Trouble for your birthday!
Happy birthday, sweet thing. You do so much for fandom, and--by extension--life. ♥ I wanted to do something special for you--I hope you don't mind that I played in your sandbox. :)
From sheafrotherdon's A Whole World Of Trouble universe.
Takes place after that story and features HonkyTonk-ConstructionWorker!John and CollegeProfessor!Rodney
Little Things You Say And Do
1639 words, John/Rodney, PG, Honky Tonk AU
LITTLE THINGS YOU SAY AND DOby argosy
It's not that John needs a reason to hang around Rodney's place, exactly. It's just that the new kid--Frank... Fred... Ford, maybe?--over at Carroll's Lumber orders twice the Honduras Mahogany they usually handle, and Harley lets him have the overstock for twenty percent below wholesale.
John's daddy was a firm believer that every house ought to have a mahogany staircase if the folks could afford it, so John loads up his truck and stakes a beachhead in one of Rodney's empty back rooms. Rodney raises an eyebrow at the sudden proliferation of power tools in the unused space, but it's not like he doesn't have room. He never actually says anything, not even when John knocks together a fair-sized workbench, so John figures he's okay with it.
The mahogany is a light chestnut color. With time it'll darken to a deep reddish-brown like the bay horse John's Great-Aunt Esme let him ride every summer 'til the July he turned fourteen and broke his arm and nearly his fool head when Sky Rocket rightly refused to jump the tall fence back of Mr. Jenkins' pond. He still misses that horse sometimes.
The wood sands up like a dream, and for two days Rodney's whole house, upstairs and down, is filled with the rich musky smell of mahogany as John cuts the stair treads and smooths sandpaper along the fine straight grain until it's like silk against his rough hands. John blows away sawdust and watches it drift into the gold light of the early evening and he's hit with that dark mysterious scent over and over until he gets a little high from it, or maybe from the way he and Rodney curl up together on the big sofa afterwards--Rodney keeping a hand on John's thigh while he grades papers, John strumming his favorite Gibson until they both can't stand it anymore and turn to each other and kiss and kiss.
John's not working for Bud on Rodney's house anymore--it's all him now, something special he wants to give Rodney, something Rodney deserves to have--so it takes him almost a month, working evenings, to replace the stair treads and the paneling. He’s there late a lot so he usually sleeps over. Rodney makes a show of making him take a shower every night to keep the sawdust away from his fancy city sheets with their ungodly high thread count, but John catches Rodney sniffing him more than once as they make slow lazy love, searching out the mahogany, dragging his nose along John’s neck, his arm, the inside of his thigh.
Not long after Rodney's new mahogany staircase is polished shinier than a black flea beetle, John is visiting the lumber store again when he decides that he really doesn't feel like making all the effort of moving his tools out of Rodney's back room, and Rodney's kitchen could use some new rosewood cabinets anyway.
Rodney's momma evidently didn't believe--as John's did--that a boy ought to know his way around a stove if he planned on being an independent adult. Rodney doesn't cook, but he enjoys leaning against the counter with a beer, keeping John company as he whips up biscuits and gravy or chicken-fried steak. John always makes sure to give Rodney some work chopping something--even when it's not strictly necessary to John's recipe. He reckons it's good for Rodney's soul.
The kitchen cabinets now are plain and serviceable. There's nothing really wrong with them, but they're not Madagascar Rosewood. John buys lumber the color of a late Autumn sunset with swirling veins that'll come up inky black once it's varnished. It smells sweet as ribbon candy when he cuts into it, and Rodney stops eviscerating science journals with his red pen when John joins him on the sofa and buries his face in the smooth hot skin where John's neck meets his shoulder, breathing in.
John laughs and grabs his guitar. To his eternal sorrow Rodney hasn't much cottoned to Johnny Cash, no matter how many songs John plays for him, but the sweet fresh smell of the rosewood brings Buddy Holly to mind. He spends the rest of the night bubbling out pure, optimistic melodies on his Gibson and crooning hopeful, heartbreaking lyrics. He doesn't think he's ready to play "True Love Ways" for Rodney quite yet, but he gives him "Rave On" and "Peggy Sue."
It's not until John is turning a piece of rosewood in his lathe that he gets it. He rolls it around his mind a spell, then gets in his truck and heads to Carroll's Lumber to pick up some Adirondack Spruce. He doesn't buy much--spruce isn't a great wood for indoors, but his ornery subconscious seems to have made its mind up already. John always goes with his gut when he can--he'll fit the spruce in somewhere.
In the end he polishes the spruce until it gleams gold as his momma's prize buttercups and uses thin strips to accent Rodney's fireplace mantel. It's unusual and attractive and if John had any hankering to express himself through interior design, he'd be pretty pleased, but that's not the point.
Because there's been a pattern all along of course. It's like his calculus habit--he'll throw a bunch of numbers together with nothing special in mind, push them around a little, make them sing. He always thinks he's just playing around until something clicks in his head and the numbers reveal their relationships to each other. Suddenly it's not random at all.
Mahogany, rosewood, spruce. Mahogany for its resonance and thick high notes. Rosewood for its rich sound and sleek feel. Spruce for its fullness and clarity. It's his Gibson guitar. Mahogany body, rosewood fretboard, spruce top. It's the thing he loves most in the wide world, and he wanted to give it to Rodney, to share it with him in some way.
He sits on the sofa and thinks about this for half an hour before Rodney comes home, bustling noisily through the front door, juggling a thermos of coffee, two enormous textbooks, and several dozen loose papers--somebody's thesis, John supposes. It's covered with round coffee stains. John is suddenly flooded with affection.
"Don't get up," Rodney says. "It's not like I need any help or anything."
John just smiles, and Rodney gives him an odd look before tossing his burdens on a side table and joining him on the sofa. John immediately leans into his side.
Rodney gives him another odd look, but doesn't seem to require him to say anything, which is good--John's not sure he's capable of holding a conversation right now. Instead he threads a hand through the hair on the back of Rodney's head. Rodney sighs and leans into the touch.
"My least favorite graduate assistant is getting married," he says.
"Cadman?" John asks, puzzled by the subject.
"Mmm," Rodney agrees and leans further into John's hand. "In May. She needs to move in right after the honeymoon. Is that okay?"
Wait. What? John's missed a turn somewhere. Rodney doesn't seem to notice.
"She says renting's fine for now, but she'd like to buy the place eventually. I said I doubted you'd ever be willing to sell, but she wanted me to ask you, and she's scary, so I'm asking."
"Rodney," John says. "What?"
"Scary," Rodney repeats. "I'm pretty sure she sacrifices babies, but she can grade forty exams in under two hours so it's best to appease her."
"Rodney," John says again. "What in hell are you talking about?"
Rodney gives him that look that says he's slow but pretty. "I found someone to rent your house. She can't pay much, but--"
"Rodney." John feels dizzy. He grips Rodney's biceps, digging his fingers into the muscle. "Why the hell are you renting my house? Where do you think I'm going to live?"
"Ow." Rodney tries to loosen John's hands. "What do you mean, where do I think you're--Oh." His face blanches with an abruptness that would be almost funny if John's head wasn't suddenly pounding. "I thought--I mean. Well, the stairs. And all the work. I thought--"
John lets go of Rodney's arms. "You thought what?"
Rodney scoots away from John until he's at the end of the couch. He looks small and hurt and John's heart goes out to him even as he struggles through his own confusion.
"I just assumed you were doing all that work for--us. I thought--I was sure--I--" He takes a breath. "I thought you were planning on living here."
"Oh." John feels suddenly boneless. He looks at the floor. It's kind of dusty.
There's a long pause. When Rodney speaks his voice is quiet. "I'm--sorry. I guess--Well, clearly it was just wishful thinking on my part. Can we never talk about this again?"
John looks up. Rodney has a miserable expression on his face. John wants to make it go away. And--Rodney wants him to move in? Here? With Rodney? He feels a grin split his face.
"What?" asks Rodney, but the miserable sick look is gone.
"Next time, just mention it, okay?" He feels something he's pretty sure is joy fizz through him, light as air.
Rodney sags with relief and then he's grinning too, and John's wrapped around him somehow. "You gave me a staircase," he says into John's neck. "I was pretty sure that was a declaration of intent."
John laughs and slips his hands under Rodney's shirt, fanning them on his back. "And I'm not selling my house. Cadman can rent."
"Fine," Rodney says. "You tell her."
"Rodney," John says and wonders why he can't stop saying Rodney's name.
Rodney looks up from where he's doing something interesting involving John's neck and his tongue. "What?"
"Thank you," John says.
Rodney's face fills with such pure affection it makes John's heart stop for a moment.
"John." He smiles. "You live here already. Eventually you would have noticed."
John's not sure about that, but he likes to play cool for Rodney. "Probably," he says and kisses him.
End
A/N: Title from Rave On by Buddy Holly. Happy birthday, Cate! Thank you for being on this planet!
From sheafrotherdon's A Whole World Of Trouble universe.
Takes place after that story and features HonkyTonk-ConstructionWorker!John and CollegeProfessor!Rodney
Little Things You Say And Do
1639 words, John/Rodney, PG, Honky Tonk AU
LITTLE THINGS YOU SAY AND DOby argosy
It's not that John needs a reason to hang around Rodney's place, exactly. It's just that the new kid--Frank... Fred... Ford, maybe?--over at Carroll's Lumber orders twice the Honduras Mahogany they usually handle, and Harley lets him have the overstock for twenty percent below wholesale.
John's daddy was a firm believer that every house ought to have a mahogany staircase if the folks could afford it, so John loads up his truck and stakes a beachhead in one of Rodney's empty back rooms. Rodney raises an eyebrow at the sudden proliferation of power tools in the unused space, but it's not like he doesn't have room. He never actually says anything, not even when John knocks together a fair-sized workbench, so John figures he's okay with it.
The mahogany is a light chestnut color. With time it'll darken to a deep reddish-brown like the bay horse John's Great-Aunt Esme let him ride every summer 'til the July he turned fourteen and broke his arm and nearly his fool head when Sky Rocket rightly refused to jump the tall fence back of Mr. Jenkins' pond. He still misses that horse sometimes.
The wood sands up like a dream, and for two days Rodney's whole house, upstairs and down, is filled with the rich musky smell of mahogany as John cuts the stair treads and smooths sandpaper along the fine straight grain until it's like silk against his rough hands. John blows away sawdust and watches it drift into the gold light of the early evening and he's hit with that dark mysterious scent over and over until he gets a little high from it, or maybe from the way he and Rodney curl up together on the big sofa afterwards--Rodney keeping a hand on John's thigh while he grades papers, John strumming his favorite Gibson until they both can't stand it anymore and turn to each other and kiss and kiss.
John's not working for Bud on Rodney's house anymore--it's all him now, something special he wants to give Rodney, something Rodney deserves to have--so it takes him almost a month, working evenings, to replace the stair treads and the paneling. He’s there late a lot so he usually sleeps over. Rodney makes a show of making him take a shower every night to keep the sawdust away from his fancy city sheets with their ungodly high thread count, but John catches Rodney sniffing him more than once as they make slow lazy love, searching out the mahogany, dragging his nose along John’s neck, his arm, the inside of his thigh.
Not long after Rodney's new mahogany staircase is polished shinier than a black flea beetle, John is visiting the lumber store again when he decides that he really doesn't feel like making all the effort of moving his tools out of Rodney's back room, and Rodney's kitchen could use some new rosewood cabinets anyway.
Rodney's momma evidently didn't believe--as John's did--that a boy ought to know his way around a stove if he planned on being an independent adult. Rodney doesn't cook, but he enjoys leaning against the counter with a beer, keeping John company as he whips up biscuits and gravy or chicken-fried steak. John always makes sure to give Rodney some work chopping something--even when it's not strictly necessary to John's recipe. He reckons it's good for Rodney's soul.
The kitchen cabinets now are plain and serviceable. There's nothing really wrong with them, but they're not Madagascar Rosewood. John buys lumber the color of a late Autumn sunset with swirling veins that'll come up inky black once it's varnished. It smells sweet as ribbon candy when he cuts into it, and Rodney stops eviscerating science journals with his red pen when John joins him on the sofa and buries his face in the smooth hot skin where John's neck meets his shoulder, breathing in.
John laughs and grabs his guitar. To his eternal sorrow Rodney hasn't much cottoned to Johnny Cash, no matter how many songs John plays for him, but the sweet fresh smell of the rosewood brings Buddy Holly to mind. He spends the rest of the night bubbling out pure, optimistic melodies on his Gibson and crooning hopeful, heartbreaking lyrics. He doesn't think he's ready to play "True Love Ways" for Rodney quite yet, but he gives him "Rave On" and "Peggy Sue."
It's not until John is turning a piece of rosewood in his lathe that he gets it. He rolls it around his mind a spell, then gets in his truck and heads to Carroll's Lumber to pick up some Adirondack Spruce. He doesn't buy much--spruce isn't a great wood for indoors, but his ornery subconscious seems to have made its mind up already. John always goes with his gut when he can--he'll fit the spruce in somewhere.
In the end he polishes the spruce until it gleams gold as his momma's prize buttercups and uses thin strips to accent Rodney's fireplace mantel. It's unusual and attractive and if John had any hankering to express himself through interior design, he'd be pretty pleased, but that's not the point.
Because there's been a pattern all along of course. It's like his calculus habit--he'll throw a bunch of numbers together with nothing special in mind, push them around a little, make them sing. He always thinks he's just playing around until something clicks in his head and the numbers reveal their relationships to each other. Suddenly it's not random at all.
Mahogany, rosewood, spruce. Mahogany for its resonance and thick high notes. Rosewood for its rich sound and sleek feel. Spruce for its fullness and clarity. It's his Gibson guitar. Mahogany body, rosewood fretboard, spruce top. It's the thing he loves most in the wide world, and he wanted to give it to Rodney, to share it with him in some way.
He sits on the sofa and thinks about this for half an hour before Rodney comes home, bustling noisily through the front door, juggling a thermos of coffee, two enormous textbooks, and several dozen loose papers--somebody's thesis, John supposes. It's covered with round coffee stains. John is suddenly flooded with affection.
"Don't get up," Rodney says. "It's not like I need any help or anything."
John just smiles, and Rodney gives him an odd look before tossing his burdens on a side table and joining him on the sofa. John immediately leans into his side.
Rodney gives him another odd look, but doesn't seem to require him to say anything, which is good--John's not sure he's capable of holding a conversation right now. Instead he threads a hand through the hair on the back of Rodney's head. Rodney sighs and leans into the touch.
"My least favorite graduate assistant is getting married," he says.
"Cadman?" John asks, puzzled by the subject.
"Mmm," Rodney agrees and leans further into John's hand. "In May. She needs to move in right after the honeymoon. Is that okay?"
Wait. What? John's missed a turn somewhere. Rodney doesn't seem to notice.
"She says renting's fine for now, but she'd like to buy the place eventually. I said I doubted you'd ever be willing to sell, but she wanted me to ask you, and she's scary, so I'm asking."
"Rodney," John says. "What?"
"Scary," Rodney repeats. "I'm pretty sure she sacrifices babies, but she can grade forty exams in under two hours so it's best to appease her."
"Rodney," John says again. "What in hell are you talking about?"
Rodney gives him that look that says he's slow but pretty. "I found someone to rent your house. She can't pay much, but--"
"Rodney." John feels dizzy. He grips Rodney's biceps, digging his fingers into the muscle. "Why the hell are you renting my house? Where do you think I'm going to live?"
"Ow." Rodney tries to loosen John's hands. "What do you mean, where do I think you're--Oh." His face blanches with an abruptness that would be almost funny if John's head wasn't suddenly pounding. "I thought--I mean. Well, the stairs. And all the work. I thought--"
John lets go of Rodney's arms. "You thought what?"
Rodney scoots away from John until he's at the end of the couch. He looks small and hurt and John's heart goes out to him even as he struggles through his own confusion.
"I just assumed you were doing all that work for--us. I thought--I was sure--I--" He takes a breath. "I thought you were planning on living here."
"Oh." John feels suddenly boneless. He looks at the floor. It's kind of dusty.
There's a long pause. When Rodney speaks his voice is quiet. "I'm--sorry. I guess--Well, clearly it was just wishful thinking on my part. Can we never talk about this again?"
John looks up. Rodney has a miserable expression on his face. John wants to make it go away. And--Rodney wants him to move in? Here? With Rodney? He feels a grin split his face.
"What?" asks Rodney, but the miserable sick look is gone.
"Next time, just mention it, okay?" He feels something he's pretty sure is joy fizz through him, light as air.
Rodney sags with relief and then he's grinning too, and John's wrapped around him somehow. "You gave me a staircase," he says into John's neck. "I was pretty sure that was a declaration of intent."
John laughs and slips his hands under Rodney's shirt, fanning them on his back. "And I'm not selling my house. Cadman can rent."
"Fine," Rodney says. "You tell her."
"Rodney," John says and wonders why he can't stop saying Rodney's name.
Rodney looks up from where he's doing something interesting involving John's neck and his tongue. "What?"
"Thank you," John says.
Rodney's face fills with such pure affection it makes John's heart stop for a moment.
"John." He smiles. "You live here already. Eventually you would have noticed."
John's not sure about that, but he likes to play cool for Rodney. "Probably," he says and kisses him.
End
A/N: Title from Rave On by Buddy Holly. Happy birthday, Cate! Thank you for being on this planet!