aesc | haute couture

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haute couture

John Sheppard has this tie. You must read the ad copy, because it's awesome.

from

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He picked it up at a small curio/junk shop when he was stationed out in the middle of nowhere and going insane from boredom, because hey, it was cool and when he thought about it, it was pretty swank.

Unfortunately, most women didn't see it that way and anti-tieness was one of the major strikes against Nancy when they got engaged--Nancy even went so far as to tell him that under no circumstances would he wear it around her, with "under no circumstances will you wear it ever" strongly implied. But the drink dumped in his lap, the drink thrown in his face, or Nancy's inclusion of the tie in the prenup failed to shake his faith in the essential swankness of his tie.

So that brings us to now, when the tie becomes a crucial element in his seduction of Rodney McKay. You know that's what happens.

.eta: This possibly gives new meaning to "glowy sex" *muses*

In other news: New Hewlett icon! \o/

And, for those of you still around or just tuned in, model!John and reporter!Rodney improv with

siriaeve.

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... touched by the wand of darkness? Is that what Rodney's calling it now?

Maybe only in his head :D

(My first thought was, disgracefully, BLUE STEEL. And then I couldn't stop snickering.)

I have never seen Zoolander, but I'm sure John would make a delightful male model. :> All... splayed.

Mmmmph. Splaying. And with the aesthetically pleasing slink.

Which Rodney--who is apparently getting all the crappy lifestyle assignments for the next three months, because Elizabeth is still pissed off at him over that whole diplomatic incident thing, and really, this is unbelievable for someone who is this close to a Pulitzer--finds a little, um. Discomfiting. What with that too-thin, too-small bathrobe worn over a bare chest and a pair of tight jeans.

He also finds it grossly unfair because Elizabeth had been explicit about "maintaining standards of professional behavior" while in the field--like following John around the side of the infinity-edge pool, listening to the waterfall in the background and watching the play of sun and muscle over and under John's skin counts as the "field"--and that means he can't make any of the cutting comments he wants to make, needs to make in order to cover up how very, very much he wants to lick the patch of sunlight and freckles on John's right shoulder.

And it's not helped by the fact that Radek--whom Rodney knows was sent by Elizabeth partly to take photos, but mostly to make sure that he stays in line--is smirking at him just a little. And when people smirk at Rodney, he gets snappy, and when he gets snappy, he's liable to come out with one of those questions that make politicians quail and make the writers on The Daily Show rejoice, but that are really just a product of his own constant low-grade irritation with the world--a question like "Why the hell would someone with a brain do this for a living?"

John shrugs, light rolling golden down his back.

"It pays pretty good, and I get to travel." He uncaps his water bottle and tilts his head back to drink.

"Oh, excellent reason." Rodney keeps his eyes fixed on the flower garden that spills messily out of its borders to drop petals in the water. "One might say the same thing about diplomats and airplane pilots."

John goes tense for a moment, but then there's the lazy shrug again and he asks Radek what he wants to shoot next, and really, is it too much to ask that the guy get pissy or incoherent or do something that will make mocking him easier? Apparently not, because John slouches off to the outdoor kitchen, and Rodney follows, grinding his teeth, in his wake.

Rodney's never seen the point of outdoor kitchens, and he says as much, loudly. After all, they're in a private bungalow on the grounds of one of the most obscenely expensive hotels that LA can provide, with a kitchen full of chefs only a phone call away--the kind of chefs that specialise in using half a pound of Kobe beef and three tins of caviar to make a dish that'd fit onto an average sized spoon, let alone a plate; the kind of chef that Rodney can effortlessly brow-beat into making mac and cheese--not to mention the fact that the whole point of having a kitchen inside is to keep nature out.

John shrugs again. "Hey," he says, "you guys wanted this photo shoot. Me doing normal stuff, you know. Normally."

Rodney folds his arms. "You often cook steak outdoors half naked?"

John shrugs. Again. Rodney strongly suspects it's a nervous tic, and tells himself that those aren't supposed to be sexy.

"If it's nice out, sure," John says after a moment that he apparently needs to check the grill temperature and pull a beer out from the refrigerator. Next to the refrigerator is a wine storage unit that costs more than Rodney's car. Rodney scowls at it, and then at John when he doesn't offer one.

"Thought you were on the clock," he says, nodding to Radek, who's taking shots of the pool.

"I need alcohol to deal with this," Rodney says. "Hand it over."

John rolls his eyes but, being a bit more sensible than Rodney originally gave him credit for being, pulls out another bottle and hands it to him, and his fingers are hot and startling against the slick of frost.

"Okay," Rodney says, hopping up to sit out of the way on the edge of the rustic-style dining table. Radek's checking the light levels and getting ready to shoot, fiddling with the settings on the big, expensive digital camera that he's going to use to turn the sight of a guy cooking dinner in his back garden into moody, black-and-white pictures of supermodel John Sheppard being broody and manly with steak.

He waits until Radek's started snapping, and John's slinking around the kitchen in a variety of poses that don't look studied but that involve far too much hip action to be anything but, to flip open his notebook and start with the questions.

"So, Mr Sheppard," he says, affecting an admirably bland voice, "I have lots of questions here from some of your most admiring fans. Maybe we'll start with them." He's absolutely not imagining the way that the line of John's back stiffens at that, before smoothing out far too quickly to be natural. "Laurie from Boca Raton wants to know what it was like to be picked for the Calvin Klein ad?"

That gets him a look, quick and focused, tossed over John's shoulder; Radek's camera goes click click click. "They went with someone else for that campaign."

"Oh, that's right, so they did," Rodney says airily, flipping to the next page. "What's next?"

"You're the one with the notebook," John says with a lightness that warns Rodney not to push. It's not a voice that belongs with long, loose muscles and bare feet.

"Okay, here's one from me," Rodney says, not because he wants to, really, but because he's compelled by John's complacency and his eloquent spine and he's still pissed enough at the world to turn lust into anger, and anger into impulse, "Why'd you drop out of the Academy?"

John drops the tongs and whirls, no keeping back any kind of reaction to that question. Rodney wants very badly to gloat, finally, finally something other than nonchalance and Sheppard's endless laziness and someone in this stupid place is as pissed as he is.

"Should I punch you on the record or off?" John takes two stalking steps toward him, feline and dangerous, close enough that Rodney rethinks the wisdom of his question. "I'll give you the choice... that's more than other people have had."

"Should I take that as confirmation of the rumours?" Rodney sneers, chin tilting upwards. "Daddy must have paid a hell of a lot of money to keep everything hushed up." It was a risk bringing up the Academy, and Rodney knows it's an even bigger risk to mention Patrick Sheppard. The father gets column inches in the 'Wall Street Journal' and the son graces the front cover of 'Vogue', and it's an open secret that never the twain shall meet.

This close, he can see John's eyes, a thin ring of hazel around a dark pupil that's dilated with anger and with something else; he can hear John's breathing, too, a rapid rasp that's too shallow and loud enough to be heard over the sound of Radek's camera whirring away. The bastard's still taking photos; Rodney's got no idea what those photos are going to show, but he's willing to bet a whole lot of Canadian dollars that they'll be good.

Radek's camera, though, doesn't see what he sees--John's eyes, the fine tension in shoulders more used to Sheppard's trademark sprawl--and Rodney doesn't want it to, and not only because he doesn't want Sheppard decking him saved in Radek's image files. Theoretically, pain and arousal--and sudden regret, despite his promise not to feel bad about provoking Sheppard--don't go together, and he tries to remember this.

"Well, McKay?" John's head tilts, eyes narrow and appraising and seemingly studying Rodney's mouth. Rodney swallows and doesn't shift back on the table.

"You said it was an all-access interview," he says. "I'm perfectly within my rights to ask these questions."

"Because shit-stirring is really what a guy who asked the President about abuses of executive power in front of a national audience should be doing with his time." John smiles, thin and cold. "What's that about, McKay?"

"Good journalism," Rodney snaps back.

Both John's eyebrows shoot upwards. "In a puff piece for the weekend supplement? Last time you guys interviewed me, your most in-depth question was 'just how does your hair do that?'" he says, his tone no less angry for all that there's a thread of irritation to it now. "The stylist wanted more info from me, and that's because she didn't know what size pants I wear. And now I'm getting an investigative journalist asking me about what happened back then? Come the fuck on, McKay."

Okay, he has to admit John has a point. Not a lot of people tend to open up around a man who has a reputation for terrifying anxious whistleblowers into telling him everything about their company's questionable financial practices. Not that he's going to tell John that.

"Well, if nothing "happened back then,"" Rodney says, and is sure to use the airquotes, which make John snort, "then you don't need to worry about my asking, and you don't need to stand half on top of me and threaten me with physical violence."

"I don't need to?" And John shifts closer, voice lower, thicker, and Rodney, helplessly (inevitably) zeroes in on the arc of John's collar bone.

"No," Rodney says, struggling for investigative superiority, aware his thighs are slightly open and that if John takes three more steps he'd be between Rodney's knees. "No need at all."

From somewhere to his right, Radek coughs pointedly and mutters something about having to go back into the bungalow to get a spare battery. Rodney's dimly aware that he's in for a world of trouble when he gets back to the office--if he's lucky, just from Elizabeth; if he's not, from Radek and Cadman and their combined powers of Photoshop and a gossip network that would put Joan Rivers to the blush--but he's more aware of the sun slanting obliquely through gaps in the thatched roof to gild the line of John's neck.

Rodney clears his throat; he's painfully aware of how very still he's holding himself, of the way he's got a white knuckled grip on the edge of the table. "So," he says, "you want to start this over from the beginning? Fair deal--I promise to ask no questions about pants size if you promise not to break my nose?"

John straightens, smiles briefly, but the tense, wary edge to his body doesn't soften by much.

"It's the other questions," he says, and fortunately for Rodney's nose he sounds a lot less pissed. "Stay away from them, and you have a deal."

Realistically, Rodney knows, the odds of Sheppard giving himself up (not like that) on the first try was about a billion to one, the same odds Radek's used to putting down when wondering if Rodney will manage not to insult yet another politician or newsmaker. He allows himself some annoyance at the fact that John hadn't let himself be pushed or pissed off into saying anything... Anything what? Rodney turns the question over. Incriminating? He'd been hoping for that, something, anything other than pants size.

He allows himself some disappointment, too, but doesn't examine that too clearly.

"So," he coughs to clear his throat and makes himself loosen his death grip on the table. "What do you like to do besides..." He waves his hand to indicate the general attractiveness of John's body. "That."

John's mouth quirks up into an odd, lopsided grin; Rodney doesn't get the impression he's terrifically amused by anything. "What do you mean, that?" he says, turning back to switch off the grill and throwing the now slightly charred steak into the trash. Rodney feels a slight twinge of regret because, well, steak. "Cook badly?"

"Yes, it's exactly that kind of pretend obliviousness which is going to serve you well in this interview." Rodney rolls his eyes, before hopping off the table and following John away from the kitchen towards a patch of neatly-tended lawn that's bathed in sunlight.

Rodney sits down cross-legged, but John sprawls out on his back, wriggling his shoulders against the grass like he's trying to get more comfortable. John squints up at that peculiarly flat, blue Californian sky, and this close to, Rodney can see the network of tiny, fine lines around his eyes, creasing skin that Rodney's sure would feel soft to the touch.

He's never been very good at this kind of interview, truth be told--investigative journalism, yes; digging up evidence and bludgeoning his subjects with the force of undeniable fact, yes--but finding that rich seam that lies between personal and public, the place where all the most human stories lie--he's never been much good at that. Rodney looks down at John for a long moment, considering. This is the guy who went from cotillion in Virginia to the Air Force Academy to runways in Milan; the guy whose face looked down at Rodney from no fewer than three billboards when he drove down Santa Monica on the way here; who gained more notoriety from that "College football, ferris wheels and things that go more than two hundred miles" crack than Linda Evangelista ever did with her talk of not getting out of bed for anything under ten grand.

Rodney tosses his notebook over his shoulder, and clears his throat when that makes John tilt his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Okay," he says, "We're going to start from the beginning, I'm going to ask only the questions I need to ask, you're going to answer me honestly. Or," he tilted his head, "as honestly as you can, whichever, and we'll come out of this with an article which'll make the front page and make that publicist of yours faint. What do you say?"

"I say...." John trails off in a huff of breath. "I say you're too goddamn persistent for your own good, McKay."

"I've been told that before," Rodney says, and John laughs, a terrible, unattractive braying laugh that seems startled out of him.

When John recovers, after a hiccoughing har har that grates against Rodney's eardrums, he slants a look at Rodney, eyes squinted against southern Califiornia sun.

"Front page, huh?"

Rodney nods.

John turns back to the sky, laces his fingers across his belly. Rodney firmly ignores the sudden desire to trace out the grain of the hair on John's torso, run with it down to the border of denim. "Shoot," John says, not looking at him, and Rodney's so caught up in not wanting that he needs a moment to process John's just given him permission.

(Permission to ask questions, not to... to ogle like the billions of fan's he's acquired, Rodney tells himself. But John doesn't seem to mind him looking, and the open sprawl of him on the grass seems to invite it.)

"What... after your life, your background, I guess, what made you decide to do this?"

It's a standard question and one he knows John's answered before, but he holds his breath as John's forehead furls in consideration. He knows the answer, It looked like fun, and I wanted to try something new, and thought why the hell not?

"I was angry," John says at last. He blinks, quickly closes his eyes again, as though surprised at his response. "I was pretty pissed off at everything. The world in general."

And yeah, Rodney gets that. On the good days, it's irritation; on the bad, it's something else.

Eeee, thank you! It is still going! :)

This is fabulous. I want to read the article now.

This is LOVELY and I want more.

It is still going on!! Boys wanting sex and plot.

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