Rodney finds the fresh vegetable aisle of the local
supermarket fascinating and intimidating. He trails
after John, who pushes a cart with a wheel that wanders to the left
like a wall-eye, casually picking out green things, shoving them in
plastic bags that miraculously open
for him on the first try and dropping them into the cart. It's amazing
and remarkably sexy, just like watching him fry eggs had been the first
morning Rodney'd been back from Antarctica. Butter lettuce, radishes,
carrots, parsnips, onions, eggplants, mushrooms, tomatillos (which look
like they should come from another planet in Rodney's opinion), yellow
and red peppers, they all join each other in the grocery cart.
"Admit it, you have no idea what to do with half of these things," he says. "And why can't we have something normal, like potatoes?"
John shrugs one shoulder, adding tomatoes to the bounty. "Sure, they're right over there," he replies. "Get some sweet potatoes, too, okay? I'll make a pie."
Rodney grumbles, but the prospect of pie, in any form (even potato), moves him.
"Since when do you cook?" he asks. He's always imagined Sheppard subsisting on MREs, cafeteria food and take-out. That's all he's ever seen him do. But that's Sheppard and this is John and he's beginning to see they aren't exactly the same man. Or maybe John was always there, wrapped up carefully and stowed inside the outer trappings of Sheppard.
He sets the bags of baking potatoes and sweet potatoes in the cart. The pointy ends of the sweet potatoes have already pierced the thin, clear plastic of the bag. Rodney frowns at them. Honestly, a paper bag would work better.
"I took a cooking class," John tells him.
Rodney gapes at him, standing under the unpleasant fluorescent lights of a market so large there are sparrows or something flittering around the rafters. John shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the faded denim of his old jeans stretching over long thighs and clinging over his sharp hipbones, loose enough at the waist that his thin, blue-white dress shirt threatens to come untucked. As good as he looks to Rodney, the lines are there around his eyes, and the dark, messy hair is shot with threads of white. Time hasn't stood still for John, either. He hasn't spent the last three years in stasis, even if he was waiting for Rodney to come back.
He wishes desperately that he hadn't realized that, because now he's wondering. There were no promises between them, not even implicit. Rodney slept with Vigdis Svensdottir and he has to wonder how many people John slept with and how uncomfortable it would have been if he'd come back while John was involved with someone. The pinpricks of jealousy, tiny and toxic as thistle thorns, torment him.
John's ducked his head and actually kicks the cockeyed wheel of the grocery cart. "Cat's not exactly a conversationalist," he mutters. "I started getting crazy after the first year back. It was something to do."
"What about the people at the SGC?" Rodney asks. He wonders if he hasn't forced John to give up his entire circle of friends as well as co-workers, though John hasn't said anything and no one has called or dropped by the apartment. To hell with it, they'll make new friends. They'll move to San Francisco and walk in parades and get rings if that's what John wants.
John's mouth, that's been smiling so much in the last weeks, thins into an unhappy line. "Mitchell's okay, but..." He shrugs again. "The rest of them, not so much. Too much history or something. No room."
Rodney reaches out, thinking, 'I can do this now, screw the woman in Aisle Four staring at us, I get to have this, to do this for me and for John,' and curves his palm over the back of John's neck. They don't have to go to San Francisco. He leaves it there, pressing gently, circling his thumb. John turns his head and Rodney feels the vertebrae under the skin move. He tightens his grip and John slowly relaxes and sways toward him.
"You better not be lying about knowing how to cook," Rodney says, embarrassed by how rusty his voice sounds, but his throat is closed up and aching. "It's starting to snow out there and I wouldn't lay a bet, even with your insane luck, that anyone will be able to deliver anything by the weekend."
"Not lying," John tells him, giving him a sultry smile and the lowered eyelashes look full of promise. "And you already know I can cook."
"It's a good thing you're pretty, because you have the worst lines of anyone I've ever met," Rodney laughs and finally lets go, shoving his hand, still warm from John's skin, into his pants' pocket. "I'll meet you at the check-out, I'm going to get some things I bet you won't think of."
John rolls his eyes. "We aren't going to starve to death over the weekend, Rodney. I know how to shop."
Rodney just grins and strolls off. He'll probably grab a few other things just annoy John, but he's headed for the pharmacy section to pick up every sort of lube they sell and enough condoms for a month. Well, maybe a week, if they do end up snowed in. One of the nice things about sex is that it doesn't take electricity.
He ends up buying chocolate, all sorts of it that he didn't have in Antarctica and hadn't even realized he missed. Quality stuff, not the almost acrid Hershey's he knows John would pick up if left to his own devices, cream and organic milk, a package of maple cookies, then, reminded, after a detour, a bottle of real maple syrup, and a package of raw turkey burger to bribe Cat into remembering that she belongs to Rodney and is supposed to like him better.
John has the back of the Jeep filled with grocery bags, enough to make Rodney think he took him seriously about the thick, wet flakes that are floating down, tinted an eerie orange by the halogen parking lot lights that have already come on despite the early hour. A couple of inches have already accumulated on the roof and hood of the Jeep, and they catch in John's hair and on the tips of his eyelashes as he finishes loading bags inside. Rodney drops his purchases behind the passenger seat and scrambles inside. It isn't cold compared to Antarctica, but he sees no reason to get wet when he doesn't need to.
"Turn the heat on," he tells John as soon as he's in the Jeep too and has turned the ignition key.
John looks at him, mouth curving up, and shakes his head. "I can't believe you can complain about the cold here after three years in Antarctica." He switches the heat onto high once the engine has warmed up, though, even before switching on the headlights and cautiously driving out of the parking lot.
Rodney sniffs. "It's not like I hiked to Mt. Erebus every week. I spent my time in the labs — "
"That explains the fabulous tan," John says dryly.
"I don't tan and you know it," he shoots back, shifting his seatbelt so the cross strap doesn't cut into his neck. It still amazes him that the automotive industry has succeeded in designing something that will be uncomfortable for anyone, no matter what their height. "I just get red."
Not like John, who turns a warm olive-gold and gets ruddy lights in his hair. And apparently never heard of dressing for the weather, since he's just wearing a light jacket over his shirt, and running shoes. The man needs a keeper.
The flat tire signals itself with a thump-thump judder that runs up through the Jeep's frame, accompanied by John's curse, but he gets them safely pulled over onto the roadside, the passenger side slewed into an already snow-filled gutter.
They both stare out at the snow coming steadily down, thick and white, obscuring anything beyond half a block and rapidly piling up everywhere.
With a sigh, John lifts his hands away from the wheel, then turns off the engine. The Jeep ticks in the comparative silence afterward. The snow comes down soundlessly, drifting at a slant that means wind. "No use both of us getting wet and dirty. Stay in the jeep and I'll change the tire."
"Or I could call AAA and we could both stay dry inside until someone comes," Rodney suggests, pulling out his cell.
John shakes his head.
"What?"
"I don't have AAA."
"Why not?" Rodney demands.
"Well, I can change my own damn tires for one and have it done before they'd get anyone to us, anyway," John snaps. The inside of the Jeep is already gray, but he sees John grimace in disgust.
It's Rodney's turn to roll his eyes. "Fine. Get to it, you big macho man."
John gives him the finger before sliding out the door.
A flood of cold follows a moment later, as John opens the back hatch and starts shifting bags and muttering.
"What the hell are you doing?" Rodney demanded, turning to look over the seat back. John lifts his head. "Getting the jack and the tire iron out. I lack the ability to will lug nuts and hubcaps off with the sheer power of my mind."
"Oh."
"Yes, and the tool box is buried under the supplies for a regular siege..." John trails off on the word siege.
"Well, you can hardly blame me for that," Rodney says. "I'm not the one who put it there."
"No." With a pleased grunt, John uncovers the toolbox and pulls it out, followed by a bumper jack.
"Do you know how dangerous those things are if they slip?" Rodney immediately demands, eyeing the jack. "I'm not the Hulk, don't expect me to lift this Jeep off you."
John gives him a narrow-eyed look. "Do you want to do this?"
"No, no."
"I've never had a jack slip unless some idiot hit the release," John adds.
Rodney peers around the the Jeep. Darkness is pressing in around them, evening setting in fast thanks to the heavy storm clouds. The snow is piling up fast, too.
"Fine, okay, just be careful."
"Fifteen minutes," John promises.
The entire Jeep rocks a minute later as John wrestles the spare off and leaves it leaning against the driver's side of the Jeep. The flat would have to be on the driver's side. The emergency lights are on, blinking red over the snow, but Rodney still watches for cars in the rearview mirror, worried a driver will miss seeing John in the gloom and sideswipe him.
In the headlights, cutting through the deepening dusk, the snow dances to the ground in huge flakes, some almost as big as eggs. The road shines slick black with dirty gray streaks. Wet snow. Slush. Rodney's mouth turns down in disgust.
He opens the door a couple of inches when he hears the back hatch open and slam shut again, cutting off the draft from the rear. The damp cold creeps inside, settling and sinking straight into his bones. "You know," he says once he sees John in the side mirror, "I’d have thought that in March, there’d be no more snow."
"Colorado, remember?" John grunts. "Lot of exciting weather. Unpredictable."
A couple of flakes drift through the open door and melt on the back of Rodney's hand into small, cold droplets. He shakes the hand vigorously. He’s seen enough snow for three lifetimes during the years in Antarctica. Glares at the snowflakes and pulls the door closed as far as he can without losing the sound of John tinkering with the jack, slotting the handle into place and checking the action, a slim shadow of movement in the mirror. Objects may be nearer than they appear. He likes John nearer, as in next to him.
"If I had wanted any more of it, I could have stayed in Antarctica."
John grunts and curses as he comes around the back of the Jeep. Rodney looks just at the right moment to see him slide on the slush and fall on his ass. He closes the passenger door and slides into the driver's seat, before cocking that door open and peering out, while biting back a grin. "You were supposed to change the tire, not—"
"If you don’t want to walk home, you had better not finish that sentence, McKay."
There is a wet noise when John pushes himself up again. He latches one hand onto the handle of the passenger door to keep his balance and Rodney realize the slush on the road is starting to freeze into ice. The cold cuts into the skin of his face and he notes John's face and hands are already red from it. John's faded jeans look dark blue at the cuffs and on his knees and ass. A crown of snow has settled on his hair. With a sudden, strange feeling of melancholy, Rodney has a vision of how John will look like in thirty years, his lean body drawn fine and fragile, time-brittle.
The clank of iron on steel shakes him from his reverie. Rodney fidgets in the seat, curls his toes in his boots. The cold keeps creeping in, but he's still unwilling to close the door completely. After all, John's out there, doing the work. Which, granted, he volunteered to do, but still. He pushes at the door again. "Hey, do you want some music? People tend to work faster when they listen to music. I know I do. Bach is great, but only the Brandenburg concertos, not the heavy organ pieces. Then again – what?"
John has let the tire iron sink to the ground and is looking at him, smiling. His eyes are barely visible in the snow-swirling dark. him. "What?" Rodney asks again.
John shakes his head, still smiling, making snow slide under the collar of his jacket and off his shoulders. He shudders but doesn’t lose the smile. "I missed you," he says, so simply that it shakes Rodney to core.
Rodney doesn’t blush. He never does. Never. It’s a rule. "Keep working, macho-man," he says, but can’t quite keep the answering smile from spreading on his face.
He hears John trying to loosen the lug nuts with a great amount of grunting and slipping and cursing and remarks about anal-retentive mechanics with air wrenches. The snow keeps falling, slowly coating the windshield. Rodney looks into the rear-view mirror and suddenly freezes watching a pair of tail-lights slew sideways at a stop sign. He leans over and pushes at the door. "The safety triangle!" he says. "Did you put one on the street? At least 35 meters away from the car?"
John doesn’t answer.
"Hey, did you hear me? This is about your own safety, so don’t start ignoring me now!" It's a valid worry to have on the icy road with the other car having swerved earlier. The idea of a car side-swiping John when Rodney has only just— He makes an effort not to finish the thought. Instead he gets out of the car, checks the street, finds the triangle standing in the proper distance from the car, huffs and heads the few meters back to the car. He peers around the corner, seeing John kneeling on the wet ground, still trying to loosen the lugs.
"Sonovabitch," John swears and puts his shoulders into it, nearly slamming face first into the side of the Jeep when the nut finally gives away abruptly. He spins it loose, but not off the bolt and repeats the process on the opposite lug as Rodney watches.
John must feel Rodney's gaze on him. He looks up, narrow-eyed, as though sensing Rodney standing there, watching him. His face is red from the cold and the exertion, and it takes Rodney a while to take his eyes off the stretch of the wet denim over John’s ass and lift them to John's equally enticing mouth. Which is set in a hard line, he notices.
"Get in or stay out, but don’t even think about fidgeting around when I’m jacking this thing up." John’s voice is flat as he pushes against the tire iron with nothing short of brute force. The last lug nut comes loose easier than the rest.
Wind pushes snow into his face and Rodney shivers, pulling up his collar. He remembers why John is changing the tire alone out here, and decides to get back in the car. No need for both of them to be cold and wet.
Rodney turns on the windscreen wipers and sees the headlights cutting through the night and the snow falling sideways while John retrieves the jack and gets it in place at the rear driver's side. Calculations running through his head, he wonders how long the lights will last before the battery dies. The result does nothing to put him at ease. He hopes the Jeep's battery is relatively new and has a good charge.
He fidgets, tapping his fingers against the glove compartment. Rubs his hands. Blows in them. Tries to remember where he left his gloves and if he even brought them from Antarctica. Turns around in his seat to look through the bag with the chocolates that he’d put on the backseat. The car shifts a little and he snaps back to the front, double-checking the emergency handbrake.
The driver’s side door opens and John’s face appears. "If you want sex tonight or anytime this week, you stop moving right now."
Rodney lifts his hands, then folds them in his lap and goes stock-still. He’s a smart man, after all, and John doesn’t make empty threats. And he has a bag of assorted lubes and condoms among his other purchases. Scientific method requires that they try them all, possibly more than once, to see which brands they like best.
For a few moments, the noises from outside cease, then there is the nauseating motion of the Jeep being jacked up slowly, inch by inch. It lists forward and to his side and Rodney can’t help checking the handbrake again.
He bites his own tongue to keep from voicing the stream of worried information about jacks and the likelihood of one failing or slipping. He thinks of John’s back gilded in sunlight yesterday morning and running his hand over John’s warm, smooth skin, touching in long and slow caresses, with wonder, just because he now could. The thin white scar at the base of his skull, where the Goa'uld entered in, that the hair covers. The other scars that happened when Rodney wasn't there. He wants equally to memorize them all and watch them fade into memory.
He hears John work the flat tire off and the thump of it dropping to the pavement.
"Do you have it?" he yells. Not moving. Now would be a good time to not move, when the Jeep is sitting on the jack alone and John's hands are in the wheel well.
"Give me a minute to check… Damn it."
"What?" Rodney’s heart begins to race. "Did you hurt yourself, you overgrown Huck Finn?"
Another thump of a tire hitting the pavement, then John opens the driver’s door fully. He extends both hands, black with tire dirt and grease, showing Rodney that he’s still whole and healthy, if soaked now. "The spare's flat."
"What?" Rodney exclaims before he can sensor himself. "What kind of a spare tire is flat? What kind of idiot doesn't check that it's—"
John narrows his eyes again. "Hey."
Rodney sighs.
"Tell me you have an air compressor, at least?"
John bites his lower lip, pulling a grimace. "Hand pump."
Rodney drops his head in his hands. "Welcome to the middle ages."
"Gee, thanks, Rodney."
Rodney feels tongue-tied suddenly, not knowing how to take his words back, not knowing how to be more encouraging, so he does the only thing he can think of at the moment: he holds out a bar of Swiss chocolate to John.
John looks at it for a long time, then he starts to laugh, that dopey, braying laugh Rodney thought annoyed him until he stopped hearing it. "Stay in here, I’ll pump up the spare. Keep your chocolate."
It takes John the better part of half an hour. He puts the spare on before he pumps it up. When he finally releases the jack and the Jeep sinks back down on four wheels, Rodney lets himself move a little. Even with the key flipped over to accessory to operate the headlights and wipers, without the engine running, there's no heat in the Jeep, and his fingers are cold. John opens the back hatch and slings the flat inside, then tosses in the jack and tire iron more carelessly than Rodney would have anticipated. When he appears at the passenger door, tapping against the glass next to Rodney's head, he is completely soaked, has caked snow that is not longer melting on his hair, and his lips are beginning to turn blue.
Rodney gapes at him for a instant, slips out of his seat, takes off John’s jacket and gives him his own, despite the cold wind, then helps John to sit in the passenger seat. John's jacket is tossed into the back as he makes some objecting noise through chattering teeth, while hunching down into Rodney's coat. Rodney puts a hand to his cheek, feels John’s skin icy cold and calls John and himself every kind of idiot alive. "I had completely forgotten your insane, feckless disregard for personal safety," he complains. "You're freezing."
John stutters something about snow that doesn't even make sense.
"Stay there," Rodney orders.
The icy air and the snow cut right through Rodney's clothes without his coat. He closes the passenger door and rounds the Jeep in a small sprint, scrambling into the driver's seat and starting it, turning up the heat to full blast. The first burst of air is cold and makes him wince. "If you catch pneumonia, I will wring your neck," he mutters.
John doesn’t answer. He's a big ball of shivering misery as Rodney reaches across him and affixes his seatbelt. He glares at Rodney, but doesn't even try to fumble at the buckle himself, instead stuffing his hands in his armpits. A groan greets the first warm air from the heater vents, though, and he unclenches a little, enough that his head is lolling against the headrest by the time they're halfway back to the apartment, and his eyes are closed. Rodney drives faster than he knows he should, but his right hand on John’s knee soaks up cold and damp from John’s skin underneath the wet jeans, as more unsteady shudders run through him. Rodney feels the familiar prickling of worry on his scalp and pushes the Jeep a little faster, counting on the four-wheel drive and snow tires to keep them from skidding out.
"If yo—you pu—put us in—into a t—telephone po—pole," John says through still chattering teeth, "I'll nuh—never let yo-ou live it do-own."
"I'll have you know I grew up driving on snow," Rodney tells him, "and I'm sure I'm a safer driver than you, Mr. Speedy."
John sneezes and Rodney hits the brakes as they approach the parking lot for his apartment building. The Jeep slips for a second as he makes the turn, but the lot is actually better than the street, the snow in it almost pristine, fluffy instead of packed down and slick. He parks jerkily and actually stalls the Jeep at that point, but there's no way he'll ever admit that. Instead, he scrambles out and around, tugging and pulling and half-carrying John into foyer and up to his apartment.
Getting the keys out of the pocket of John's soaked jeans might be fun in other circumstances, but this time Rodney does it without much thought and John doesn't even comment.
Once they're inside, Rodney drags John straight into the bathroom, with a pause in the hall to crank the thermostat up and get the heat going, and begins undressing him, starting with his shoes, fighting the tight, wet laces undone. John nearly falls getting them off, clutching at the towel rack to keep himself upright.
His feet are pale, with just a dusting of dark hair on the first joint of his big toes. They're still very cold, too, almost icy. Rodney stares at them. "Have you ever heard of socks?"
"Sure."
"You just never considered using them yourself," Rodney concludes wryly. His knees hurt on the tile floor. He sits up a little and begins undoing the fly on John's pants.
"Whoa, big boy, aren't you a little eager?" John says as Rodney's peeling the jeans down. The denim is turning inside out as he goes. His boxers come down after the jeans, making Rodney scowl at the thought of how they must have felt. The man has no body fat to insulate him at all and was probably halfway to hypothermia without realizing. It's a good thing Rodney's here to take care of him now.
"That's right," Rodney says, "I'm going to ravage your ice-cold body right here on the tile. Don't be more of an idiot. Your clothes are wet." He runs his palm up the outside of John's thigh, testing the damp cool skin, disturbing the coarse hairs and making John twitch. "Just get naked." Then a hint of mischief makes him lean forward and kiss the point of John's hip, then his navel and the ticklish place on his waist, before sitting back.
John begins cooperating after that, fingers clumsy on the buttons of his shirt, until Rodney brushes them away and undoes them himself. He grimaces down at himself and laughs, "Not too impressive right now."
Rodney gets up, his knees creaking. "Get in the shower," he tells John and takes his arm to guide him in, setting the temperature and force with his free hand, then positioning John under the rush of warm water. He surveys John another moment as he ducks under the spray, the soft gleam of wet skin moving over tight muscle already beginning to loosen. John looks steady enough on his feet.
With a sigh of regret — he'd like to join John — he kicks John's wet clothes into a corner, then ducks out into the bedroom to find some warm, dry clothes. Long-sleeved T-shirt, short sleeved one — both his, he realizes — boxers, sweat pants, heavy socks.
John's out of the shower when he comes back, dripping on the tiles and shivering again as cooler air rushes into the bathroom along with Rodney. Rodney sets the clothes beside the sink and snatches away the towel in John's hand. "Lean over," he directs and rubs most of the water from John's hair. He uses a second, dry towel to begin drying him, blotting shining drops of water from his chest hair and rubbing the terry gently over John's back. John leans into Rodney's ministrations, smiling, eyes half-closed. John's beautiful, but Rodney's doing more than appreciate him, he's half-consciously checking him for damage, feeling the warmth returned to his skin as a reassurance. He dries John's shoulders and down his arms, over smooth muscled biceps and down his dark-fuzzed forearms to his wrists, surprised as always by how narrow they are for a man. Not delicate or weak, but Rodney can wrap his hands around John's wrists.
"Better?" Rodney asks as he kneels and finishes toweling down John's legs and then his feet and finally, gently, his cock and balls, holding them tenderly, feeling how warm they are.
"Sort of," John drawls. "Maybe you could kiss it?"
John's cock isn't really interested, but that's all right. It isn't all about sex, just the touch will feel good, and there's something tempting about that vulnerable, private flesh open to him. Rodney leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the base, before standing up again.
John looks bemused.
"Get dressed," Rodney orders. "We left the groceries in the Jeep."
"Sir, yes, sir," John replies, smile widening into a grin.
Rodney slaps his ass lightly, making him jump. "Not you, idiot. You are getting under a blanket and staying inside, or it will be you going without for a week. Understand?"
John reaches for the clean boxers. "You're bossy."
"You can get up and open the door for me when I get back up here," Rodney concedes and leaves John to dress.
He heads back downstairs to the Jeep and starts grabbing as many bags as he can carry at once. Then it's back in and up, leaving snow to blow in after him, trying to calculate how much stress plastic bags can take, when they've been overstuffed by an ex-Air Force officer with no patience.
Rodney shoulders the door open, both hands full of the heavy plastic bags, because, of course, John isn’t finished dressing yet. Rodney doesn’t blame him. John isn't a kid anymore and the cold seems to have exhausted him more than it should have. Enough to make Rodney worry and decide to quiz him, subtly, about his health later.
He walks to the kitchen, leaving wet footsteps on the carpet and drops the bags. They rustle as the groceries follow gravity.
The apartment has warmed up nicely, and Rodney stands in the kitchen for a few moments, listening for the noises coming from the bathroom. It sounds suspiciously as though John is using a squeegee to dry off the shower cubicle. Rodney shakes his head and grins. Anal retentive to a scary degree. Just one more thing he lo– he likes about John.
He shrugs deeper into his jacket and steps out of the warm apartment and into the hallway leading outside. The front door creaks when he opens it and puts the stopper on to hold it open. Rodney frowns at the snow now covering the Jeep completely, turning blue into pristine white that gleams and glitters in the lamplight. He pulls up his collar, zips up the jacket and steps back into the snow to retrieve the final bags. He could have just left them here until the morning, but the remaining bags, Rodney had remembered in the kitchen, contained important things for the night.
Plastic rustles when he reaches for them and bites into his fingers from the heavy contents of the bags when he lifts them from the rear cargo area. Shivering and cursing at the snow that tries to creep underneath his collar after all, he slams the hatch shut with just his fingertips and activates the remote. The Jeep locks with a soft noise and Rodney hurries back to the apartment building. He comes precariously close to slipping on the slush in front of the door, but manages to balance it out. What a picture they would have made: John nearly hypothermic and Rodney with a broken arm, both of them bitching at the snow.
Rodney grins and walks up the stairs with a spring in his step he can’t remember ever having had before. They’re home now, warm and safe. Home. The word fits for the first time in forever.
John pulls the door open just as he pushes against it with his shoulder and Rodney almost falls into the apartment. He throws John a dirty look when John sniggers at the flailing entry.
"Do you need help?"
"Not anymore," Rodney says. He walks to the kitchen and drops the last bags on the already present small white mountain of plastic bags on the brown tiles. John trails after him to the kitchen, standing with his hip cocked against the door frame, watching Rodney. Rodney pulls down the zipper of his jacket. The sound of it echoes on the kitchen tiles. He tosses the wet jacket to John. "Make yourself useful, and then get out of my kitchen."
"My kitchen."
Rodney turns around from pulling the vegetables out of the bags. "What?"
"My kitchen," John repeats.
"Technically, it’s m—" Rodney stops, clenches a hand around a yellow pepper and the scent of it reaches his nostrils. He doesn’t explain to John that technically, he still owns the kitchen. Instead, he says: "Our kitchen."
John looks up from brushing a hand over the fine droplets of molten snow on Rodney’s jacket and his mouth twitches into a small, private smile, one that manages to be more dazzling and beautiful than even his broad ones.
Rodney has to look away and clear his throat. "Weren’t you supposed to make yourself useful?"
John rolls his eyes. "Yes, mother."
Rodney throws a kitchen sponge at John’s retreating back.
He’s emptying the fourth bag and John, who’s back from the bathroom, is telling him where he should put things on the shelves and beginning to drive him up the wall when the idea hits. Every so often, John is still shivering, rubbing his hands over his arms unconsciously. Rodney decides it's a very good idea. The first step is to get the giant dork out from under his feet, though.
"Get out of here. Out, out, you’re driving me insane." Rodney takes a can from John’s hand, sets it on the counter, and ushers him into the living room. He plants him on the couch, both hands pressing firm onto John’s shoulders, thumbs resting on his collarbone, so that he sinks into the well-worn leather couch. The Afghan they napped under the first night he was back sits folded on the armrest and Rodney reaches for it, unfolding and draping it over John.
John watches Rodney as he tucks the blanket around him, amused, cheeks flushed, but he’s not moving a single finger to stop Rodney. There’s just his face visible under under the camel-colored, soft afghan, pale against his dark hair, once Rodney's done.
Rodney straightens, feels his back creak and grimaces while he looks for the remote control. He turns on the TV when he finds it, then lifts the Afghan again, just enough to push the remote underneath, and tells John, "I pay for cable, there’s bound to be some mindless sport you can watch."
John snorts and proceeds to flip through the channels and stops at a documentary about gorillas, giving Rodney a bright and sunny grin.
Rodney considers dignifying that with a reply, but decides against it.
He retreats into the kitchen and empties the fifth bag, one of his. A bottle of organic of milk tips into his hand and Rodney smiles at it. He hadn’t planned it when he had bought all the groceries, but now that he had already unpacked cocoa and brown sugar from one of the other bags, it would be criminally stupid not to. Besides, John deserves it after that evening. Not to mention he hasn't had a kitchen where he could do this for more years than he likes to think about until he bought the house in New Zealand. Even there, it had never felt right and he'd only done it once or twice.
Rodney pushes the vegetables to the side and starts rummaging through the cabinets for a pot and a jug.
"Need help?" John calls out over his shoulder, alerted by the tinking of pots.
"Watch your apes, Diane," Rodney calls back.
"At least you didn't call me King Kong," John gibes.
"You're not that impressive, though there is a certain hairy resemblance," he says as he takes a sauce pot from the cabinet next to the sink and puts it on the stove. It isn't one he remembers and he begins to believe John really did take a cooking class. It's too nice to be something John bought casually. The stove, thank god, is still gas. He’d tried heating milk on an electrical stove in New Zealand. The kitchen had still smelled of burnt milk three days after. He never tried again. The kitchen would be the second thing they remodeled when they moved there, right after the wiring and security system.
"Too bad, you'd make a mean Fay Ray," John replies with nearly giddy glee, unphazed by Rodney's slur on his manhood. "You've already got the scream down pat."
Rodney manfully ignores him and pours a generous amount of milk – full fat, none of that 0.01% crap, produced by cows that haven't been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics – into the pot and lights the stove. The hissing of the gas is calming, familiar, though it seems to come from another lifetime. One that was before wormholes and stargates and flying cities and regrets. One before the brilliance and the bitterness of exile.
He's let go of the anger, though, finally. He regrets nothing but the end. Without Atlantis, he would not be the man he is now, standing where he is now.
Rodney shakes his head against the memories and moves the pot on the fire before he turns the gas down. No use in heating milk fast, it would only rise and burn. He leaves the pot on the stove and finds the jug he was looking for in the cabinet next to his head. It’s old, earthenware and still his own. It makes Rodney wonder how much John invested into this apartment, besides a few pots and a stack of DVDs. He takes a quick step back to see what John is doing. He can’t make out much, only that the TV is still running and, from the noises, it’s still that documentary. He’s tempted to make more Diane Fossey jokes, but doesn’t. John’s head has sunk against the backrest, the blanket slipped down enough to reveal his dark, ruffled hair. It’s all that is visible of him, with the couch standing with its back toward the kitchen, but it looks as though John has fallen asleep. Rodney’d rather not wake him.
It’s only 9 p.m., but Rodney’s tired. He imagines John must feel the same. Shaking his head against a yawn, he reaches for the cocoa and the brown sugar. He takes a teaspoon and measures the dark, real cocoa into the jug, then follows it with brown sugar. The milk begins to smell sweet on the stove, indicating that it’s close to boiling, but not quite there yet.
Rodney looks out the window over the sink to his left, watches the snow still drift to the ground, quiet and steady, and remembers. He never knew his grandmother, so it wasn’t her who had taught him how to make hot chocolate. Neither had his mother, who had always gone for the store-bought mixes. It was in college when Rodney had decided that he would come up with the most perfect hot chocolate on the planet. He’d spent weeks, trying to get it right, that perfect mixture between sweetness, richness and full chocolate flavor. The night he finally made it, it felt as though he had invented the wheel for the first time in human history.
He smiles, gets two mugs from another cabinet and fills them with hot water. He's making John the best damn hot chocolate he has ever had and everything needs to be perfect, down to the temperature of the mugs.
The milk hisses against the sauce pot and Rodney turns, seeing the billowing steam rising from it. He turns the gas even lower and reaches for a whisker. Stirs, lost in the familiar procedure.
When he looks up and toward the living room again, John is looking back at him, arms folded over the back of the couch, his beard-darkened cheek resting on the back of one hand. He’s smiling.
"Lost interest in the apes?" Rodney asks, hiding the thrill it gives him that John is watching him do something as mundane as boil milk.
"You’re more interesting," John states so matter-of-factly that it takes Rodney’s breath away for a moment. "What are you doing there?"
Rodney whisks the milk that is very close to boiling now. He doesn’t look up again. Not now. Now is a dangerous time to be distracted. "Top Secret," he says. "Now watch your apes. You’ll know soon enough."
He hears John yawn and rustle around, presumably turning around to face the TV again, and a quiet, "Okay, Fay."
The milk boils shortly after and Rodney turns the gas off immediately. Then he pulls the jug with the cocoa and the brown sugar close and pours a thin rivulet of milk into the jug, stirring all the while. The ingredients combine, glistening and brown. He pours more milk on it, stirring all the while, until the cocoa has dissolved in the milk.
The scent is heavenly, and Rodney knows it’s sweet enough, but there is something he’d seen in one of the cabinets… He rummages through all of them again, finally finding what he’s looking for: a small bottle of caramel syrup. It's light in his hand, almost empty, but there's enough left that he pours a generous shot in the jug, anyway.
He stirs until the syrup has dissolved as well, then he pours away the water from the mugs and pulls them close to fill them with the steaming hot chocolate. Hot, dark and rich, with a slight smell of caramel, it's perfect. Rodney picks up both mugs, leaves everything he needed on the kitchen counter, along with most of the groceries, and steps up behind John. He can clean tomorrow.
"Hey," he says quietly, not wanting to startle John too much.
John tips his head back without shifting otherwise. "Hey."
Rodney leans over the back of the couch and offers one of the mugs. A curl of steam wavers over it. "Still cold?" he asks.
John's pushing the Afghan off enough to free his hands. "Kinda," he admits as the remote tumbles to the floor with a clatter that makes them both wince. Rodney figures it must be true, because he still has the heavy socks on and stayed under the Afghan until now. He holds onto the mug patiently until John takes it, cool fingers brushing over his for an instant, then walks around the couch and sits next to him.
John has both hands wrapped around the mug and is holding it up to his face, inhaling the sweet scent of cocoa. His eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is soft, lips parted. "Wow," he says. "This is the real thing, isn't it?"
"Of course." Rodney's almost offended. What sort of philistine has he hooked up with anyway? He supposes John uses the instant stuff made with hot water. A shudder runs through him at the very thought. But he can be educated.
John's mouth is curling up into another smile. He blows on the cocoa like a little boy, still cradling it in both hands. Rodney takes the opportunity to just watch him. A pink tongue tip darts out and moistens John's lips, telegraphing the end of anticipation as he finally raises the mug to sip.
"Be careful," Rodney says, "it really is hot, you'll burn your tongue — "
Only John, being John, has already swallowed, and is sucking in air to cool the sting, half laughing, half cursing.
" — you idiot," Rodney finishes.
"It's good," John declares and takes another, more cautious sip. "Really good." He turns the mug in his hands and sinks down on the couch a little more, loose and relaxed. "Thanks, Rodney."
"Well," Rodney murmurs, suddenly embarrassed, "it's just cocoa." He gestures with his own mug, then remembers to drink some himself. But it isn't, really. It's taking care of someone, something Rodney never knew he wanted to do, but it's weirdly satisfying.
John finishes his mug first and sets it on the coffee table. Rodney manages to not say anything about using coasters.
He swallows the rest of his cocoa and fumbles around to find the remote on the floor. The TV's segued into a documentary on brain coral that is mind-numbing. He skims through the channels until John says, "There."
"What?
"That one."
"What one?" He's probably twenty channels past whatever caught John's sleepy interest.
"New Red Green," John says.
Rodney stares at him. "You have to be kidding."
John shakes his head and leans against Rodney's shoulder. "Duct tape." Then, "It's Canadian."
"I suppose that makes sense to you," Rodney says, but clicks the TV back through several channels until confronted by a bucktoothed geek in red plaid and suspenders saying 'Uncle Red' in a high voice. There's something with a washing machine taped to the roof of a car with no doors that makes Rodney blink and John snort.
John pulls his feet up on the couch and the Afghan back around him, then tugs it over Rodney's shoulders too, before settling against him, cheek on his shoulder, to watch. "What are you doing?" Rodney asks, even as he slides and arm around John's lean waist, tucking two fingers under the elastic waistband of his sweat pants to find soft skin and make John squirm.
"'M still cold," John says in a patent lie. He's a blanket of warmth against Rodney's side, one hand dropping down into Rodney's lap and rubbing absently over his fly. Not that Rodney has any intention of calling him on it.
Instead, he pulls the Afghan a little closer around them, kicks his feet up on the coffee table — what the hell — and sits back, content. After a little while, John's hand stops moving in his lap, though it stays there, and his breath slows and evens, his weight limp against Rodney.
Rodney thinks that morning is soon enough to have wild, life-affirming sex or slow, we-have-all-the-time-in-the-world-now sex or even scientific, let's-decide-which-lube-works-best sex — after he finishes putting up the groceries still sitting all over the kitchen. This is good.
He closes his eyes and lets himself follow John into sleep.
"Admit it, you have no idea what to do with half of these things," he says. "And why can't we have something normal, like potatoes?"
John shrugs one shoulder, adding tomatoes to the bounty. "Sure, they're right over there," he replies. "Get some sweet potatoes, too, okay? I'll make a pie."
Rodney grumbles, but the prospect of pie, in any form (even potato), moves him.
"Since when do you cook?" he asks. He's always imagined Sheppard subsisting on MREs, cafeteria food and take-out. That's all he's ever seen him do. But that's Sheppard and this is John and he's beginning to see they aren't exactly the same man. Or maybe John was always there, wrapped up carefully and stowed inside the outer trappings of Sheppard.
He sets the bags of baking potatoes and sweet potatoes in the cart. The pointy ends of the sweet potatoes have already pierced the thin, clear plastic of the bag. Rodney frowns at them. Honestly, a paper bag would work better.
"I took a cooking class," John tells him.
Rodney gapes at him, standing under the unpleasant fluorescent lights of a market so large there are sparrows or something flittering around the rafters. John shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the faded denim of his old jeans stretching over long thighs and clinging over his sharp hipbones, loose enough at the waist that his thin, blue-white dress shirt threatens to come untucked. As good as he looks to Rodney, the lines are there around his eyes, and the dark, messy hair is shot with threads of white. Time hasn't stood still for John, either. He hasn't spent the last three years in stasis, even if he was waiting for Rodney to come back.
He wishes desperately that he hadn't realized that, because now he's wondering. There were no promises between them, not even implicit. Rodney slept with Vigdis Svensdottir and he has to wonder how many people John slept with and how uncomfortable it would have been if he'd come back while John was involved with someone. The pinpricks of jealousy, tiny and toxic as thistle thorns, torment him.
John's ducked his head and actually kicks the cockeyed wheel of the grocery cart. "Cat's not exactly a conversationalist," he mutters. "I started getting crazy after the first year back. It was something to do."
"What about the people at the SGC?" Rodney asks. He wonders if he hasn't forced John to give up his entire circle of friends as well as co-workers, though John hasn't said anything and no one has called or dropped by the apartment. To hell with it, they'll make new friends. They'll move to San Francisco and walk in parades and get rings if that's what John wants.
John's mouth, that's been smiling so much in the last weeks, thins into an unhappy line. "Mitchell's okay, but..." He shrugs again. "The rest of them, not so much. Too much history or something. No room."
Rodney reaches out, thinking, 'I can do this now, screw the woman in Aisle Four staring at us, I get to have this, to do this for me and for John,' and curves his palm over the back of John's neck. They don't have to go to San Francisco. He leaves it there, pressing gently, circling his thumb. John turns his head and Rodney feels the vertebrae under the skin move. He tightens his grip and John slowly relaxes and sways toward him.
"You better not be lying about knowing how to cook," Rodney says, embarrassed by how rusty his voice sounds, but his throat is closed up and aching. "It's starting to snow out there and I wouldn't lay a bet, even with your insane luck, that anyone will be able to deliver anything by the weekend."
"Not lying," John tells him, giving him a sultry smile and the lowered eyelashes look full of promise. "And you already know I can cook."
"It's a good thing you're pretty, because you have the worst lines of anyone I've ever met," Rodney laughs and finally lets go, shoving his hand, still warm from John's skin, into his pants' pocket. "I'll meet you at the check-out, I'm going to get some things I bet you won't think of."
John rolls his eyes. "We aren't going to starve to death over the weekend, Rodney. I know how to shop."
Rodney just grins and strolls off. He'll probably grab a few other things just annoy John, but he's headed for the pharmacy section to pick up every sort of lube they sell and enough condoms for a month. Well, maybe a week, if they do end up snowed in. One of the nice things about sex is that it doesn't take electricity.
He ends up buying chocolate, all sorts of it that he didn't have in Antarctica and hadn't even realized he missed. Quality stuff, not the almost acrid Hershey's he knows John would pick up if left to his own devices, cream and organic milk, a package of maple cookies, then, reminded, after a detour, a bottle of real maple syrup, and a package of raw turkey burger to bribe Cat into remembering that she belongs to Rodney and is supposed to like him better.
John has the back of the Jeep filled with grocery bags, enough to make Rodney think he took him seriously about the thick, wet flakes that are floating down, tinted an eerie orange by the halogen parking lot lights that have already come on despite the early hour. A couple of inches have already accumulated on the roof and hood of the Jeep, and they catch in John's hair and on the tips of his eyelashes as he finishes loading bags inside. Rodney drops his purchases behind the passenger seat and scrambles inside. It isn't cold compared to Antarctica, but he sees no reason to get wet when he doesn't need to.
"Turn the heat on," he tells John as soon as he's in the Jeep too and has turned the ignition key.
John looks at him, mouth curving up, and shakes his head. "I can't believe you can complain about the cold here after three years in Antarctica." He switches the heat onto high once the engine has warmed up, though, even before switching on the headlights and cautiously driving out of the parking lot.
Rodney sniffs. "It's not like I hiked to Mt. Erebus every week. I spent my time in the labs — "
"That explains the fabulous tan," John says dryly.
"I don't tan and you know it," he shoots back, shifting his seatbelt so the cross strap doesn't cut into his neck. It still amazes him that the automotive industry has succeeded in designing something that will be uncomfortable for anyone, no matter what their height. "I just get red."
Not like John, who turns a warm olive-gold and gets ruddy lights in his hair. And apparently never heard of dressing for the weather, since he's just wearing a light jacket over his shirt, and running shoes. The man needs a keeper.
The flat tire signals itself with a thump-thump judder that runs up through the Jeep's frame, accompanied by John's curse, but he gets them safely pulled over onto the roadside, the passenger side slewed into an already snow-filled gutter.
They both stare out at the snow coming steadily down, thick and white, obscuring anything beyond half a block and rapidly piling up everywhere.
With a sigh, John lifts his hands away from the wheel, then turns off the engine. The Jeep ticks in the comparative silence afterward. The snow comes down soundlessly, drifting at a slant that means wind. "No use both of us getting wet and dirty. Stay in the jeep and I'll change the tire."
"Or I could call AAA and we could both stay dry inside until someone comes," Rodney suggests, pulling out his cell.
John shakes his head.
"What?"
"I don't have AAA."
"Why not?" Rodney demands.
"Well, I can change my own damn tires for one and have it done before they'd get anyone to us, anyway," John snaps. The inside of the Jeep is already gray, but he sees John grimace in disgust.
It's Rodney's turn to roll his eyes. "Fine. Get to it, you big macho man."
John gives him the finger before sliding out the door.
A flood of cold follows a moment later, as John opens the back hatch and starts shifting bags and muttering.
"What the hell are you doing?" Rodney demanded, turning to look over the seat back. John lifts his head. "Getting the jack and the tire iron out. I lack the ability to will lug nuts and hubcaps off with the sheer power of my mind."
"Oh."
"Yes, and the tool box is buried under the supplies for a regular siege..." John trails off on the word siege.
"Well, you can hardly blame me for that," Rodney says. "I'm not the one who put it there."
"No." With a pleased grunt, John uncovers the toolbox and pulls it out, followed by a bumper jack.
"Do you know how dangerous those things are if they slip?" Rodney immediately demands, eyeing the jack. "I'm not the Hulk, don't expect me to lift this Jeep off you."
John gives him a narrow-eyed look. "Do you want to do this?"
"No, no."
"I've never had a jack slip unless some idiot hit the release," John adds.
Rodney peers around the the Jeep. Darkness is pressing in around them, evening setting in fast thanks to the heavy storm clouds. The snow is piling up fast, too.
"Fine, okay, just be careful."
"Fifteen minutes," John promises.
The entire Jeep rocks a minute later as John wrestles the spare off and leaves it leaning against the driver's side of the Jeep. The flat would have to be on the driver's side. The emergency lights are on, blinking red over the snow, but Rodney still watches for cars in the rearview mirror, worried a driver will miss seeing John in the gloom and sideswipe him.
In the headlights, cutting through the deepening dusk, the snow dances to the ground in huge flakes, some almost as big as eggs. The road shines slick black with dirty gray streaks. Wet snow. Slush. Rodney's mouth turns down in disgust.
He opens the door a couple of inches when he hears the back hatch open and slam shut again, cutting off the draft from the rear. The damp cold creeps inside, settling and sinking straight into his bones. "You know," he says once he sees John in the side mirror, "I’d have thought that in March, there’d be no more snow."
"Colorado, remember?" John grunts. "Lot of exciting weather. Unpredictable."
A couple of flakes drift through the open door and melt on the back of Rodney's hand into small, cold droplets. He shakes the hand vigorously. He’s seen enough snow for three lifetimes during the years in Antarctica. Glares at the snowflakes and pulls the door closed as far as he can without losing the sound of John tinkering with the jack, slotting the handle into place and checking the action, a slim shadow of movement in the mirror. Objects may be nearer than they appear. He likes John nearer, as in next to him.
"If I had wanted any more of it, I could have stayed in Antarctica."
John grunts and curses as he comes around the back of the Jeep. Rodney looks just at the right moment to see him slide on the slush and fall on his ass. He closes the passenger door and slides into the driver's seat, before cocking that door open and peering out, while biting back a grin. "You were supposed to change the tire, not—"
"If you don’t want to walk home, you had better not finish that sentence, McKay."
There is a wet noise when John pushes himself up again. He latches one hand onto the handle of the passenger door to keep his balance and Rodney realize the slush on the road is starting to freeze into ice. The cold cuts into the skin of his face and he notes John's face and hands are already red from it. John's faded jeans look dark blue at the cuffs and on his knees and ass. A crown of snow has settled on his hair. With a sudden, strange feeling of melancholy, Rodney has a vision of how John will look like in thirty years, his lean body drawn fine and fragile, time-brittle.
The clank of iron on steel shakes him from his reverie. Rodney fidgets in the seat, curls his toes in his boots. The cold keeps creeping in, but he's still unwilling to close the door completely. After all, John's out there, doing the work. Which, granted, he volunteered to do, but still. He pushes at the door again. "Hey, do you want some music? People tend to work faster when they listen to music. I know I do. Bach is great, but only the Brandenburg concertos, not the heavy organ pieces. Then again – what?"
John has let the tire iron sink to the ground and is looking at him, smiling. His eyes are barely visible in the snow-swirling dark. him. "What?" Rodney asks again.
John shakes his head, still smiling, making snow slide under the collar of his jacket and off his shoulders. He shudders but doesn’t lose the smile. "I missed you," he says, so simply that it shakes Rodney to core.
Rodney doesn’t blush. He never does. Never. It’s a rule. "Keep working, macho-man," he says, but can’t quite keep the answering smile from spreading on his face.
He hears John trying to loosen the lug nuts with a great amount of grunting and slipping and cursing and remarks about anal-retentive mechanics with air wrenches. The snow keeps falling, slowly coating the windshield. Rodney looks into the rear-view mirror and suddenly freezes watching a pair of tail-lights slew sideways at a stop sign. He leans over and pushes at the door. "The safety triangle!" he says. "Did you put one on the street? At least 35 meters away from the car?"
John doesn’t answer.
"Hey, did you hear me? This is about your own safety, so don’t start ignoring me now!" It's a valid worry to have on the icy road with the other car having swerved earlier. The idea of a car side-swiping John when Rodney has only just— He makes an effort not to finish the thought. Instead he gets out of the car, checks the street, finds the triangle standing in the proper distance from the car, huffs and heads the few meters back to the car. He peers around the corner, seeing John kneeling on the wet ground, still trying to loosen the lugs.
"Sonovabitch," John swears and puts his shoulders into it, nearly slamming face first into the side of the Jeep when the nut finally gives away abruptly. He spins it loose, but not off the bolt and repeats the process on the opposite lug as Rodney watches.
John must feel Rodney's gaze on him. He looks up, narrow-eyed, as though sensing Rodney standing there, watching him. His face is red from the cold and the exertion, and it takes Rodney a while to take his eyes off the stretch of the wet denim over John’s ass and lift them to John's equally enticing mouth. Which is set in a hard line, he notices.
"Get in or stay out, but don’t even think about fidgeting around when I’m jacking this thing up." John’s voice is flat as he pushes against the tire iron with nothing short of brute force. The last lug nut comes loose easier than the rest.
Wind pushes snow into his face and Rodney shivers, pulling up his collar. He remembers why John is changing the tire alone out here, and decides to get back in the car. No need for both of them to be cold and wet.
Rodney turns on the windscreen wipers and sees the headlights cutting through the night and the snow falling sideways while John retrieves the jack and gets it in place at the rear driver's side. Calculations running through his head, he wonders how long the lights will last before the battery dies. The result does nothing to put him at ease. He hopes the Jeep's battery is relatively new and has a good charge.
He fidgets, tapping his fingers against the glove compartment. Rubs his hands. Blows in them. Tries to remember where he left his gloves and if he even brought them from Antarctica. Turns around in his seat to look through the bag with the chocolates that he’d put on the backseat. The car shifts a little and he snaps back to the front, double-checking the emergency handbrake.
The driver’s side door opens and John’s face appears. "If you want sex tonight or anytime this week, you stop moving right now."
Rodney lifts his hands, then folds them in his lap and goes stock-still. He’s a smart man, after all, and John doesn’t make empty threats. And he has a bag of assorted lubes and condoms among his other purchases. Scientific method requires that they try them all, possibly more than once, to see which brands they like best.
For a few moments, the noises from outside cease, then there is the nauseating motion of the Jeep being jacked up slowly, inch by inch. It lists forward and to his side and Rodney can’t help checking the handbrake again.
He bites his own tongue to keep from voicing the stream of worried information about jacks and the likelihood of one failing or slipping. He thinks of John’s back gilded in sunlight yesterday morning and running his hand over John’s warm, smooth skin, touching in long and slow caresses, with wonder, just because he now could. The thin white scar at the base of his skull, where the Goa'uld entered in, that the hair covers. The other scars that happened when Rodney wasn't there. He wants equally to memorize them all and watch them fade into memory.
He hears John work the flat tire off and the thump of it dropping to the pavement.
"Do you have it?" he yells. Not moving. Now would be a good time to not move, when the Jeep is sitting on the jack alone and John's hands are in the wheel well.
"Give me a minute to check… Damn it."
"What?" Rodney’s heart begins to race. "Did you hurt yourself, you overgrown Huck Finn?"
Another thump of a tire hitting the pavement, then John opens the driver’s door fully. He extends both hands, black with tire dirt and grease, showing Rodney that he’s still whole and healthy, if soaked now. "The spare's flat."
"What?" Rodney exclaims before he can sensor himself. "What kind of a spare tire is flat? What kind of idiot doesn't check that it's—"
John narrows his eyes again. "Hey."
Rodney sighs.
"Tell me you have an air compressor, at least?"
John bites his lower lip, pulling a grimace. "Hand pump."
Rodney drops his head in his hands. "Welcome to the middle ages."
"Gee, thanks, Rodney."
Rodney feels tongue-tied suddenly, not knowing how to take his words back, not knowing how to be more encouraging, so he does the only thing he can think of at the moment: he holds out a bar of Swiss chocolate to John.
John looks at it for a long time, then he starts to laugh, that dopey, braying laugh Rodney thought annoyed him until he stopped hearing it. "Stay in here, I’ll pump up the spare. Keep your chocolate."
It takes John the better part of half an hour. He puts the spare on before he pumps it up. When he finally releases the jack and the Jeep sinks back down on four wheels, Rodney lets himself move a little. Even with the key flipped over to accessory to operate the headlights and wipers, without the engine running, there's no heat in the Jeep, and his fingers are cold. John opens the back hatch and slings the flat inside, then tosses in the jack and tire iron more carelessly than Rodney would have anticipated. When he appears at the passenger door, tapping against the glass next to Rodney's head, he is completely soaked, has caked snow that is not longer melting on his hair, and his lips are beginning to turn blue.
Rodney gapes at him for a instant, slips out of his seat, takes off John’s jacket and gives him his own, despite the cold wind, then helps John to sit in the passenger seat. John's jacket is tossed into the back as he makes some objecting noise through chattering teeth, while hunching down into Rodney's coat. Rodney puts a hand to his cheek, feels John’s skin icy cold and calls John and himself every kind of idiot alive. "I had completely forgotten your insane, feckless disregard for personal safety," he complains. "You're freezing."
John stutters something about snow that doesn't even make sense.
"Stay there," Rodney orders.
The icy air and the snow cut right through Rodney's clothes without his coat. He closes the passenger door and rounds the Jeep in a small sprint, scrambling into the driver's seat and starting it, turning up the heat to full blast. The first burst of air is cold and makes him wince. "If you catch pneumonia, I will wring your neck," he mutters.
John doesn’t answer. He's a big ball of shivering misery as Rodney reaches across him and affixes his seatbelt. He glares at Rodney, but doesn't even try to fumble at the buckle himself, instead stuffing his hands in his armpits. A groan greets the first warm air from the heater vents, though, and he unclenches a little, enough that his head is lolling against the headrest by the time they're halfway back to the apartment, and his eyes are closed. Rodney drives faster than he knows he should, but his right hand on John’s knee soaks up cold and damp from John’s skin underneath the wet jeans, as more unsteady shudders run through him. Rodney feels the familiar prickling of worry on his scalp and pushes the Jeep a little faster, counting on the four-wheel drive and snow tires to keep them from skidding out.
"If yo—you pu—put us in—into a t—telephone po—pole," John says through still chattering teeth, "I'll nuh—never let yo-ou live it do-own."
"I'll have you know I grew up driving on snow," Rodney tells him, "and I'm sure I'm a safer driver than you, Mr. Speedy."
John sneezes and Rodney hits the brakes as they approach the parking lot for his apartment building. The Jeep slips for a second as he makes the turn, but the lot is actually better than the street, the snow in it almost pristine, fluffy instead of packed down and slick. He parks jerkily and actually stalls the Jeep at that point, but there's no way he'll ever admit that. Instead, he scrambles out and around, tugging and pulling and half-carrying John into foyer and up to his apartment.
Getting the keys out of the pocket of John's soaked jeans might be fun in other circumstances, but this time Rodney does it without much thought and John doesn't even comment.
Once they're inside, Rodney drags John straight into the bathroom, with a pause in the hall to crank the thermostat up and get the heat going, and begins undressing him, starting with his shoes, fighting the tight, wet laces undone. John nearly falls getting them off, clutching at the towel rack to keep himself upright.
His feet are pale, with just a dusting of dark hair on the first joint of his big toes. They're still very cold, too, almost icy. Rodney stares at them. "Have you ever heard of socks?"
"Sure."
"You just never considered using them yourself," Rodney concludes wryly. His knees hurt on the tile floor. He sits up a little and begins undoing the fly on John's pants.
"Whoa, big boy, aren't you a little eager?" John says as Rodney's peeling the jeans down. The denim is turning inside out as he goes. His boxers come down after the jeans, making Rodney scowl at the thought of how they must have felt. The man has no body fat to insulate him at all and was probably halfway to hypothermia without realizing. It's a good thing Rodney's here to take care of him now.
"That's right," Rodney says, "I'm going to ravage your ice-cold body right here on the tile. Don't be more of an idiot. Your clothes are wet." He runs his palm up the outside of John's thigh, testing the damp cool skin, disturbing the coarse hairs and making John twitch. "Just get naked." Then a hint of mischief makes him lean forward and kiss the point of John's hip, then his navel and the ticklish place on his waist, before sitting back.
John begins cooperating after that, fingers clumsy on the buttons of his shirt, until Rodney brushes them away and undoes them himself. He grimaces down at himself and laughs, "Not too impressive right now."
Rodney gets up, his knees creaking. "Get in the shower," he tells John and takes his arm to guide him in, setting the temperature and force with his free hand, then positioning John under the rush of warm water. He surveys John another moment as he ducks under the spray, the soft gleam of wet skin moving over tight muscle already beginning to loosen. John looks steady enough on his feet.
With a sigh of regret — he'd like to join John — he kicks John's wet clothes into a corner, then ducks out into the bedroom to find some warm, dry clothes. Long-sleeved T-shirt, short sleeved one — both his, he realizes — boxers, sweat pants, heavy socks.
John's out of the shower when he comes back, dripping on the tiles and shivering again as cooler air rushes into the bathroom along with Rodney. Rodney sets the clothes beside the sink and snatches away the towel in John's hand. "Lean over," he directs and rubs most of the water from John's hair. He uses a second, dry towel to begin drying him, blotting shining drops of water from his chest hair and rubbing the terry gently over John's back. John leans into Rodney's ministrations, smiling, eyes half-closed. John's beautiful, but Rodney's doing more than appreciate him, he's half-consciously checking him for damage, feeling the warmth returned to his skin as a reassurance. He dries John's shoulders and down his arms, over smooth muscled biceps and down his dark-fuzzed forearms to his wrists, surprised as always by how narrow they are for a man. Not delicate or weak, but Rodney can wrap his hands around John's wrists.
"Better?" Rodney asks as he kneels and finishes toweling down John's legs and then his feet and finally, gently, his cock and balls, holding them tenderly, feeling how warm they are.
"Sort of," John drawls. "Maybe you could kiss it?"
John's cock isn't really interested, but that's all right. It isn't all about sex, just the touch will feel good, and there's something tempting about that vulnerable, private flesh open to him. Rodney leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the base, before standing up again.
John looks bemused.
"Get dressed," Rodney orders. "We left the groceries in the Jeep."
"Sir, yes, sir," John replies, smile widening into a grin.
Rodney slaps his ass lightly, making him jump. "Not you, idiot. You are getting under a blanket and staying inside, or it will be you going without for a week. Understand?"
John reaches for the clean boxers. "You're bossy."
"You can get up and open the door for me when I get back up here," Rodney concedes and leaves John to dress.
He heads back downstairs to the Jeep and starts grabbing as many bags as he can carry at once. Then it's back in and up, leaving snow to blow in after him, trying to calculate how much stress plastic bags can take, when they've been overstuffed by an ex-Air Force officer with no patience.
Rodney shoulders the door open, both hands full of the heavy plastic bags, because, of course, John isn’t finished dressing yet. Rodney doesn’t blame him. John isn't a kid anymore and the cold seems to have exhausted him more than it should have. Enough to make Rodney worry and decide to quiz him, subtly, about his health later.
He walks to the kitchen, leaving wet footsteps on the carpet and drops the bags. They rustle as the groceries follow gravity.
The apartment has warmed up nicely, and Rodney stands in the kitchen for a few moments, listening for the noises coming from the bathroom. It sounds suspiciously as though John is using a squeegee to dry off the shower cubicle. Rodney shakes his head and grins. Anal retentive to a scary degree. Just one more thing he lo– he likes about John.
He shrugs deeper into his jacket and steps out of the warm apartment and into the hallway leading outside. The front door creaks when he opens it and puts the stopper on to hold it open. Rodney frowns at the snow now covering the Jeep completely, turning blue into pristine white that gleams and glitters in the lamplight. He pulls up his collar, zips up the jacket and steps back into the snow to retrieve the final bags. He could have just left them here until the morning, but the remaining bags, Rodney had remembered in the kitchen, contained important things for the night.
Plastic rustles when he reaches for them and bites into his fingers from the heavy contents of the bags when he lifts them from the rear cargo area. Shivering and cursing at the snow that tries to creep underneath his collar after all, he slams the hatch shut with just his fingertips and activates the remote. The Jeep locks with a soft noise and Rodney hurries back to the apartment building. He comes precariously close to slipping on the slush in front of the door, but manages to balance it out. What a picture they would have made: John nearly hypothermic and Rodney with a broken arm, both of them bitching at the snow.
Rodney grins and walks up the stairs with a spring in his step he can’t remember ever having had before. They’re home now, warm and safe. Home. The word fits for the first time in forever.
John pulls the door open just as he pushes against it with his shoulder and Rodney almost falls into the apartment. He throws John a dirty look when John sniggers at the flailing entry.
"Do you need help?"
"Not anymore," Rodney says. He walks to the kitchen and drops the last bags on the already present small white mountain of plastic bags on the brown tiles. John trails after him to the kitchen, standing with his hip cocked against the door frame, watching Rodney. Rodney pulls down the zipper of his jacket. The sound of it echoes on the kitchen tiles. He tosses the wet jacket to John. "Make yourself useful, and then get out of my kitchen."
"My kitchen."
Rodney turns around from pulling the vegetables out of the bags. "What?"
"My kitchen," John repeats.
"Technically, it’s m—" Rodney stops, clenches a hand around a yellow pepper and the scent of it reaches his nostrils. He doesn’t explain to John that technically, he still owns the kitchen. Instead, he says: "Our kitchen."
John looks up from brushing a hand over the fine droplets of molten snow on Rodney’s jacket and his mouth twitches into a small, private smile, one that manages to be more dazzling and beautiful than even his broad ones.
Rodney has to look away and clear his throat. "Weren’t you supposed to make yourself useful?"
John rolls his eyes. "Yes, mother."
Rodney throws a kitchen sponge at John’s retreating back.
He’s emptying the fourth bag and John, who’s back from the bathroom, is telling him where he should put things on the shelves and beginning to drive him up the wall when the idea hits. Every so often, John is still shivering, rubbing his hands over his arms unconsciously. Rodney decides it's a very good idea. The first step is to get the giant dork out from under his feet, though.
"Get out of here. Out, out, you’re driving me insane." Rodney takes a can from John’s hand, sets it on the counter, and ushers him into the living room. He plants him on the couch, both hands pressing firm onto John’s shoulders, thumbs resting on his collarbone, so that he sinks into the well-worn leather couch. The Afghan they napped under the first night he was back sits folded on the armrest and Rodney reaches for it, unfolding and draping it over John.
John watches Rodney as he tucks the blanket around him, amused, cheeks flushed, but he’s not moving a single finger to stop Rodney. There’s just his face visible under under the camel-colored, soft afghan, pale against his dark hair, once Rodney's done.
Rodney straightens, feels his back creak and grimaces while he looks for the remote control. He turns on the TV when he finds it, then lifts the Afghan again, just enough to push the remote underneath, and tells John, "I pay for cable, there’s bound to be some mindless sport you can watch."
John snorts and proceeds to flip through the channels and stops at a documentary about gorillas, giving Rodney a bright and sunny grin.
Rodney considers dignifying that with a reply, but decides against it.
He retreats into the kitchen and empties the fifth bag, one of his. A bottle of organic of milk tips into his hand and Rodney smiles at it. He hadn’t planned it when he had bought all the groceries, but now that he had already unpacked cocoa and brown sugar from one of the other bags, it would be criminally stupid not to. Besides, John deserves it after that evening. Not to mention he hasn't had a kitchen where he could do this for more years than he likes to think about until he bought the house in New Zealand. Even there, it had never felt right and he'd only done it once or twice.
Rodney pushes the vegetables to the side and starts rummaging through the cabinets for a pot and a jug.
"Need help?" John calls out over his shoulder, alerted by the tinking of pots.
"Watch your apes, Diane," Rodney calls back.
"At least you didn't call me King Kong," John gibes.
"You're not that impressive, though there is a certain hairy resemblance," he says as he takes a sauce pot from the cabinet next to the sink and puts it on the stove. It isn't one he remembers and he begins to believe John really did take a cooking class. It's too nice to be something John bought casually. The stove, thank god, is still gas. He’d tried heating milk on an electrical stove in New Zealand. The kitchen had still smelled of burnt milk three days after. He never tried again. The kitchen would be the second thing they remodeled when they moved there, right after the wiring and security system.
"Too bad, you'd make a mean Fay Ray," John replies with nearly giddy glee, unphazed by Rodney's slur on his manhood. "You've already got the scream down pat."
Rodney manfully ignores him and pours a generous amount of milk – full fat, none of that 0.01% crap, produced by cows that haven't been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics – into the pot and lights the stove. The hissing of the gas is calming, familiar, though it seems to come from another lifetime. One that was before wormholes and stargates and flying cities and regrets. One before the brilliance and the bitterness of exile.
He's let go of the anger, though, finally. He regrets nothing but the end. Without Atlantis, he would not be the man he is now, standing where he is now.
Rodney shakes his head against the memories and moves the pot on the fire before he turns the gas down. No use in heating milk fast, it would only rise and burn. He leaves the pot on the stove and finds the jug he was looking for in the cabinet next to his head. It’s old, earthenware and still his own. It makes Rodney wonder how much John invested into this apartment, besides a few pots and a stack of DVDs. He takes a quick step back to see what John is doing. He can’t make out much, only that the TV is still running and, from the noises, it’s still that documentary. He’s tempted to make more Diane Fossey jokes, but doesn’t. John’s head has sunk against the backrest, the blanket slipped down enough to reveal his dark, ruffled hair. It’s all that is visible of him, with the couch standing with its back toward the kitchen, but it looks as though John has fallen asleep. Rodney’d rather not wake him.
It’s only 9 p.m., but Rodney’s tired. He imagines John must feel the same. Shaking his head against a yawn, he reaches for the cocoa and the brown sugar. He takes a teaspoon and measures the dark, real cocoa into the jug, then follows it with brown sugar. The milk begins to smell sweet on the stove, indicating that it’s close to boiling, but not quite there yet.
Rodney looks out the window over the sink to his left, watches the snow still drift to the ground, quiet and steady, and remembers. He never knew his grandmother, so it wasn’t her who had taught him how to make hot chocolate. Neither had his mother, who had always gone for the store-bought mixes. It was in college when Rodney had decided that he would come up with the most perfect hot chocolate on the planet. He’d spent weeks, trying to get it right, that perfect mixture between sweetness, richness and full chocolate flavor. The night he finally made it, it felt as though he had invented the wheel for the first time in human history.
He smiles, gets two mugs from another cabinet and fills them with hot water. He's making John the best damn hot chocolate he has ever had and everything needs to be perfect, down to the temperature of the mugs.
The milk hisses against the sauce pot and Rodney turns, seeing the billowing steam rising from it. He turns the gas even lower and reaches for a whisker. Stirs, lost in the familiar procedure.
When he looks up and toward the living room again, John is looking back at him, arms folded over the back of the couch, his beard-darkened cheek resting on the back of one hand. He’s smiling.
"Lost interest in the apes?" Rodney asks, hiding the thrill it gives him that John is watching him do something as mundane as boil milk.
"You’re more interesting," John states so matter-of-factly that it takes Rodney’s breath away for a moment. "What are you doing there?"
Rodney whisks the milk that is very close to boiling now. He doesn’t look up again. Not now. Now is a dangerous time to be distracted. "Top Secret," he says. "Now watch your apes. You’ll know soon enough."
He hears John yawn and rustle around, presumably turning around to face the TV again, and a quiet, "Okay, Fay."
The milk boils shortly after and Rodney turns the gas off immediately. Then he pulls the jug with the cocoa and the brown sugar close and pours a thin rivulet of milk into the jug, stirring all the while. The ingredients combine, glistening and brown. He pours more milk on it, stirring all the while, until the cocoa has dissolved in the milk.
The scent is heavenly, and Rodney knows it’s sweet enough, but there is something he’d seen in one of the cabinets… He rummages through all of them again, finally finding what he’s looking for: a small bottle of caramel syrup. It's light in his hand, almost empty, but there's enough left that he pours a generous shot in the jug, anyway.
He stirs until the syrup has dissolved as well, then he pours away the water from the mugs and pulls them close to fill them with the steaming hot chocolate. Hot, dark and rich, with a slight smell of caramel, it's perfect. Rodney picks up both mugs, leaves everything he needed on the kitchen counter, along with most of the groceries, and steps up behind John. He can clean tomorrow.
"Hey," he says quietly, not wanting to startle John too much.
John tips his head back without shifting otherwise. "Hey."
Rodney leans over the back of the couch and offers one of the mugs. A curl of steam wavers over it. "Still cold?" he asks.
John's pushing the Afghan off enough to free his hands. "Kinda," he admits as the remote tumbles to the floor with a clatter that makes them both wince. Rodney figures it must be true, because he still has the heavy socks on and stayed under the Afghan until now. He holds onto the mug patiently until John takes it, cool fingers brushing over his for an instant, then walks around the couch and sits next to him.
John has both hands wrapped around the mug and is holding it up to his face, inhaling the sweet scent of cocoa. His eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is soft, lips parted. "Wow," he says. "This is the real thing, isn't it?"
"Of course." Rodney's almost offended. What sort of philistine has he hooked up with anyway? He supposes John uses the instant stuff made with hot water. A shudder runs through him at the very thought. But he can be educated.
John's mouth is curling up into another smile. He blows on the cocoa like a little boy, still cradling it in both hands. Rodney takes the opportunity to just watch him. A pink tongue tip darts out and moistens John's lips, telegraphing the end of anticipation as he finally raises the mug to sip.
"Be careful," Rodney says, "it really is hot, you'll burn your tongue — "
Only John, being John, has already swallowed, and is sucking in air to cool the sting, half laughing, half cursing.
" — you idiot," Rodney finishes.
"It's good," John declares and takes another, more cautious sip. "Really good." He turns the mug in his hands and sinks down on the couch a little more, loose and relaxed. "Thanks, Rodney."
"Well," Rodney murmurs, suddenly embarrassed, "it's just cocoa." He gestures with his own mug, then remembers to drink some himself. But it isn't, really. It's taking care of someone, something Rodney never knew he wanted to do, but it's weirdly satisfying.
John finishes his mug first and sets it on the coffee table. Rodney manages to not say anything about using coasters.
He swallows the rest of his cocoa and fumbles around to find the remote on the floor. The TV's segued into a documentary on brain coral that is mind-numbing. He skims through the channels until John says, "There."
"What?
"That one."
"What one?" He's probably twenty channels past whatever caught John's sleepy interest.
"New Red Green," John says.
Rodney stares at him. "You have to be kidding."
John shakes his head and leans against Rodney's shoulder. "Duct tape." Then, "It's Canadian."
"I suppose that makes sense to you," Rodney says, but clicks the TV back through several channels until confronted by a bucktoothed geek in red plaid and suspenders saying 'Uncle Red' in a high voice. There's something with a washing machine taped to the roof of a car with no doors that makes Rodney blink and John snort.
John pulls his feet up on the couch and the Afghan back around him, then tugs it over Rodney's shoulders too, before settling against him, cheek on his shoulder, to watch. "What are you doing?" Rodney asks, even as he slides and arm around John's lean waist, tucking two fingers under the elastic waistband of his sweat pants to find soft skin and make John squirm.
"'M still cold," John says in a patent lie. He's a blanket of warmth against Rodney's side, one hand dropping down into Rodney's lap and rubbing absently over his fly. Not that Rodney has any intention of calling him on it.
Instead, he pulls the Afghan a little closer around them, kicks his feet up on the coffee table — what the hell — and sits back, content. After a little while, John's hand stops moving in his lap, though it stays there, and his breath slows and evens, his weight limp against Rodney.
Rodney thinks that morning is soon enough to have wild, life-affirming sex or slow, we-have-all-the-time-in-the-world-now sex or even scientific, let's-decide-which-lube-works-best sex — after he finishes putting up the groceries still sitting all over the kitchen. This is good.
He closes his eyes and lets himself follow John into sleep.
-fin
- Co-author: eretria
- Summary: fter Atlantis, it turns out fitting the pieces together isn't so hard after all.
- Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
- Rating: mature
- Warnings: none apply
- Author Notes: written for murron's birthday, coda fic to Suffer Me Not To Be Separated
- Date: ~2007
- Length: 7735 words
- Genre: m/m
- Category: domestic fic, established relationship, post-Atlatnis
- Cast: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
- Betas: names unavailable
- Disclaimer: Not for profit. Transformative work written for private entertainment.