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.ficlet: Lenses - McKay/Sheppard
McShep. Totally ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dogeared's fault for making me fangirl over Rodney in glasses.
For which, see also this.
Part of Nantucket!verse. Featuring bespectacled!Rodney and dirty!John.
John's spent the last two hours gardening. Not so much "gardening" as "weeding," because their backyard is a haven for every dandelion seed in on the Atlantic coast. He's also spent the last three hours not seeing Rodney, two of those because Rodney had gone into town and one because Rodney's been in hiding since returning.
Rodney had refused, flatly and incontrovertibly, to let John go with him to the optometrist's that afternoon, and when he had gotten back, had vanished somewhere--not easy, considering how big (or not-big) their house is.
John had tried to point out that Rodney really only needs glasses for reading, but Rodney had looked at him and said "Yes, and that's like saying I only need my lungs for breathing," which is true enough, John supposes. A book, a journal, his laptop... If it has words or numbers on it, Rodney will probably read it. Even in bed John feels like text, Rodney's eyes blue and bright and focused, reading him while his fingers track over John's body to mark his place.
There's a lot more tied up in Rodney's new pair of glasses than resentment over growing older. John's seen one picture of Rodney's parents, both of them wearing hideous (even by seventies standards) clothes and glasses with formidable black frames, a reminder in faded colors that Rodney has a set of genes without happy memories attached. Rodney's five in that picture, as pugnacious and irritated then as he is now, but with a lot more hair.
Clicketyclicketyclickety comes from the kitchen, which means Rodney's come out of hiding, probably driven to it by boredom. John gives him a few minutes before stripping off his gloves and wandering, very casually, inside.
Bright spring sun gives way to the shade of their kitchen, a moment to adjust and when John blinks away shadows, there Rodney is, bent over his laptop and typing away like a man possessed, and light from the screen catches and bounces off the lenses, limns the slim metal frame.
John swallows.
Rodney looks up. The patterns of light change, bending to match the curvature of glass.
"What?" Spiky and impatient, and Rodney's mouth is thin with it.
"They look nice." John gestures vaguely at Rodney's glasses.
"Oh." Spikiness and impatience vanish as Rodney blinks at him, takes a second to assess John's sincerity, and then turns back to his laptop with a shrug and satisfied nod, as though he knew all along how good he looks in glasses, which is so profoundly untrue. "Well, thank you."
"You're welcome." He does look good. John takes the six steps necessary to cross the kitchen and bends over Rodney, hands sliding along the broad, flat arc of Rodney's shoulders, down his arms to brace his weight on the tabletop, bracketing Rodney's suddenly-stilled fingers. There's dirt in John's fingernails, despite the gloves, bracelets of it around his wrists. Rodney points this out.
"Hm." John noses the small, soft place behind the fold of Rodney's right ear, pushing at the temple piece where it hooks over. Rodney makes a humphing noise that might have been "Sweaty," or something else entirely. "They make you look smart," he says to the curve of Rodney's neck, the hint of vein and tendon riding beneath the skin.
"I don't need the help," Rodney tells him, but tilts his head and leans back anyway, and the sun through the kitchen window catches in metal and glass, in Rodney's smile.
ETA: And I have added "rodney mckay's glasses" to my interest list. Yes, I am that obsessed. Don't look at me like that.
dogeared's fault for making me fangirl over Rodney in glasses.For which, see also this.
Part of Nantucket!verse. Featuring bespectacled!Rodney and dirty!John.
John's spent the last two hours gardening. Not so much "gardening" as "weeding," because their backyard is a haven for every dandelion seed in on the Atlantic coast. He's also spent the last three hours not seeing Rodney, two of those because Rodney had gone into town and one because Rodney's been in hiding since returning.
Rodney had refused, flatly and incontrovertibly, to let John go with him to the optometrist's that afternoon, and when he had gotten back, had vanished somewhere--not easy, considering how big (or not-big) their house is.
John had tried to point out that Rodney really only needs glasses for reading, but Rodney had looked at him and said "Yes, and that's like saying I only need my lungs for breathing," which is true enough, John supposes. A book, a journal, his laptop... If it has words or numbers on it, Rodney will probably read it. Even in bed John feels like text, Rodney's eyes blue and bright and focused, reading him while his fingers track over John's body to mark his place.
There's a lot more tied up in Rodney's new pair of glasses than resentment over growing older. John's seen one picture of Rodney's parents, both of them wearing hideous (even by seventies standards) clothes and glasses with formidable black frames, a reminder in faded colors that Rodney has a set of genes without happy memories attached. Rodney's five in that picture, as pugnacious and irritated then as he is now, but with a lot more hair.
Clicketyclicketyclickety comes from the kitchen, which means Rodney's come out of hiding, probably driven to it by boredom. John gives him a few minutes before stripping off his gloves and wandering, very casually, inside.
Bright spring sun gives way to the shade of their kitchen, a moment to adjust and when John blinks away shadows, there Rodney is, bent over his laptop and typing away like a man possessed, and light from the screen catches and bounces off the lenses, limns the slim metal frame.
John swallows.
Rodney looks up. The patterns of light change, bending to match the curvature of glass.
"What?" Spiky and impatient, and Rodney's mouth is thin with it.
"They look nice." John gestures vaguely at Rodney's glasses.
"Oh." Spikiness and impatience vanish as Rodney blinks at him, takes a second to assess John's sincerity, and then turns back to his laptop with a shrug and satisfied nod, as though he knew all along how good he looks in glasses, which is so profoundly untrue. "Well, thank you."
"You're welcome." He does look good. John takes the six steps necessary to cross the kitchen and bends over Rodney, hands sliding along the broad, flat arc of Rodney's shoulders, down his arms to brace his weight on the tabletop, bracketing Rodney's suddenly-stilled fingers. There's dirt in John's fingernails, despite the gloves, bracelets of it around his wrists. Rodney points this out.
"Hm." John noses the small, soft place behind the fold of Rodney's right ear, pushing at the temple piece where it hooks over. Rodney makes a humphing noise that might have been "Sweaty," or something else entirely. "They make you look smart," he says to the curve of Rodney's neck, the hint of vein and tendon riding beneath the skin.
"I don't need the help," Rodney tells him, but tilts his head and leans back anyway, and the sun through the kitchen window catches in metal and glass, in Rodney's smile.
ETA: And I have added "rodney mckay's glasses" to my interest list. Yes, I am that obsessed. Don't look at me like that.
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