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.fic: The Over Grown Waltz - McKay/Sheppard (PG) 1.1
Title: The Over Grown Waltz
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: McShep
Rating/Warning: PG; completely harmless
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Advertisements: Meets![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 #6 (Fluff), but is more or less a spontaneous outpouring of happiness.
Notes: The other day,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dogeared wrote a lovely bit of domestic wonderfulness, and between that and so many other things (anna_luna's naptime art, my new default icon by newkidfan, "The Tao of Rodney"), I'm feeling very happy and unable to make the boys sad. So, I'm trying my own hand at domestic, angst-free fic... am not very good at it, so be warned.
Links to pictures in the text!
THE OVER GROWN WALTZ
One day, Rodney builds a telescope.
John expects a miniature version of Mount Palomar or Lowell, with a retractable dome roof and maneuverable chair. When he says this, Rodney stares at him in incomprehension and tells John he’s going to build a twelve-inch Newtonian reflector, like the one he built as a kid, perfectly adequate, but yes, a maneuverable chair would be cool.
So John leaves him to it, because it gives Rodney something to fill up the days, slow lazy days like John can remember from childhood summers visiting his grandparents. He keeps himself busy putting away all their stuff – military organization sticks like a fungus – and they have a lot of stuff. Rodney’s papers and journals, John’s model airplanes and golf clubs, and no way all of it’s going to fit into their tiny attic or the seriously creepy basement John suspects of harboring a serial killer.
Rodney scoffs at him when he says this, but he never goes down there either.
Sometimes he has to interrupt Rodney at his measuring and calculating to ask him if it’s really necessary to keep every copy of National Geographic ever published, which earns him another uncomprehending look and a of course it’s necessary; do I ask you if it’s necessary for you to collect every brand of nine-iron on the planet? (He does, actually.) John sighs and resigns himself to the fact they’ll have to buy another house, one for them and one for their stuff.
Anyway, Rodney works on his telescope and John interrupts him occasionally, but at the end of a few hours Rodney wanders onto the back porch with a complaint about the weather and maybe a kiss, and he tastes like sweat and sawdust, and the hands that creep under John’s shirt are sticky with polyurethane.
Rodney’s good at making stuff.
A few weeks later the telescope mirrors arrive and Rodney fits them into place amid many exhalations of This is very delicate; don’t interrupt me, like he’s disarming a nuclear warhead. Which, given that he’s all over dust and surrounded by the chaos of his workshop, is hard to believe that Rodney’s actually done.
“There.” Rodney rocks back on his heels in satisfaction. “We can take her out tonight.”
“Cool,” John says.
“Yeah,” Rodney agrees, and kisses him, slanty mouth working over John’s, one hand with its unexpected calluses low on John’s back.
* * *
They have to wait until full dark on Rodney’s insistence, because there’s no point in going out when you can’t see half the damn sky. It’s around eleven by the time Rodney finally agrees to get underway, and the air has lost all the slowness of heat. The nearby forest echoes with life.
“Oh my God, I knew we should have gotten more bug spray,” Rodney huffs as he manhandles the telescope stand out onto the lawn. “It’s a good thing malaria – wait. Do you know if it’s possible to contract Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from mosquitoes?”
“Ticks, I think.”
“Somewhat comforting.” Rodney stares at the ground suspiciously. “Go get the coffee while I get things set up.”
John gives Rodney a salute; Rodney gives him an expressive roll of his eyes. He bounds up the stairs and back inside, half his mind on the coffee and half on trying to remember what they did with that fleece blanket, because the next thing Rodney’s going to complain about is the cold.
The house is warm, close around him, all their stuff still jumbled together and inextricable. Months they’ve been here and still they’re no closer to sorting out who belongs to what, and now, standing in the clutter of their kitchen and hunting for Rodney’s favorite coffee mug, the one with GeNiUS spelled out using the periodic table, John decides that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
After a few minutes he walks back out into the night again, equipped with two mugs of coffee and the blanket – found stuffed under the sofa – slung over one shoulder. Rodney’s bent over the telescope, doing something arcane to the eyepiece, utterly absorbed in his task and John takes a moment to watch him.
“Okay,” Rodney says, stepping back and gesturing dramatically to the telescope, smile incandescent in the silver light. “Take a look.”
Obediently, John leans down to peer into the eyepiece.
“What am I looking at?”
“Pegasus.” Rodney’s voice is quiet and very close, and John can feel him, a warm presence over his shoulder. “The Great Square, to be precise. You see the four bright stars?”
This far out in the country they’re all bright, like day, a dazzle in John’s eyes. Stepping back from the eyepiece he’s actually blind with afterimages of starlight across his retinas; looking up, he sees the Milky Way sweeping its arc overhead, so close and so far, tempting to reach up and see if he can touch.
“It’s pretty amazing,” he says, and this from a guy who’s been up in high atmosphere, at the place where through the vibration of technology he could sense that waiting night, who’s been in that night, traveled and wandered through it.
“Yeah, yeah it is,” and Rodney’s voice has gone quiet with wonder, the way it goes when they’re in bed together and John is traveling and wandering his way across Rodney’s body. Rodney’s looking up too, oddly still, caught up in seeing something only Rodney sees, and John has to lean closer to kiss the place where light limns the curve of Rodney’s neck.
Vibration against his mouth tells him Rodney’s caught between irritation at being interrupted and pleasure, and the shift of Rodney’s body against his tells him Rodney’s decided on the latter.
Rodney tastes like coffee, warm and more warmth where he presses against John, fingers on John’s cheekbones, his neck, his hair, restless like Rodney almost always is.
“We’ll have to bring the telescope inside first,” Rodney says against John’s neck, probably already thinking ahead to the bedroom.
“Then we’ll stay out here a while longer,” John tells him.
And they do.
-end-
The title, for the curious, comes from the very awesome "Over Grown Waltz" by Béla Fleck. You absolutely have to listen to it, because it's wonderful and one of the other things that's contributed to my happiness over the past few days.
Further fic notes: "Over Grown Waltz" is sort of loosely construed as some kind of future-type thing, but I didn't want canon events to play too much of a role in it, so most things are deliberately obscure. Just wanted the domesticness, you know.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: McShep
Rating/Warning: PG; completely harmless
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Advertisements: Meets
wordclaim50 #6 (Fluff), but is more or less a spontaneous outpouring of happiness.Notes: The other day,
dogeared wrote a lovely bit of domestic wonderfulness, and between that and so many other things (anna_luna's naptime art, my new default icon by newkidfan, "The Tao of Rodney"), I'm feeling very happy and unable to make the boys sad. So, I'm trying my own hand at domestic, angst-free fic... am not very good at it, so be warned.Links to pictures in the text!
THE OVER GROWN WALTZ
One day, Rodney builds a telescope.
John expects a miniature version of Mount Palomar or Lowell, with a retractable dome roof and maneuverable chair. When he says this, Rodney stares at him in incomprehension and tells John he’s going to build a twelve-inch Newtonian reflector, like the one he built as a kid, perfectly adequate, but yes, a maneuverable chair would be cool.
So John leaves him to it, because it gives Rodney something to fill up the days, slow lazy days like John can remember from childhood summers visiting his grandparents. He keeps himself busy putting away all their stuff – military organization sticks like a fungus – and they have a lot of stuff. Rodney’s papers and journals, John’s model airplanes and golf clubs, and no way all of it’s going to fit into their tiny attic or the seriously creepy basement John suspects of harboring a serial killer.
Rodney scoffs at him when he says this, but he never goes down there either.
Sometimes he has to interrupt Rodney at his measuring and calculating to ask him if it’s really necessary to keep every copy of National Geographic ever published, which earns him another uncomprehending look and a of course it’s necessary; do I ask you if it’s necessary for you to collect every brand of nine-iron on the planet? (He does, actually.) John sighs and resigns himself to the fact they’ll have to buy another house, one for them and one for their stuff.
Anyway, Rodney works on his telescope and John interrupts him occasionally, but at the end of a few hours Rodney wanders onto the back porch with a complaint about the weather and maybe a kiss, and he tastes like sweat and sawdust, and the hands that creep under John’s shirt are sticky with polyurethane.
Rodney’s good at making stuff.
A few weeks later the telescope mirrors arrive and Rodney fits them into place amid many exhalations of This is very delicate; don’t interrupt me, like he’s disarming a nuclear warhead. Which, given that he’s all over dust and surrounded by the chaos of his workshop, is hard to believe that Rodney’s actually done.
“There.” Rodney rocks back on his heels in satisfaction. “We can take her out tonight.”
“Cool,” John says.
“Yeah,” Rodney agrees, and kisses him, slanty mouth working over John’s, one hand with its unexpected calluses low on John’s back.
They have to wait until full dark on Rodney’s insistence, because there’s no point in going out when you can’t see half the damn sky. It’s around eleven by the time Rodney finally agrees to get underway, and the air has lost all the slowness of heat. The nearby forest echoes with life.
“Oh my God, I knew we should have gotten more bug spray,” Rodney huffs as he manhandles the telescope stand out onto the lawn. “It’s a good thing malaria – wait. Do you know if it’s possible to contract Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from mosquitoes?”
“Ticks, I think.”
“Somewhat comforting.” Rodney stares at the ground suspiciously. “Go get the coffee while I get things set up.”
John gives Rodney a salute; Rodney gives him an expressive roll of his eyes. He bounds up the stairs and back inside, half his mind on the coffee and half on trying to remember what they did with that fleece blanket, because the next thing Rodney’s going to complain about is the cold.
The house is warm, close around him, all their stuff still jumbled together and inextricable. Months they’ve been here and still they’re no closer to sorting out who belongs to what, and now, standing in the clutter of their kitchen and hunting for Rodney’s favorite coffee mug, the one with GeNiUS spelled out using the periodic table, John decides that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
After a few minutes he walks back out into the night again, equipped with two mugs of coffee and the blanket – found stuffed under the sofa – slung over one shoulder. Rodney’s bent over the telescope, doing something arcane to the eyepiece, utterly absorbed in his task and John takes a moment to watch him.
“Okay,” Rodney says, stepping back and gesturing dramatically to the telescope, smile incandescent in the silver light. “Take a look.”
Obediently, John leans down to peer into the eyepiece.
“What am I looking at?”
“Pegasus.” Rodney’s voice is quiet and very close, and John can feel him, a warm presence over his shoulder. “The Great Square, to be precise. You see the four bright stars?”
This far out in the country they’re all bright, like day, a dazzle in John’s eyes. Stepping back from the eyepiece he’s actually blind with afterimages of starlight across his retinas; looking up, he sees the Milky Way sweeping its arc overhead, so close and so far, tempting to reach up and see if he can touch.
“It’s pretty amazing,” he says, and this from a guy who’s been up in high atmosphere, at the place where through the vibration of technology he could sense that waiting night, who’s been in that night, traveled and wandered through it.
“Yeah, yeah it is,” and Rodney’s voice has gone quiet with wonder, the way it goes when they’re in bed together and John is traveling and wandering his way across Rodney’s body. Rodney’s looking up too, oddly still, caught up in seeing something only Rodney sees, and John has to lean closer to kiss the place where light limns the curve of Rodney’s neck.
Vibration against his mouth tells him Rodney’s caught between irritation at being interrupted and pleasure, and the shift of Rodney’s body against his tells him Rodney’s decided on the latter.
Rodney tastes like coffee, warm and more warmth where he presses against John, fingers on John’s cheekbones, his neck, his hair, restless like Rodney almost always is.
“We’ll have to bring the telescope inside first,” Rodney says against John’s neck, probably already thinking ahead to the bedroom.
“Then we’ll stay out here a while longer,” John tells him.
And they do.
-end-
The title, for the curious, comes from the very awesome "Over Grown Waltz" by Béla Fleck. You absolutely have to listen to it, because it's wonderful and one of the other things that's contributed to my happiness over the past few days.
Further fic notes: "Over Grown Waltz" is sort of loosely construed as some kind of future-type thing, but I didn't want canon events to play too much of a role in it, so most things are deliberately obscure. Just wanted the domesticness, you know.
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