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.ficlet: SPROING II - McKay/Sheppard
Just a little follow-up to SPROING, in which there is an apology. Sort of, in a way.
John thinks he's gotten lucky and will escape from Rodney's encounter with rus wine without barf or other excretions. He's gotten Rodney dressed, on two feet, and out of the tent without anything worse than soft, fervent cursing.. but then, oh, then, Ronon comes up and offers Rodney a bottle with the stuff sloshing in it.
And then: splat.
"My boots," whimpers John.
"Hair of the dog," says Ronon.
Actually, what he says is "Scale of the agrop," but the sentiment, John reflects, is probably the same.
Twelve very long hours later, John's staggering to bed. His head throbs like he's the one who ignored sensible advice and drank to excess, and it's a study in near disaster as he walks out of his clothes and into a clean t-shirt and boxers. Rodney's already in bed, still a little pale and with a line in his forehead that speaks to a lingering headache of his own, but still with his attention riveted on a physics journal.
He crawls into bed next to Rodney and settles low on his pillow, very ostentatiously sighing and stretching and making noises suggestive of Rodney turning off his bedside light right now. Rodney heaves a put-upon sigh, like he's the one who's had to put up with assish behavior all day and having to clean puke off his field boots. And he's on the point of saying this, because really, Rodney has it coming and John fucking deserves sainthood for the scalp-mauling and sproinging and having his reward be dealing with Rodney's hangover, but when he opens his mouth to explain these things to Rodney, Rodney puts his journal on his bedside table and sits there quietly for a few seconds.
John has the feeling Rodney's about to say something--maybe, miracle of miracles, an apology--but after that hesitation Rodney only reaches out and his hand slides over John's shoulder, cupping his neck like asking permission.
Sometimes John really, really hates Rodney.
And the only way to express the burning depth of his hatred is to lean closer and say okay, and let Rodney's fingers walk up through his hair, slow and careful and clean.
Rodney knows what this does to him, the pads of his fingers rubbing, the lightest, occasional scratch of his nails along the eccentric path of John's hair, his cowlicks, his left temple where John had found a few grey hairs last week. (They stay there, for a moment, fascinated, before moving again.) He's persuading the headache and irritation out of John, who tries to hold onto it tooth and claw, but he's no match and he knows it, and there's nothing to do but ooze down Rodney's torso, Rodney who is warm and somnolent and maybe a little contrite, and rest his head on Rodney's stomach.
If he sighs happily it's definitely not accepting Rodney's apology, no not at all, especially when one of the last things he knows before drifting into reluctant sleep is Rodney pressing teasingly, gently down on his cowlicks and then a whispered sproing.
--
re: "Scale of the agrop." I like to think that an agrop is the Satedan equivalent of a chicken, except that it is poisonous.
John thinks he's gotten lucky and will escape from Rodney's encounter with rus wine without barf or other excretions. He's gotten Rodney dressed, on two feet, and out of the tent without anything worse than soft, fervent cursing.. but then, oh, then, Ronon comes up and offers Rodney a bottle with the stuff sloshing in it.
And then: splat.
"My boots," whimpers John.
"Hair of the dog," says Ronon.
Actually, what he says is "Scale of the agrop," but the sentiment, John reflects, is probably the same.
Twelve very long hours later, John's staggering to bed. His head throbs like he's the one who ignored sensible advice and drank to excess, and it's a study in near disaster as he walks out of his clothes and into a clean t-shirt and boxers. Rodney's already in bed, still a little pale and with a line in his forehead that speaks to a lingering headache of his own, but still with his attention riveted on a physics journal.
He crawls into bed next to Rodney and settles low on his pillow, very ostentatiously sighing and stretching and making noises suggestive of Rodney turning off his bedside light right now. Rodney heaves a put-upon sigh, like he's the one who's had to put up with assish behavior all day and having to clean puke off his field boots. And he's on the point of saying this, because really, Rodney has it coming and John fucking deserves sainthood for the scalp-mauling and sproinging and having his reward be dealing with Rodney's hangover, but when he opens his mouth to explain these things to Rodney, Rodney puts his journal on his bedside table and sits there quietly for a few seconds.
John has the feeling Rodney's about to say something--maybe, miracle of miracles, an apology--but after that hesitation Rodney only reaches out and his hand slides over John's shoulder, cupping his neck like asking permission.
Sometimes John really, really hates Rodney.
And the only way to express the burning depth of his hatred is to lean closer and say okay, and let Rodney's fingers walk up through his hair, slow and careful and clean.
Rodney knows what this does to him, the pads of his fingers rubbing, the lightest, occasional scratch of his nails along the eccentric path of John's hair, his cowlicks, his left temple where John had found a few grey hairs last week. (They stay there, for a moment, fascinated, before moving again.) He's persuading the headache and irritation out of John, who tries to hold onto it tooth and claw, but he's no match and he knows it, and there's nothing to do but ooze down Rodney's torso, Rodney who is warm and somnolent and maybe a little contrite, and rest his head on Rodney's stomach.
If he sighs happily it's definitely not accepting Rodney's apology, no not at all, especially when one of the last things he knows before drifting into reluctant sleep is Rodney pressing teasingly, gently down on his cowlicks and then a whispered sproing.
--
re: "Scale of the agrop." I like to think that an agrop is the Satedan equivalent of a chicken, except that it is poisonous.
no subject
For some reason, the following scene popped into my head:
The team is eating dinner. John points to Rodney's meal and asks what it is. Rodney tells him it's the bird from [random planet] and then says, "Tastes just like chicken."
Ronon asks, "What's chicken?"
Rodney describes a chicken and Ronon gets more and more white in the face as the description goes on.
"That's an agrop! Are you guys crazy!? That thing's poisonous!!"
And from then on is suspicious of anything that is described as tasting "just like chicken".
Love the story!
no subject
Har! *flan!laugh* Awesome :D