergent Rodney used. John wanted to stick his nose in it, but that would be inappropriate. Not something that friends did.
Friends didn’t generally watch friends carefully fold their underwear, either, but then John supposed that the rules changed once you had been to another galaxy and back. Or were Rodney McKay.
Rodney was looking down at two t-shirts, one draped over the left, the other over the right hand. “I don’t know,” he said for the third time. “Which should I bring?”
John looked at the two shirts. They were both black. John approved of that much. They also both had white writing on them. One said, “There’s no place like 127.0.0.1”; the other, “Resistance is futile (if <1 ohm).”
“Um,” said John. “Neither?”
“Oh, brilliant, Major,” said Rodney, defiantly stuffing both shirts into his bag. “I’ll just run around Atlantis naked, shall I?”
John gulped. “Colonel,” he said.
Rodney waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever.” It was such bullshit. Last night, when John had told him the news, Rodney had practically glowed.
It was all such bullshit. They were standing at either side of Rodney’s bed, with his unfolded laundry and all this other crap between them—stuff they hadn’t needed, not for an entire year. They certainly didn’t need it standing in their way now.
He felt a flush of recklessness as he clambered up onto the bed. “Hey!” said Rodney. “Those are clean, I just washed—” But John pushed the laundry aside and found the shirt that Rodney was wearing. Plain grey cotton, soft under his hands as they fisted it, drew him close.
“Oh,” said Rodney, tasting him. Then tasting him again, and again, and again.
They rolled through Rodney’s clean clothes, the bed creaking beneath them. Rodney pushed John back into a pillow of warm cloth, still hot from the dryer, or warmed by the press of bodies. “Resistance,” he breathed.
“Is futile,” John agreed. Although clutching Rodney tightly to him, what he was really thinking was: There’s no place like home.
II. ATLANTIS
The sheets were crumpled and askew, the air heavy with the smell of sex. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots. If he turned around, he knew he’d see Rodney still sitting there, blankets pooled around his middle. He knew he’d see the mark he had left above Rodney’s collarbone, bright red press and suck of lips. Rodney would have to be extra careful for a few days, not wear low-necked shirts.
They had to be so careful.
He could feel Rodney’s eyes on his back as he strapped on his sidearm. His voice hollow and low, “You better get going. It’s late. Or rather, it’s early.” Sky pinking outside the curtains. “Very, very early.”
He turned around. Kissed Rodney quickly. It had to be quick—there was no in between for him. Fast and quick or long and dangerous. Clinging tenaciously, unable to let go—he was that kind of guy.
“See you,” he said, and started for the door.
In the doorway, he made his usual, fatal, mistake. Like Orpheus, he turned around. Looked back. Rodney didn’t disappear, however: he was sitting exactly where John had left him, pulling at the messy blankets, starting to tug the ends together. John stared at the twisted sheet, at the pillows, squashed with the imprint of a pair of heads. Pretty soon Rodney would rise alone and shake them out, until they were smooth and white again. Untouched.
It had to be done, but John didn’t like it, or the leaving. He was sick of it, sick of lying back on sheets cleaned by another’s hand, and leaving behind nothing but an unmade bed.
“Here,” he said suddenly, turning around. “Let me help you.”
Plumping the pillows together, John smoothed until every last crease was gone. But Rodney’s fingers brushed his as they set each pillow at the top of the bed. Side by side, secure in the secrets hidden by crisp white sheets.
III. ALPHA
In the fall, he raked the leaves from the lawn and in winter, he shoveled snow. In spring, he cut the grass (by hand), and in the summer, he watered it. He did all of this, season after season, and yet still on some level he really couldn’t believe that this was it, his life. Staring up at the alien sky with two suns, and no gate to step back through, into more familiar climes.
He liked to think he handled it better than Rodney did. Rodney was a genius but he still wasn’t brilliant enough to build a whole civilization up from nothing. Not an equal one, anyway: he and Radek had rigged ways to purify the water, and to get them some cursory power. But it was erratic, and they had to set priorities, make sacrifices. They learned to blow out the candle before they went to bed.
They made candles. John and the remaining Marines: made candles and cut down trees and built the houses they lived in, the living quarters and the big communal kitchens. They were all of them still clinging, in each other’s pockets, but some people had started to branch away, set up homes of their own. Rodney complained again and again about the lack of indoor plumbing, and John couldn’t give him that, but he could build him his own outhouse off the cabin John found himself spending more and more time in until he finally had to admit it was shared.
John liked to think he was handling it better than Rodney, who missed flush toilets and Minesweeper and MREs. But sometimes he would catch himself staring up into space, looking not for Earth but for Atlantis’ star, and the fact that it was gone never stopped him searching.
He paused, now, with his hands curled around the handle of the rake and his chin balanced on the rounded top. He could hear Rodney approaching, crunching footsteps across the fallen leaves. Neither of them said anything, but Rodney wrapped strong arms around his back, and they just stood for a while, feeling the warm weight of the suns.
“I should finish up,” John said finally, reluctantly. But he let Rodney take the rake from his hands, prop it up against the base of a nearby tree.
“It’ll keep,” Rodney said, and tumbled him over into the leaves.
Rodney was leaner these days—they all were—but still the weight of him knocked the breath out of John. “Ooof,” he said, coughing a leaf out his mouth, pushing on Rodney’s shoulder until they were side by side in the pile. Rodney was grinning, hopeful and a little too hesitant, so John did what he ought to do, what he wanted to, and grinned back.
They were kissing, John working his hand up under Rodney’s sweater, Rodney complaining about leaves worming their way down the back of his pants, when they heard footsteps. John looked up, still not—good at, used to this. But it was only Lorne and Parrish, walking side by side, sampling the last of the autumn fruit. Lorne gave an abstracted wave, then turned back to watch Parrish bite into an almost-apple: the sharp crack of teeth breaking skin, then the explosion of juice that John could almost taste, in his own mouth, in Rodney’s.
He rolled and licked at Rodney’s chin, tasting sweetness there; and in the trees and the grass; and in the twin suns, spinning above them, high in the sky.
tzeentch, jaebi_lit, someinstant, megolas, and randomeliza—you can all still request something if you want it. I can't promise I'll be this fast, but I'll add your prompts to the (ever-growing) list.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-27 10:35 pm (UTC)Those caps are beautiful and bowties are now forever sexy...