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.ficlet: Souvenir - John/Rodney (PG13)
Souvenir, John/Rodney (PG13, based on The Picture behind the cut, c. 1300 words).
I think fic from this was inevitable :>
SOUVENIR
"We practically live on a beach," Rodney says. "I don't see why we have to vacation on one."
"You've said this before."
"Yes, well, it's worth saying."
"Rodney, we live in a city in the middle of an ocean. I don't think that qualifies as a beach." John pauses and scans the boardwalk, like there's anything else to see other than tanned girls slinking around in bikinis and their tanned boyfriends trying to impress them, tourists cooked to well-done shades of red, and possibly the tackiest souvenirs Rodney's seen anywhere in his entire life. "If we went to a drilling platform, maybe."
"Oh, classic." A school of shrieking five-year-olds almost runs him over, and the woman nominally in charge of them glares at Rodney like it's his fault her children are uncivilized and need to be chained to stakes in the backyard until they learn restraint. "Can we go now?"
"Sure." John shrugs and starts wandering down the boardwalk, hands in the pockets of his khaki cutoffs which are in serious danger of falling right off his nonexistent hips. The hem of his shirt is long enough to cover it, but it's caught a bit on one of the belt loops, and the linen of it is barely opaque, transparent enough to hint at the sun-dark skin underneath it.
They negotiate their way through the worst of the crowd, which is packed inside a five-hundred foot radius surrounding the beach entrance. Another horde of children threatens to mow him down, and one kid actually steps on his foot.
"We should get our picture taken," John says.
"Come again?"
John's eyes, hidden behind those ridiculous aviator glasses, don't give away anything; his tone is the one he uses to suggest anything from going into certain peril or going to a movie.
"Um, why?" Rodney makes himself refocus. "We know what we look like." He knows what he looks like, working on a sunburn and cranky from jetlag. John looks like he always looks, smooth and put together and disheveled all at once.
John shrugs again, maddeningly.
"Please tell me you don't have a sappy, sentimental motive behind this, like we need to have a picture so we can look back and cherish the memory of today or whatever."
He can't see it, half-hidden behind the aviators, but he knows John's are you insane? expression.
"Good." Rodney adjusts the strap of his backpack -- no way in hell was he going to pack around one of those raffia monstrosities -- and makes a note to reapply sunscreen. The sun this far south is toxic. "I'd hate to think we're turning into one of those couples."
Couple. The word makes his head spin like hypoglycemia, or like his brain has gone splat on the floor of his skull. He desperately desperately wants to open his mouth to take it back, but he knows the second he opens his mouth words will come tumbling madly out and he quite possibly won't stop talking until, say, Christmas which might actually be a good thing because John would forget about it but when did John ever forget? and oh fuck couple, they couldn't be, in fact they weren't, they couldn't possibly be and he is, he is going to have to say it because his head will explode with all the words in it and that would get messy and oh God --
"Actually, I want to fuck around with Caldwell a little," John says.
Oh God, so they weren't a couple after all, very nice to have it confirmed... but Caldwell?
He says this, and is treated to another are you insane? look.
"Figuratively, Rodney."
"Oh. Of course figuratively." Of course. After all, Caldwell? Rodney tries to wrap his brain around that, the hypothetical John and Caldwell, and his brain recoils, flailing violently.
By the time he recovers, John's approaching who has to be the prettiest girl on the beach, a long-limbed doe of a girl, the kind Rodney had always thought couldn't possibly exist outside of wet dreams or a fashion show. Dark eyes run up and down John's body, pausing at the precariously-dangling khakis, the opened collar and the eloquence of John's neck, the way his torso curves under the loose contours of his shirt, the curve for which Rodney will work out an equation, the sunglasses that reflect the looker's want back at them, the slow smirk that says maybe it's mutual.
"You mind taking our picture?" And John makes it sound like "You mind sex in the broom closet?" Rodney bristles as the girl shifts, flowing from one pose to another like a dancer, and she has the confidence of someone used to being looked at, who, like John, seems to like being looked at.
You like looking at me, the graceful twist of her body says, and I like you looking. And John's says the same thing, but covered up, invites imagination.
"Of course not," the girl says. She has freckles on her cheeks, barely covered up by her tan, the girl next door and Rodney wants to stuff her in the nearest trash can.
John hands her his camera. Her fingers are perfect too, manicured, not scarred by hot wires or the bad habit Rodney's adopted of knawing on his thumb when he needs to work something out. She asks which buttons do what and John bends close to explain, and her body inclines into his so her shoulders brush the loose fabric of his shirt, and Rodney, while he can understand wanting to lean into that curve, can sympathize with experiencing that magnetism, it doesn't mean he approves of other people doing it.
"Okay," the girl says after a moment, a very -- and unnecessarily -- long moment, "go and stand over there."
Like Rodney's a... a bouy or the boardwalk, or one of the goddamn potted plants in the hotel courtyard. He wonders if the throbbing in his head is a fury-induced aneurysm. Quite possibly it is, and John's smirk, the slow, drawling one that says I know exactly what you're thinking only makes it worse.
As soon as John's in range, Rodney grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and hauls him closer, and John comes, laughing, lets himself be pulled and arranged so Rodney's arm is across his shoulders and he's the one leaning into Rodney this time, sun-warm and solid against Rodney's side, and if Rodney has a ferocious expression on his face oh well because the nymphs and Caldwells of the world need to know John's his and do not touch, and John's grinning like he knows it too. This close, Rodney can see behind the aviators a bit, and John's eyes are bright, the fine lines at the corners deeper, the way they are when he's really happy, and not faking.
The girl hands back the camera, pouting, and stalks away. Rodney smirks at the smooth curve of her back.
"Come on," he says, turning John around, hand slipping down from his shoulder to his side, under the shirt to feel that skin, pliant and firm and he knows it will taste like salt from the ocean and the warm day. "We've got an air-conditioned room and we should use it."
"Okay," John says agreeably, and lets Rodney's hand stay where it is, cupped around his hip and helping his khakis stay up.
* * *
After their vacation, Rodney prints out the photograph on the best printer the SGC has to offer, and John tapes it to the wall behind his office desk so Caldwell has to look at it when he comes in.
The first time this happens, Rodney's on his way in as Caldwell's on his way out, and what Caldwell keeps behind that Air Force mask Rodney doesn't know.
But he likes to think Caldwell got the message.
-end-
I think fic from this was inevitable :>
SOUVENIR
"We practically live on a beach," Rodney says. "I don't see why we have to vacation on one."
"You've said this before."
"Yes, well, it's worth saying."
"Rodney, we live in a city in the middle of an ocean. I don't think that qualifies as a beach." John pauses and scans the boardwalk, like there's anything else to see other than tanned girls slinking around in bikinis and their tanned boyfriends trying to impress them, tourists cooked to well-done shades of red, and possibly the tackiest souvenirs Rodney's seen anywhere in his entire life. "If we went to a drilling platform, maybe."
"Oh, classic." A school of shrieking five-year-olds almost runs him over, and the woman nominally in charge of them glares at Rodney like it's his fault her children are uncivilized and need to be chained to stakes in the backyard until they learn restraint. "Can we go now?"
"Sure." John shrugs and starts wandering down the boardwalk, hands in the pockets of his khaki cutoffs which are in serious danger of falling right off his nonexistent hips. The hem of his shirt is long enough to cover it, but it's caught a bit on one of the belt loops, and the linen of it is barely opaque, transparent enough to hint at the sun-dark skin underneath it.
They negotiate their way through the worst of the crowd, which is packed inside a five-hundred foot radius surrounding the beach entrance. Another horde of children threatens to mow him down, and one kid actually steps on his foot.
"We should get our picture taken," John says.
"Come again?"
John's eyes, hidden behind those ridiculous aviator glasses, don't give away anything; his tone is the one he uses to suggest anything from going into certain peril or going to a movie.
"Um, why?" Rodney makes himself refocus. "We know what we look like." He knows what he looks like, working on a sunburn and cranky from jetlag. John looks like he always looks, smooth and put together and disheveled all at once.
John shrugs again, maddeningly.
"Please tell me you don't have a sappy, sentimental motive behind this, like we need to have a picture so we can look back and cherish the memory of today or whatever."
He can't see it, half-hidden behind the aviators, but he knows John's are you insane? expression.
"Good." Rodney adjusts the strap of his backpack -- no way in hell was he going to pack around one of those raffia monstrosities -- and makes a note to reapply sunscreen. The sun this far south is toxic. "I'd hate to think we're turning into one of those couples."
Couple. The word makes his head spin like hypoglycemia, or like his brain has gone splat on the floor of his skull. He desperately desperately wants to open his mouth to take it back, but he knows the second he opens his mouth words will come tumbling madly out and he quite possibly won't stop talking until, say, Christmas which might actually be a good thing because John would forget about it but when did John ever forget? and oh fuck couple, they couldn't be, in fact they weren't, they couldn't possibly be and he is, he is going to have to say it because his head will explode with all the words in it and that would get messy and oh God --
"Actually, I want to fuck around with Caldwell a little," John says.
Oh God, so they weren't a couple after all, very nice to have it confirmed... but Caldwell?
He says this, and is treated to another are you insane? look.
"Figuratively, Rodney."
"Oh. Of course figuratively." Of course. After all, Caldwell? Rodney tries to wrap his brain around that, the hypothetical John and Caldwell, and his brain recoils, flailing violently.
By the time he recovers, John's approaching who has to be the prettiest girl on the beach, a long-limbed doe of a girl, the kind Rodney had always thought couldn't possibly exist outside of wet dreams or a fashion show. Dark eyes run up and down John's body, pausing at the precariously-dangling khakis, the opened collar and the eloquence of John's neck, the way his torso curves under the loose contours of his shirt, the curve for which Rodney will work out an equation, the sunglasses that reflect the looker's want back at them, the slow smirk that says maybe it's mutual.
"You mind taking our picture?" And John makes it sound like "You mind sex in the broom closet?" Rodney bristles as the girl shifts, flowing from one pose to another like a dancer, and she has the confidence of someone used to being looked at, who, like John, seems to like being looked at.
You like looking at me, the graceful twist of her body says, and I like you looking. And John's says the same thing, but covered up, invites imagination.
"Of course not," the girl says. She has freckles on her cheeks, barely covered up by her tan, the girl next door and Rodney wants to stuff her in the nearest trash can.
John hands her his camera. Her fingers are perfect too, manicured, not scarred by hot wires or the bad habit Rodney's adopted of knawing on his thumb when he needs to work something out. She asks which buttons do what and John bends close to explain, and her body inclines into his so her shoulders brush the loose fabric of his shirt, and Rodney, while he can understand wanting to lean into that curve, can sympathize with experiencing that magnetism, it doesn't mean he approves of other people doing it.
"Okay," the girl says after a moment, a very -- and unnecessarily -- long moment, "go and stand over there."
Like Rodney's a... a bouy or the boardwalk, or one of the goddamn potted plants in the hotel courtyard. He wonders if the throbbing in his head is a fury-induced aneurysm. Quite possibly it is, and John's smirk, the slow, drawling one that says I know exactly what you're thinking only makes it worse.
As soon as John's in range, Rodney grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and hauls him closer, and John comes, laughing, lets himself be pulled and arranged so Rodney's arm is across his shoulders and he's the one leaning into Rodney this time, sun-warm and solid against Rodney's side, and if Rodney has a ferocious expression on his face oh well because the nymphs and Caldwells of the world need to know John's his and do not touch, and John's grinning like he knows it too. This close, Rodney can see behind the aviators a bit, and John's eyes are bright, the fine lines at the corners deeper, the way they are when he's really happy, and not faking.
The girl hands back the camera, pouting, and stalks away. Rodney smirks at the smooth curve of her back.
"Come on," he says, turning John around, hand slipping down from his shoulder to his side, under the shirt to feel that skin, pliant and firm and he knows it will taste like salt from the ocean and the warm day. "We've got an air-conditioned room and we should use it."
"Okay," John says agreeably, and lets Rodney's hand stay where it is, cupped around his hip and helping his khakis stay up.
After their vacation, Rodney prints out the photograph on the best printer the SGC has to offer, and John tapes it to the wall behind his office desk so Caldwell has to look at it when he comes in.
The first time this happens, Rodney's on his way in as Caldwell's on his way out, and what Caldwell keeps behind that Air Force mask Rodney doesn't know.
But he likes to think Caldwell got the message.
-end-
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