Rodney's still not sure what he means, but the idea that John (full-lipped, rough-jawed John) saw some potential in him, that John's seen him, as more than the guy in the ratty t-shirts who signs for all the boxes of books, makes something achy press against Rodney's breastbone.
"At the - " John lifts his head and frowns. "Um. Thing. In the spring. With the lecture."
Rodney swallows - spring; the prize lecture at the University - 1200 people crammed into an auditorium, most of them so stupid they shouldn't be allowed to breathe, and John was one of them. "The Schmitts-Devon Prize Lecture in Physics?" he says, and his voice never used to sound so insubstantial before, he's sure of it.
John's face breaks into a dazed, happy grin. "Yeah." He sets his head back down on Rodney's shoulder. "You were . . ."
Rodney waits for him to supply any number of the usual adjectives - petty, arrogant, bad with people.
Several things try to crowd their way out of Rodney's mouth at once: "Oh my god!" and "So you knew I was a supergenius!" and "You're hot!" and "Oh god, math, really? How much do you know?"
But what he says to the dark, mussed top of John's head is, "I'm, um, I'm giving another lecture next week."
Rodney hums happily, dips his head so the tips of John's hair brush his nose. "And see, I was right. About the couch. It is a good couch. Don't you think?"
Rodney feels good. He feels energized; maybe he should spend a couple of hours with his latest equations . . . except John's breathing deep and slow and steady, and Rodney shivers through an enormous, jaw-cracking yawn, and he's actually amazingly comfortable, even though John's using him as a mattress, and okay, okay, maybe the thing to do is just to stay right here.
So - Jenn has cut and pasted it into a word doc of, I think I'm remembering rightly, about 4500 words. !!!! So the way we worked it with the last piece - and the best way I think anyone's come up with to make a piece sound like it's in one voice, not three - was to read it through, make our edits, smooth things out, and then send it on. And we kept sending it back and forth, back and forth, until there was nothing left that we wanted to change. That's when we posted. Sound like a plan?
I knows! I was out at a play this evening, got back to see the thread wrap up, then messaged Jenn and squealed for a bit :> She also mentioned the plan of attack for cleaning up the fic, and it sounds great.
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Rodney swallows - spring; the prize lecture at the University - 1200 people crammed into an auditorium, most of them so stupid they shouldn't be allowed to breathe, and John was one of them. "The Schmitts-Devon Prize Lecture in Physics?" he says, and his voice never used to sound so insubstantial before, he's sure of it.
John's face breaks into a dazed, happy grin. "Yeah." He sets his head back down on Rodney's shoulder. "You were . . ."
Rodney waits for him to supply any number of the usual adjectives - petty, arrogant, bad with people.
"Hot," John murmurs. "Math's hot."
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But what he says to the dark, mussed top of John's head is, "I'm, um, I'm giving another lecture next week."
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I knows! I was out at a play this evening, got back to see the thread wrap up, then messaged Jenn and squealed for a bit :> She also mentioned the plan of attack for cleaning up the fic, and it sounds great.
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