Canon for Two Instruments (the missing scene from Unidentified)
Title: Canon for Two Instruments
Summary: They fog the glass and leave their handprints all over it, until all that shows in John's periphery is the city blurred out into smudges of color, gold and orange and deep blue. The missing scene from part three of Unidentified (index post here).
Details: NC-17, McKay/Sheppard, AU, ~5300 words.
Notes: Sincere thanks to shaenie, thingswithwings, and (way back in the day) secrethappiness for betaing, to cindyjade (again, because), and to the handful of people who read this over the last few months and assured me that it was good enough to post.
Download the soundtrack.
John can feel his own pulse beating just below the surface as Rodney steps in closer, and he shuts his eyes without meaning to. "What if you're wrong?" he asks, hearing the desperate edge in his own voice, the way the words come out frayed around the edges.
Rodney laughs softly, his breath hot and gentle over John's mouth. "I really don't care," he murmurs, and his free hand curls over the back of John's neck as he pulls John's mouth down onto his.
*
It starts out slow: just their lips brushing together, both of them standing completely still. Rodney's hands are on John's arm and his neck, John's hand is on Rodney's waist, and they're not touching anywhere else, but it's enough that John's heart is pounding like it's trying to find a way out of his chest. Just the soft slide of Rodney's tongue against the tip of his, and the sound he makes when John opens his mouth to make room, the way his hand tightens down on John's arm, just for a second. The whole thing has that top-of-the-rollercoaster feeling, of something just on the verge of happening, and John's never been intimidated by heights or speed or falling, but all of a sudden he gets why they can be terrifying, because it's started, it's too late to stop this now, and once it gets going there's no way to know where they'll end up.
Everything he does is like a question only half-asked, each motion left hanging in anticipation of a no that doesn't come, never comes. He runs his teeth lightly over Rodney's lower lip, brushes a thumb along his side: so innocent it'd be ridiculous in any other context, but it drags a small sound out of Rodney, makes him knot a hand in John's hair. He pushes his whole body flush against John's, as if to say yes, yes, what are you, an idiot? -- quit asking and do it already, and oh god, the way that feels, the way Rodney feels ... For years their friends have been cracking jokes about the two of them, how Rodney runs hot and irritable as an engine in summer and John is always cool to the touch, but he's never felt the difference up close before, not like this. It tips him over the edge and blows the waiting feeling all to hell, because this is Rodney, crowding up into him, and John shoves him back against the balcony door and proceeds to lose his mind a little.
They fog the glass and leave their handprints all over it, until all that shows in John's periphery is the city blurred out into smudges of color, gold and orange and deep blue. He finds the sweet spot under the line of Rodney's jaw and sets his teeth and tongue to work there; Rodney's knees buckle and both of them nearly go down. Palms skidding down the glass, John pushes in to pin him up, a rough imperfect collision that rocks the door in its frame and makes John's eyes roll back in his head. They're tangled together, John's knee shoved in between Rodney's thighs, and he needs to catch his breath, god, if he could only think for a minute, but Rodney just grabs the front of John's shirt and hauls him in so he can run his mouth along the length of John's throat.
"This is going to end really badly for us, isn't it?" he murmurs, his lips buzzing against John's adam's apple. It jerks John to a stop like someone's tied a cord to the center of his chest and yanked. He can't take another reversal, not now, not after all this. Trying to pull back, he catches Rodney's eyes by accident and sees confusion steamroll over his face, then Rodney wrestles him back down, swearing against his mouth, "The standing, the standing -- I swear, somebody dropped you on your head as a child--" Relief hits him like a wave, and he shuts Rodney up with a strenuous kiss before rolling sideways to prop himself up against the glass, head tilting back. Rodney's still got a fistful of John's shirt, and his forearm rises and falls with John's chest as the two of them brace themselves upright, sucking down air like they've been running sprints.
"Is there some kind of sequencing rule I should know about?" Rodney asks, in between breaths. Pushing his hair off his forehead, John gives him a look of what the hell are you talking about. Rodney bangs his head against the door and glares back at him, equal parts frustrated and flustered and turned on: jesus, it's hot. "Mandatory first stop at the couch before proceeding to the bedroom, or some kind of break for talking -- I mean, if you need to, then, right, of course we'll -- but you have to tell me if there's something I'm supposed to know."
His face is flushed and impatient, and it should be ridiculous that he's even asking, but John's breath catches in his throat, because they're here, this is really going to happen, and he has absolutely no fucking clue how this is supposed to work. At no point in his sexual history has he learned the script for sleeping with your best friend and meaning it, the rules for how you do this and don't fuck it up. "No?" he tries.
"Oh thank god," Rodney mutters, deep and heartfelt, and he wraps both hands around John's face and kisses him emphatically, then hauls him off the glass and all the way across the room through the bedroom door.
The whole thing takes on a different character as soon as John steps across the threshold; his footsteps lag, but Rodney just keeps pulling him forward until their legs hit the bed and then lets their weight and his hand on John's arm roll both of them down. The covers are rumpled, unmade, and John is flooded with memories of that first week back from Germany, because the sheets are cool and smooth, the way they were then, and they smell exactly how he remembers them. He remembers Rodney's hand, warm and anchoring on the back of his neck, and the way he let John sleep here for a week and never touched him, never brought it up afterward. John had been so fucked up at the time, that whole month is kind of a blur, but he gets it now, so he does the things he would have wanted to do then: fits one hand around the slope of Rodney's shoulder-blade and curls the other over the side of Rodney's face, kisses him just to feel Rodney's cheek hollow out as he opens his mouth into it.
They spend a long time like that, mouths moving together and hands filling in the map of each other's bodies, knees bumping as they learn the burn of pressure and friction, the dizzying rush that comes from shifting against each other. It's simple, high school stuff, but then neither of them would know, because John never did anything in high school that actually counted, and in terms of remembered experience, Rodney's never done anything at all. The room gets dim and then dark as the sun sets and the indirect light from the main room thins out into true twilight, and John gets lost in one small new thing after another. The sour salt tang where Rodney's neck and shoulder meet, the warm weight of his thigh thrown over John's, the breathless press when he runs both hands up John's chest and uses his full strength to push him down against the mattress. If anyone's going to try to move things forward, it should be John, who's been where this is heading, but time is moving strangely in the dark. His senses are overloaded, everything stretching out, and a two-second touch takes ten minutes instead as he soaks it all in: the span of Rodney's ribcage, the curve of his ass, the sharp earthy scent he gives off as both of them start to sweat through their clothes.
When Rodney reaches down to cup John through his jeans, it's much more of a shock than it should be, but the intensity of it blindsides him. Rodney's palm is broad, solid heat; he rubs the heel of his hand against John's dick and John grinds up into it, breath arrested by the ache of arousal increasing, shifting into a higher gear.
"What do you like?" Rodney's mouth moves restlessly up the curve of John's neck, lips tracing over his skin, and his hand squeezes gently. He sounds avid and nervous, like someone's given him a whole world to play with and he's hungry to get to work on it, just as soon as he figures out how not to accidentally blow it up. "I don't know what you like--"
"Jesus christ--" John twists up off the mattress and yanks his shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his shoulders as he muscles it off. Dropping back down, he fumbles at the buttons of Rodney's shirt, but Rodney's occupied with John's fly and not helping. Either that's a lot less complicated or he's just got more coordination than John can manage right now, because John's not even on the fourth button when Rodney shoves the zipper down and slides his hand into John's boxers, right up against skin, and then John's fingers quit obeying him entirely, his whole body going taut and humming like a steel string.
"What do you want?" Rodney whispers again, braced up over John in the dark. He curls his hand around John's dick and pulls upward, his palm damp and catching against it.
"Fuck," John hisses, pressing his face blindly into Rodney's shoulder, both hands clamped hard around Rodney's upper arms, "that, just keep doing that," and his jaw drops in a loud gasp as Rodney takes him at his word.
Rodney's grip is slow and rough at the same time, like he's trying to be careful but doesn't have enough room, and each time he spirals his hand up the friction is so sweet it almost hurts. "John," Rodney says, hot against his temple and thick as a curse, and John works himself up into Rodney's hand, his eyes helplessly open even though he can't see a goddamn thing. The muscles of his legs shake as he digs his heels into the slipping sheets, trying to hit that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, winding higher and higher like he's doing barrel rolls straight into the sun. He can feel his hip riding erratically up against Rodney's hard-on as he twists against the mattress; every time it happens Rodney's breath snags in his throat and his body goes rigid like he's fighting himself not to push down into it, and that just ratchets John higher. He's moving faster as he goes, closing in on it, and when he hits the top, the force of it throws him into an arch, heels to shoulders. For one boundless moment he could swear he's broken free from gravity, he's floating, and then he spills over the edge and into Rodney's hand and comes shuddering back down to earth.
"God," Rodney says, reverent and breathless. He laughs, and it sends a twitch running through him where he's pressed up against John. "That's really nothing like doing it to yourself, is it?" The question hangs in the air for a moment, and then John heaves up off the bed and flips them both over.
Head swimming with the flare of friction as Rodney's hand slips free, he plants his knees on either side of Rodney's hips and starts grappling with the shirt buttons again. They come free just as John's about ready to start snapping the threads if that's what it takes, but there's still the t-shirt underneath-- "You and your goddamn layers," John mutters, biting at Rodney's collarbone and trying to haul both shirts up and off, which works not at all considering he's got Rodney pressed flat on the bed. He gives it up as a bad job and shoves his hands down in between them, yanking Rodney's fly open and rising up onto his knees as he jerks khakis and boxers both down Rodney's hips.
"Shit," Rodney gasps, twisting upward, and John slides his hands up Rodney's sides and wriggles down to press his open mouth against Rodney's stomach, the top of his thigh, slide it up the underside of his dick and down over the head. Rodney curses in an incoherent smear and digs his fingers into the top of John's shoulder, and John thinks he ought to take this slow, take it easy, make it last, but when he circles his lips down Rodney bucks up into his mouth and hands again and you know what, fuck slow, fuck all of it, who the fuck cares if he's doing this wrong because three months ago he'd given up unconditionally on ever getting to do it at all. Rodney's moving and panting under him and John does it just the way he wants to, reckless and messy, throat open and mouth hollowed down and hands running the show, guiding Rodney's hips and keeping the pace. They hit a long sinuous rhythm, Rodney arching up and into John's mouth and John shifting to take it, back undulating as he follows him down, and they hold it and hold it and hold it until Rodney chokes out a groan and thrusts up hard into John's mouth, and John closes his eyes as the first pulse travels thickly along the length of his tongue.
A few seconds later he collapses on his back next to Rodney, one arm flung up onto the pillow above him. He feels shaky and light-headed and emptied out, like he's been breathing high-altitude air. They're half-dressed and drenched with sweat and the whole room smells like sex; the sheets are a tangled mess and god knows what the hell their clothes are going to look like in the light. He feels incredible.
"Holy crap," Rodney gets out, and John laughs and rolls sideways, groping around till he finds his shirt. He wipes his mouth and his stomach and bunches it so the wet bits are out of the way before offering it to Rodney, who comments, "You know, that would almost be gross if it weren't so considerate," as he swipes off his hand. John snickers, and Rodney elbows him as he tosses the shirt aside, and then they just lay there for a minute, getting quiet.
Their breathing slows down to normal, and neither of them says anything. John starts to tense up, wondering if things are going to get bad or weird, when Rodney props himself up on one elbow and his knuckles brush against John's wrist and stay there. "Wow," he says, in the same tone he'd use if they'd spent the last hour playing video games. "I'm really hungry. You want to go raid the fridge?"
John blinks up at the ceiling, remembering that he ran for most of the afternoon and didn't really eat anything after. Suddenly he's starving. "Yeah," he says, running one hand over his stomach and recognizing the hollowed-out feeling of a blood-sugar crash. "What do you have?"
They scoot down the bed and John pauses for a moment, not sure what to do about his wrecked clothing, then swings his feet onto the floor and just heads out into the main room bare-chested. He ducks into the bathroom to clean up a little better, trying not to over-think anything as he listens to the kitchen faucet start up on the other side of the door. They've pretty much established that if there are rules of etiquette for this, neither of them knows them. Maybe this is how it's supposed to go, he thinks as he washes his hands. Maybe if this kind of thing works, it works out like this: surprisingly ordinary.
When he comes back out, there are a few take-out containers sitting on the island and Rodney's rummaging through the utensil drawer. John scoots around the open fridge door and digs a two-liter of Coke out of the back, then pulls a couple of glasses out of the cupboard. When he turns, he finds Rodney staring at him from a couple feet away, his hand curled loosely against his mouth and his elbow settled on his other arm where it's crossed over his chest.
"Wow," Rodney says, "you're, um." His fingers flicker like he's searching for words and not finding them, and the edge of his thumb rubs unconsciously over his lower lip. "Kind of a mess," he finishes, but his mouth turns up at the corner as he says it, and his eyes are shining. Rodney's shirtless too, maybe taking his cues from John; his khakis are thoroughly crumpled, and his hair sticks up in strange tufts. The cool glow from the city outside gleams over the broad span of his shoulders, his arms. In the yellow light from the fridge, John can make out a trio of new bruises on the top of his pale chest. It's the first look they've gotten at each other in any kind of light.
As John stands there with the Coke and glasses still cradled cold against his chest, he remembers living with Rodney in college, how they'd pass each other in their towels on the way to and from the shower. Rodney would always duck down the hall with his eyes averted and not come out of his room until he was fully dressed. Back then, John had chalked it up as one more sign of his constitutional awkwardness, but now it's something else he finds himself reassessing. Rodney seems willing to let John look him over as long as he gets to do the same, and his smile has a self-conscious slant, almost shy, but he's not particularly ill-at-ease. It's a good look on him.
"You, too," John says, and nudges the fridge shut with his heel.
They eat quietly, standing at the counter, their shoulders bumping occasionally as they pass the containers of food back and forth. After a while, Rodney asks, "You've done this before, right?"
John swallows his mouthful of fried rice before answering. "With a guy, you mean?" Rodney nods, and John digs around the carton with his chopsticks, hunting for the last of the shrimp. "It's been just guys, actually. Other than high school."
It feels a little strange to actually say it. It's been two months, and John hasn't ever forgotten that he hadn't told Rodney, but there was never an obvious moment to bring it up. Really, he's not used to telling people at all. Rodney and Carson have known since college, and Teyla, Ronon and Laura all put it together pretty early without making much noise about it. Other than them, John mostly lets people figure it out, or not. He hasn't had a lot of practice actually saying it, and none at telling someone who'd have the right to ask all the adjacent questions, where the answers could lead places he hasn't really wanted to go.
It's kind of nice to have it out in the open.
Rodney thinks about this as he chews, then he swallows and cocks his head in John's direction. "Have I?"
It catches John off-guard, and he sets the carton on the counter while he thinks about it. "I don't know," he says, finally. "You never said anything to me, but Teyla mentioned something, once. I guess you could ask her."
"Wouldn't that be a conversation," Rodney mutters, but the open speculation in his eyes makes John's breath come a little shallower. Straightening, he steps in close, tilting his chin up until their lips meet. His mouth tastes like chili paste and hoisin sauce, and he kisses John deliberately, thoroughly.
"I think I'm about done here," John says a minute later, nodding toward the food. He gets the tone pretty casual, but he can't remember when he set his hand down on the counter for balance. "You?"
Rodney's chest hitches up against John's as he laughs. "You know, for someone this self-contained, you're really pretty transparent sometimes," he murmurs, falling back a step. "Yeah. I'm done." They leave everything out on the island when they walk away.
It's black inside the bedroom, with barely enough illumination to pick out the edges of things. As he steps to one side to let Rodney pass, John wonders about the logic that led Rodney to put his bed here, in the only room without a window. He'd assumed it was because of the erratic hours he kept, but walking in here with something other than a casual purpose, he isn't sure anymore. He wonders about the other people Rodney brought here, if they knew him well enough to think twice about it.
Taking a deep breath, John drops his hands to the waistband of his jeans, and maybe there's a little more light on him than he thought, because Rodney inhales sharply. A second later, John sees the edges of Rodney's silhouette shifting and hears the quiet fumble of the button on Rodney's khakis popping free. There's a peculiar charge in the air, like they're daring each other, I will if you will, and when John hooks his thumbs into his boxers and slides them all the way down, Rodney's only a second behind in doing the same.
It's different this time. With nothing but their skin between them, they're slower and braver both, and they set about learning the repertoire of each other's bodies, the small discoveries experience can't ever predict. They try things just to see what happens, stroking and tasting, following a hard touch with a light one, the blunt scrape of fingernails with the flat of the tongue. When they find something good, something that works, they take some time to revel in it, and then they try something else. It's a slow lofting upward instead of a desperate climb, and the longer they take at it, the more aware John is of how different this feels from anything else he's ever done. With most everyone else he's ever been with, there was always a clear and unspoken sense that it was something transient: they might come together like this once, or come back for a while, but they had a finite number of chances to do whatever it was they wanted to do.
Here, now, shifting together in the cool dark of Rodney's bedroom, their commingled movements feel like a lateral series of first steps, all the tiny simple things you practice so that when you string them all together, they will suddenly be more than the sum of their parts. Every movement of Rodney's mouth and muscles and hands whispers assurance that this isn't something he wants just once. Curled across the lower half of the bed, he brushes his lips along the inside of John's thigh, palms the rise of his hip-bone. "What else is there?" he whispers, and there's no impatience in his breath ghosting over John's skin, just eagerness. "What else can we try?"
John swallows and thinks why not, because if this is just the start of something bigger, then maybe any one mistake matters less, maybe it's okay if he does something and it turns out to be wrong. He bends the knee that isn't threaded under Rodney, presses the sole of his foot against the bed and slides it slowly up toward his body. When he shifts and settles his hips a little wider, he can feel the exact moment when Rodney gets it because of the shiver that runs through him, the way he goes absolutely still.
The silence goes on long enough for John to feel the first trickle of unease. He starts casting around for a way to back this off, because maybe this was more of a mistake than he can afford, and then Rodney's fingers curve down to cradle the side of his hip. "Yeah," Rodney says, and his voice is low and a little ragged. "Okay. But you have to tell me what to do."
John closes his eyes and pulls in a slow, shaky breath, then he twists toward the nightstand and reaches into the drawer. After a few seconds, he finds what he's looking for, and he slides it down the bed to Rodney, who pins his wrist down and sits up to kiss him. It's articulate, concentrated, like Rodney's drawing on some blind and silent language, and when John pulls back, he's still scared, but there are promises and gramercies laid over his tongue.
He slips his hand out from under Rodney's, leaving the bottle behind, and swallows against the tightness in his throat. "Start slow," he says, and he lets his shoulders and head drop back onto the bed.
The lack of light renders every sound in high fidelity: the susurration of the covers as Rodney shifts position, his hands brushing over the plastic bottle, the click of the lid coming free. Rodney slides one hand high up the inside of John's thigh, and John wills his body to relax. The first cool wet touch of Rodney's other hand is still startling, and when John tenses he feels Rodney do the same. "It's okay," he whispers. "It's just. It's been a while."
Rodney's breath hisses quietly out and he drops his forehead down against John's thigh. After a moment, he nods, and John twists his hands into the sheets as Rodney slides one fingertip slowly in. It's been more than a while, because John's never liked doing this with strangers, and it's been two years at least since there was anyone who was more than that. He forgets in between times what it's like, the strange inside-out sense of pressure, the way all his nerve endings seem to light up. It doesn't quite hurt, but he's grateful for the way Rodney pauses, lets him acclimate himself to it. Then he realizes that the pause might not have been for his sake, or not entirely, because Rodney is almost completely motionless, but the hand he's laid against John's thigh is trembling.
"It's okay," John says again, and he closes his eyes and rocks his hips just a little. Rodney swears against John's skin, but the hand that's pressed slickly up against John flexes and shifts, the finger inside him crooking, and the feel of it rolls up through John's body like a wave. Tucking his face against John's leg, Rodney does it again, tests out different movements, different angles, slides partway out and all the way in, learning John's body like a combination lock. When John says: yeah, Rodney's other hand tightens down on John's thigh, like he hears what John means instead of what he's saying, and he lines up another fingertip, pushes both in. Everything intensifies, the friction and stretch, small movements setting off echoes elsewhere in John's abdomen, his limbs. He twists against the mattress for the feel of muscles and tendons pulling against bone, his whole body waking up to it, and he's been hard for hours but the throb is just one more sensation, sweeter for the edge of denial. This time he does say it: more, and the bright burn sidles right up to the edge of pain, right where he wants it, makes the small of his back lift up off the bed. Rodney's hand on John's thigh is shaking harder now, and everywhere he and Rodney are touching is slick with sweat. John could do just this all night, and it's slowly starting to sink in that they can, that Rodney would do it, would let him, but right now there's something John wants more.
"Jesus Christ, John," Rodney says in an unsteady voice, and John twists his hips hard in a way that makes Rodney's fingers slip free, biting his lip against the sudden absence when they do. He gropes around in the nightstand drawer as Rodney draws himself up to his knees, then John rolls to a sitting position so he can pull Rodney up the bed and press him down onto his back, push their mouths together as he tears the foil packet open.
"Is this okay," John whispers, "are you sure," as he slides a flat hand down Rodney's chest, swings one leg over his thighs. Rodney's got both hands clamped tight around John's waist, hard enough that John knows the skin under them has gone white without needing to see it. "Are you sure?" he asks again, fingertips poised just below Rodney's navel.
Rodney gasps out, "Yes -- god, yes," and then, "please," and that hits him like the leading edge of a punch, just that initial shock of impact. He runs his hand up Rodney's dick from base to tip, feeling the muscles of Rodney's legs bunch under him, and he rolls the condom down. Setting one hand against the mattress by Rodney's head, John draws himself up a little higher, scoots his knees up past Rodney's hips. As he reaches back and down, lining them up, Rodney braces him up with shaking hands. Are you sure, John wants to say again, but he can feel the reach of the question in his own head, the breadth of the territory it encompasses, and it's too much to ask.
The first blunt push of Rodney inside him hurts more than he expects, both of them are so tense. John digs his teeth into his lower lip and drops his head, bears slowly back as Rodney's fingers bite into his ribs. He keeps moving through that first raw stretch, which only increases as he goes further, staying right up at the edge of what he can take. Rodney's gone rigid under him, snatching air down in quick little gasps as he fights not to move, and John could slow down, could do this in increments, but he wants this almost-strain, this luminous salt sting. Finally Rodney's all the way in, and John presses his forehead against Rodney's breastbone, curls his fingers over the top of Rodney's chest, his back bowed as he tries to remember how to breathe through this. He can feel Rodney's heart racing under his hot skin.
"John," Rodney says, in a cathedral whisper. John's fingers tighten reflexively down and Rodney's hips twitch, just the smallest movement but the pulse of sensation it sets off unfurls John's spine, convex to concave, oh christ, oh god, it's good. He rolls back into it without thinking, and Rodney makes a wordless sound through lips pressed shut and thrusts up into him, reining the motion in halfway like he's trying not to. His muscles jump erratically under John's hands and thighs, like flashes of lightning seen through the top of the clouds.
"No, god, it's good, don't stop," John gasps, and he doesn't recognize his own voice but it must be enough, because Rodney pushes up into him again, all the way this time. It sets off a deep reverberation inside John, rings his body like a bell, and then they're moving in concert, hips rolling against each other, gasping loud and open-throated in the dark. Rodney braces his forearm across John's back and hangs on while John arches and twists above him, his arms starting to shake. When they buckle, Rodney catches him, pushes them both upright and kisses him frantically, whispering, "I've got you, I've got you," as John reaches down to stroke himself in time to the wide shift of Rodney moving inside him. It's everything he never asked for, everything that history and shitty luck and the laws of the universe say they shouldn't get. As they both start to come apart, their rhythm fragmenting, losing everything but the feeling of their bodies rocking together, John catches just the faintest glimpse of the horizon laid out before them, stretching on forever.
--
Author's note: I wrote this back in the summer of 2007, while Unidentified was in beta. It was a thank-you gift for cindyjade, and while it's very much part of Unidentified itself, I never intended to include it in the actual story. I spent a long time uncertain of whether or not I'd ever post this -- the idea made me apprehensive, for a lot of reasons, but over time some good people persuaded me to take the chance.
As for the soundtrack: like this smaller story, it's half-meant as a supplement to the main soundtrack itself. Tracks 2 and 4 were late cuts from that, and the other three are songs I stumbled onto after Unidentified had been posted.
1. The Mountain Goats, "How to Embrace a Swamp Creature" -- I try to tell you just why I’ve come/ It’s like I’ve got molasses on my tongue. John makes this journey twice: when he gets back to L.A. from Germany, and again the day that this missing scene takes place.
2. Joan Osborne, "Ladder" -- You're giving me crooked answers, I'm cracking your little code/ I'm learning another language, so full it's about to explode. It takes Rodney fifteen years and then forgetting all of them to finally understand what's been there, under the surface, but he gets there in the end.
3. Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, "Please Read the Letter" -- Please read the letter, I wrote it in my sleep/ With help and consultation from the angels of the deep. I've made three soundtracks to go with this 'verse now, but this one song captures all of Unidentified better than any other. It took my breath away the first time I heard it.
4. Mary Lou Lord, "Turn Me Round" -- Roll the dice/ Raise the stakes/ Don't be scared to make mistakes. This is the plunge they take in this missing scene.
5. Lucinda Williams, "West" -- Come out west and see/ The best that it could be/ I know you won’t stay permanently/ But come out west and see. Seventeen years of chance and luck and history, and it all starts -- and ends -- with California.
Thank you, so much, for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it.
Summary: They fog the glass and leave their handprints all over it, until all that shows in John's periphery is the city blurred out into smudges of color, gold and orange and deep blue. The missing scene from part three of Unidentified (index post here).
Details: NC-17, McKay/Sheppard, AU, ~5300 words.
Notes: Sincere thanks to shaenie, thingswithwings, and (way back in the day) secrethappiness for betaing, to cindyjade (again, because), and to the handful of people who read this over the last few months and assured me that it was good enough to post.
Download the soundtrack.
John can feel his own pulse beating just below the surface as Rodney steps in closer, and he shuts his eyes without meaning to. "What if you're wrong?" he asks, hearing the desperate edge in his own voice, the way the words come out frayed around the edges.
Rodney laughs softly, his breath hot and gentle over John's mouth. "I really don't care," he murmurs, and his free hand curls over the back of John's neck as he pulls John's mouth down onto his.
*
It starts out slow: just their lips brushing together, both of them standing completely still. Rodney's hands are on John's arm and his neck, John's hand is on Rodney's waist, and they're not touching anywhere else, but it's enough that John's heart is pounding like it's trying to find a way out of his chest. Just the soft slide of Rodney's tongue against the tip of his, and the sound he makes when John opens his mouth to make room, the way his hand tightens down on John's arm, just for a second. The whole thing has that top-of-the-rollercoaster feeling, of something just on the verge of happening, and John's never been intimidated by heights or speed or falling, but all of a sudden he gets why they can be terrifying, because it's started, it's too late to stop this now, and once it gets going there's no way to know where they'll end up.
Everything he does is like a question only half-asked, each motion left hanging in anticipation of a no that doesn't come, never comes. He runs his teeth lightly over Rodney's lower lip, brushes a thumb along his side: so innocent it'd be ridiculous in any other context, but it drags a small sound out of Rodney, makes him knot a hand in John's hair. He pushes his whole body flush against John's, as if to say yes, yes, what are you, an idiot? -- quit asking and do it already, and oh god, the way that feels, the way Rodney feels ... For years their friends have been cracking jokes about the two of them, how Rodney runs hot and irritable as an engine in summer and John is always cool to the touch, but he's never felt the difference up close before, not like this. It tips him over the edge and blows the waiting feeling all to hell, because this is Rodney, crowding up into him, and John shoves him back against the balcony door and proceeds to lose his mind a little.
They fog the glass and leave their handprints all over it, until all that shows in John's periphery is the city blurred out into smudges of color, gold and orange and deep blue. He finds the sweet spot under the line of Rodney's jaw and sets his teeth and tongue to work there; Rodney's knees buckle and both of them nearly go down. Palms skidding down the glass, John pushes in to pin him up, a rough imperfect collision that rocks the door in its frame and makes John's eyes roll back in his head. They're tangled together, John's knee shoved in between Rodney's thighs, and he needs to catch his breath, god, if he could only think for a minute, but Rodney just grabs the front of John's shirt and hauls him in so he can run his mouth along the length of John's throat.
"This is going to end really badly for us, isn't it?" he murmurs, his lips buzzing against John's adam's apple. It jerks John to a stop like someone's tied a cord to the center of his chest and yanked. He can't take another reversal, not now, not after all this. Trying to pull back, he catches Rodney's eyes by accident and sees confusion steamroll over his face, then Rodney wrestles him back down, swearing against his mouth, "The standing, the standing -- I swear, somebody dropped you on your head as a child--" Relief hits him like a wave, and he shuts Rodney up with a strenuous kiss before rolling sideways to prop himself up against the glass, head tilting back. Rodney's still got a fistful of John's shirt, and his forearm rises and falls with John's chest as the two of them brace themselves upright, sucking down air like they've been running sprints.
"Is there some kind of sequencing rule I should know about?" Rodney asks, in between breaths. Pushing his hair off his forehead, John gives him a look of what the hell are you talking about. Rodney bangs his head against the door and glares back at him, equal parts frustrated and flustered and turned on: jesus, it's hot. "Mandatory first stop at the couch before proceeding to the bedroom, or some kind of break for talking -- I mean, if you need to, then, right, of course we'll -- but you have to tell me if there's something I'm supposed to know."
His face is flushed and impatient, and it should be ridiculous that he's even asking, but John's breath catches in his throat, because they're here, this is really going to happen, and he has absolutely no fucking clue how this is supposed to work. At no point in his sexual history has he learned the script for sleeping with your best friend and meaning it, the rules for how you do this and don't fuck it up. "No?" he tries.
"Oh thank god," Rodney mutters, deep and heartfelt, and he wraps both hands around John's face and kisses him emphatically, then hauls him off the glass and all the way across the room through the bedroom door.
The whole thing takes on a different character as soon as John steps across the threshold; his footsteps lag, but Rodney just keeps pulling him forward until their legs hit the bed and then lets their weight and his hand on John's arm roll both of them down. The covers are rumpled, unmade, and John is flooded with memories of that first week back from Germany, because the sheets are cool and smooth, the way they were then, and they smell exactly how he remembers them. He remembers Rodney's hand, warm and anchoring on the back of his neck, and the way he let John sleep here for a week and never touched him, never brought it up afterward. John had been so fucked up at the time, that whole month is kind of a blur, but he gets it now, so he does the things he would have wanted to do then: fits one hand around the slope of Rodney's shoulder-blade and curls the other over the side of Rodney's face, kisses him just to feel Rodney's cheek hollow out as he opens his mouth into it.
They spend a long time like that, mouths moving together and hands filling in the map of each other's bodies, knees bumping as they learn the burn of pressure and friction, the dizzying rush that comes from shifting against each other. It's simple, high school stuff, but then neither of them would know, because John never did anything in high school that actually counted, and in terms of remembered experience, Rodney's never done anything at all. The room gets dim and then dark as the sun sets and the indirect light from the main room thins out into true twilight, and John gets lost in one small new thing after another. The sour salt tang where Rodney's neck and shoulder meet, the warm weight of his thigh thrown over John's, the breathless press when he runs both hands up John's chest and uses his full strength to push him down against the mattress. If anyone's going to try to move things forward, it should be John, who's been where this is heading, but time is moving strangely in the dark. His senses are overloaded, everything stretching out, and a two-second touch takes ten minutes instead as he soaks it all in: the span of Rodney's ribcage, the curve of his ass, the sharp earthy scent he gives off as both of them start to sweat through their clothes.
When Rodney reaches down to cup John through his jeans, it's much more of a shock than it should be, but the intensity of it blindsides him. Rodney's palm is broad, solid heat; he rubs the heel of his hand against John's dick and John grinds up into it, breath arrested by the ache of arousal increasing, shifting into a higher gear.
"What do you like?" Rodney's mouth moves restlessly up the curve of John's neck, lips tracing over his skin, and his hand squeezes gently. He sounds avid and nervous, like someone's given him a whole world to play with and he's hungry to get to work on it, just as soon as he figures out how not to accidentally blow it up. "I don't know what you like--"
"Jesus christ--" John twists up off the mattress and yanks his shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his shoulders as he muscles it off. Dropping back down, he fumbles at the buttons of Rodney's shirt, but Rodney's occupied with John's fly and not helping. Either that's a lot less complicated or he's just got more coordination than John can manage right now, because John's not even on the fourth button when Rodney shoves the zipper down and slides his hand into John's boxers, right up against skin, and then John's fingers quit obeying him entirely, his whole body going taut and humming like a steel string.
"What do you want?" Rodney whispers again, braced up over John in the dark. He curls his hand around John's dick and pulls upward, his palm damp and catching against it.
"Fuck," John hisses, pressing his face blindly into Rodney's shoulder, both hands clamped hard around Rodney's upper arms, "that, just keep doing that," and his jaw drops in a loud gasp as Rodney takes him at his word.
Rodney's grip is slow and rough at the same time, like he's trying to be careful but doesn't have enough room, and each time he spirals his hand up the friction is so sweet it almost hurts. "John," Rodney says, hot against his temple and thick as a curse, and John works himself up into Rodney's hand, his eyes helplessly open even though he can't see a goddamn thing. The muscles of his legs shake as he digs his heels into the slipping sheets, trying to hit that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, winding higher and higher like he's doing barrel rolls straight into the sun. He can feel his hip riding erratically up against Rodney's hard-on as he twists against the mattress; every time it happens Rodney's breath snags in his throat and his body goes rigid like he's fighting himself not to push down into it, and that just ratchets John higher. He's moving faster as he goes, closing in on it, and when he hits the top, the force of it throws him into an arch, heels to shoulders. For one boundless moment he could swear he's broken free from gravity, he's floating, and then he spills over the edge and into Rodney's hand and comes shuddering back down to earth.
"God," Rodney says, reverent and breathless. He laughs, and it sends a twitch running through him where he's pressed up against John. "That's really nothing like doing it to yourself, is it?" The question hangs in the air for a moment, and then John heaves up off the bed and flips them both over.
Head swimming with the flare of friction as Rodney's hand slips free, he plants his knees on either side of Rodney's hips and starts grappling with the shirt buttons again. They come free just as John's about ready to start snapping the threads if that's what it takes, but there's still the t-shirt underneath-- "You and your goddamn layers," John mutters, biting at Rodney's collarbone and trying to haul both shirts up and off, which works not at all considering he's got Rodney pressed flat on the bed. He gives it up as a bad job and shoves his hands down in between them, yanking Rodney's fly open and rising up onto his knees as he jerks khakis and boxers both down Rodney's hips.
"Shit," Rodney gasps, twisting upward, and John slides his hands up Rodney's sides and wriggles down to press his open mouth against Rodney's stomach, the top of his thigh, slide it up the underside of his dick and down over the head. Rodney curses in an incoherent smear and digs his fingers into the top of John's shoulder, and John thinks he ought to take this slow, take it easy, make it last, but when he circles his lips down Rodney bucks up into his mouth and hands again and you know what, fuck slow, fuck all of it, who the fuck cares if he's doing this wrong because three months ago he'd given up unconditionally on ever getting to do it at all. Rodney's moving and panting under him and John does it just the way he wants to, reckless and messy, throat open and mouth hollowed down and hands running the show, guiding Rodney's hips and keeping the pace. They hit a long sinuous rhythm, Rodney arching up and into John's mouth and John shifting to take it, back undulating as he follows him down, and they hold it and hold it and hold it until Rodney chokes out a groan and thrusts up hard into John's mouth, and John closes his eyes as the first pulse travels thickly along the length of his tongue.
A few seconds later he collapses on his back next to Rodney, one arm flung up onto the pillow above him. He feels shaky and light-headed and emptied out, like he's been breathing high-altitude air. They're half-dressed and drenched with sweat and the whole room smells like sex; the sheets are a tangled mess and god knows what the hell their clothes are going to look like in the light. He feels incredible.
"Holy crap," Rodney gets out, and John laughs and rolls sideways, groping around till he finds his shirt. He wipes his mouth and his stomach and bunches it so the wet bits are out of the way before offering it to Rodney, who comments, "You know, that would almost be gross if it weren't so considerate," as he swipes off his hand. John snickers, and Rodney elbows him as he tosses the shirt aside, and then they just lay there for a minute, getting quiet.
Their breathing slows down to normal, and neither of them says anything. John starts to tense up, wondering if things are going to get bad or weird, when Rodney props himself up on one elbow and his knuckles brush against John's wrist and stay there. "Wow," he says, in the same tone he'd use if they'd spent the last hour playing video games. "I'm really hungry. You want to go raid the fridge?"
John blinks up at the ceiling, remembering that he ran for most of the afternoon and didn't really eat anything after. Suddenly he's starving. "Yeah," he says, running one hand over his stomach and recognizing the hollowed-out feeling of a blood-sugar crash. "What do you have?"
They scoot down the bed and John pauses for a moment, not sure what to do about his wrecked clothing, then swings his feet onto the floor and just heads out into the main room bare-chested. He ducks into the bathroom to clean up a little better, trying not to over-think anything as he listens to the kitchen faucet start up on the other side of the door. They've pretty much established that if there are rules of etiquette for this, neither of them knows them. Maybe this is how it's supposed to go, he thinks as he washes his hands. Maybe if this kind of thing works, it works out like this: surprisingly ordinary.
When he comes back out, there are a few take-out containers sitting on the island and Rodney's rummaging through the utensil drawer. John scoots around the open fridge door and digs a two-liter of Coke out of the back, then pulls a couple of glasses out of the cupboard. When he turns, he finds Rodney staring at him from a couple feet away, his hand curled loosely against his mouth and his elbow settled on his other arm where it's crossed over his chest.
"Wow," Rodney says, "you're, um." His fingers flicker like he's searching for words and not finding them, and the edge of his thumb rubs unconsciously over his lower lip. "Kind of a mess," he finishes, but his mouth turns up at the corner as he says it, and his eyes are shining. Rodney's shirtless too, maybe taking his cues from John; his khakis are thoroughly crumpled, and his hair sticks up in strange tufts. The cool glow from the city outside gleams over the broad span of his shoulders, his arms. In the yellow light from the fridge, John can make out a trio of new bruises on the top of his pale chest. It's the first look they've gotten at each other in any kind of light.
As John stands there with the Coke and glasses still cradled cold against his chest, he remembers living with Rodney in college, how they'd pass each other in their towels on the way to and from the shower. Rodney would always duck down the hall with his eyes averted and not come out of his room until he was fully dressed. Back then, John had chalked it up as one more sign of his constitutional awkwardness, but now it's something else he finds himself reassessing. Rodney seems willing to let John look him over as long as he gets to do the same, and his smile has a self-conscious slant, almost shy, but he's not particularly ill-at-ease. It's a good look on him.
"You, too," John says, and nudges the fridge shut with his heel.
They eat quietly, standing at the counter, their shoulders bumping occasionally as they pass the containers of food back and forth. After a while, Rodney asks, "You've done this before, right?"
John swallows his mouthful of fried rice before answering. "With a guy, you mean?" Rodney nods, and John digs around the carton with his chopsticks, hunting for the last of the shrimp. "It's been just guys, actually. Other than high school."
It feels a little strange to actually say it. It's been two months, and John hasn't ever forgotten that he hadn't told Rodney, but there was never an obvious moment to bring it up. Really, he's not used to telling people at all. Rodney and Carson have known since college, and Teyla, Ronon and Laura all put it together pretty early without making much noise about it. Other than them, John mostly lets people figure it out, or not. He hasn't had a lot of practice actually saying it, and none at telling someone who'd have the right to ask all the adjacent questions, where the answers could lead places he hasn't really wanted to go.
It's kind of nice to have it out in the open.
Rodney thinks about this as he chews, then he swallows and cocks his head in John's direction. "Have I?"
It catches John off-guard, and he sets the carton on the counter while he thinks about it. "I don't know," he says, finally. "You never said anything to me, but Teyla mentioned something, once. I guess you could ask her."
"Wouldn't that be a conversation," Rodney mutters, but the open speculation in his eyes makes John's breath come a little shallower. Straightening, he steps in close, tilting his chin up until their lips meet. His mouth tastes like chili paste and hoisin sauce, and he kisses John deliberately, thoroughly.
"I think I'm about done here," John says a minute later, nodding toward the food. He gets the tone pretty casual, but he can't remember when he set his hand down on the counter for balance. "You?"
Rodney's chest hitches up against John's as he laughs. "You know, for someone this self-contained, you're really pretty transparent sometimes," he murmurs, falling back a step. "Yeah. I'm done." They leave everything out on the island when they walk away.
It's black inside the bedroom, with barely enough illumination to pick out the edges of things. As he steps to one side to let Rodney pass, John wonders about the logic that led Rodney to put his bed here, in the only room without a window. He'd assumed it was because of the erratic hours he kept, but walking in here with something other than a casual purpose, he isn't sure anymore. He wonders about the other people Rodney brought here, if they knew him well enough to think twice about it.
Taking a deep breath, John drops his hands to the waistband of his jeans, and maybe there's a little more light on him than he thought, because Rodney inhales sharply. A second later, John sees the edges of Rodney's silhouette shifting and hears the quiet fumble of the button on Rodney's khakis popping free. There's a peculiar charge in the air, like they're daring each other, I will if you will, and when John hooks his thumbs into his boxers and slides them all the way down, Rodney's only a second behind in doing the same.
It's different this time. With nothing but their skin between them, they're slower and braver both, and they set about learning the repertoire of each other's bodies, the small discoveries experience can't ever predict. They try things just to see what happens, stroking and tasting, following a hard touch with a light one, the blunt scrape of fingernails with the flat of the tongue. When they find something good, something that works, they take some time to revel in it, and then they try something else. It's a slow lofting upward instead of a desperate climb, and the longer they take at it, the more aware John is of how different this feels from anything else he's ever done. With most everyone else he's ever been with, there was always a clear and unspoken sense that it was something transient: they might come together like this once, or come back for a while, but they had a finite number of chances to do whatever it was they wanted to do.
Here, now, shifting together in the cool dark of Rodney's bedroom, their commingled movements feel like a lateral series of first steps, all the tiny simple things you practice so that when you string them all together, they will suddenly be more than the sum of their parts. Every movement of Rodney's mouth and muscles and hands whispers assurance that this isn't something he wants just once. Curled across the lower half of the bed, he brushes his lips along the inside of John's thigh, palms the rise of his hip-bone. "What else is there?" he whispers, and there's no impatience in his breath ghosting over John's skin, just eagerness. "What else can we try?"
John swallows and thinks why not, because if this is just the start of something bigger, then maybe any one mistake matters less, maybe it's okay if he does something and it turns out to be wrong. He bends the knee that isn't threaded under Rodney, presses the sole of his foot against the bed and slides it slowly up toward his body. When he shifts and settles his hips a little wider, he can feel the exact moment when Rodney gets it because of the shiver that runs through him, the way he goes absolutely still.
The silence goes on long enough for John to feel the first trickle of unease. He starts casting around for a way to back this off, because maybe this was more of a mistake than he can afford, and then Rodney's fingers curve down to cradle the side of his hip. "Yeah," Rodney says, and his voice is low and a little ragged. "Okay. But you have to tell me what to do."
John closes his eyes and pulls in a slow, shaky breath, then he twists toward the nightstand and reaches into the drawer. After a few seconds, he finds what he's looking for, and he slides it down the bed to Rodney, who pins his wrist down and sits up to kiss him. It's articulate, concentrated, like Rodney's drawing on some blind and silent language, and when John pulls back, he's still scared, but there are promises and gramercies laid over his tongue.
He slips his hand out from under Rodney's, leaving the bottle behind, and swallows against the tightness in his throat. "Start slow," he says, and he lets his shoulders and head drop back onto the bed.
The lack of light renders every sound in high fidelity: the susurration of the covers as Rodney shifts position, his hands brushing over the plastic bottle, the click of the lid coming free. Rodney slides one hand high up the inside of John's thigh, and John wills his body to relax. The first cool wet touch of Rodney's other hand is still startling, and when John tenses he feels Rodney do the same. "It's okay," he whispers. "It's just. It's been a while."
Rodney's breath hisses quietly out and he drops his forehead down against John's thigh. After a moment, he nods, and John twists his hands into the sheets as Rodney slides one fingertip slowly in. It's been more than a while, because John's never liked doing this with strangers, and it's been two years at least since there was anyone who was more than that. He forgets in between times what it's like, the strange inside-out sense of pressure, the way all his nerve endings seem to light up. It doesn't quite hurt, but he's grateful for the way Rodney pauses, lets him acclimate himself to it. Then he realizes that the pause might not have been for his sake, or not entirely, because Rodney is almost completely motionless, but the hand he's laid against John's thigh is trembling.
"It's okay," John says again, and he closes his eyes and rocks his hips just a little. Rodney swears against John's skin, but the hand that's pressed slickly up against John flexes and shifts, the finger inside him crooking, and the feel of it rolls up through John's body like a wave. Tucking his face against John's leg, Rodney does it again, tests out different movements, different angles, slides partway out and all the way in, learning John's body like a combination lock. When John says: yeah, Rodney's other hand tightens down on John's thigh, like he hears what John means instead of what he's saying, and he lines up another fingertip, pushes both in. Everything intensifies, the friction and stretch, small movements setting off echoes elsewhere in John's abdomen, his limbs. He twists against the mattress for the feel of muscles and tendons pulling against bone, his whole body waking up to it, and he's been hard for hours but the throb is just one more sensation, sweeter for the edge of denial. This time he does say it: more, and the bright burn sidles right up to the edge of pain, right where he wants it, makes the small of his back lift up off the bed. Rodney's hand on John's thigh is shaking harder now, and everywhere he and Rodney are touching is slick with sweat. John could do just this all night, and it's slowly starting to sink in that they can, that Rodney would do it, would let him, but right now there's something John wants more.
"Jesus Christ, John," Rodney says in an unsteady voice, and John twists his hips hard in a way that makes Rodney's fingers slip free, biting his lip against the sudden absence when they do. He gropes around in the nightstand drawer as Rodney draws himself up to his knees, then John rolls to a sitting position so he can pull Rodney up the bed and press him down onto his back, push their mouths together as he tears the foil packet open.
"Is this okay," John whispers, "are you sure," as he slides a flat hand down Rodney's chest, swings one leg over his thighs. Rodney's got both hands clamped tight around John's waist, hard enough that John knows the skin under them has gone white without needing to see it. "Are you sure?" he asks again, fingertips poised just below Rodney's navel.
Rodney gasps out, "Yes -- god, yes," and then, "please," and that hits him like the leading edge of a punch, just that initial shock of impact. He runs his hand up Rodney's dick from base to tip, feeling the muscles of Rodney's legs bunch under him, and he rolls the condom down. Setting one hand against the mattress by Rodney's head, John draws himself up a little higher, scoots his knees up past Rodney's hips. As he reaches back and down, lining them up, Rodney braces him up with shaking hands. Are you sure, John wants to say again, but he can feel the reach of the question in his own head, the breadth of the territory it encompasses, and it's too much to ask.
The first blunt push of Rodney inside him hurts more than he expects, both of them are so tense. John digs his teeth into his lower lip and drops his head, bears slowly back as Rodney's fingers bite into his ribs. He keeps moving through that first raw stretch, which only increases as he goes further, staying right up at the edge of what he can take. Rodney's gone rigid under him, snatching air down in quick little gasps as he fights not to move, and John could slow down, could do this in increments, but he wants this almost-strain, this luminous salt sting. Finally Rodney's all the way in, and John presses his forehead against Rodney's breastbone, curls his fingers over the top of Rodney's chest, his back bowed as he tries to remember how to breathe through this. He can feel Rodney's heart racing under his hot skin.
"John," Rodney says, in a cathedral whisper. John's fingers tighten reflexively down and Rodney's hips twitch, just the smallest movement but the pulse of sensation it sets off unfurls John's spine, convex to concave, oh christ, oh god, it's good. He rolls back into it without thinking, and Rodney makes a wordless sound through lips pressed shut and thrusts up into him, reining the motion in halfway like he's trying not to. His muscles jump erratically under John's hands and thighs, like flashes of lightning seen through the top of the clouds.
"No, god, it's good, don't stop," John gasps, and he doesn't recognize his own voice but it must be enough, because Rodney pushes up into him again, all the way this time. It sets off a deep reverberation inside John, rings his body like a bell, and then they're moving in concert, hips rolling against each other, gasping loud and open-throated in the dark. Rodney braces his forearm across John's back and hangs on while John arches and twists above him, his arms starting to shake. When they buckle, Rodney catches him, pushes them both upright and kisses him frantically, whispering, "I've got you, I've got you," as John reaches down to stroke himself in time to the wide shift of Rodney moving inside him. It's everything he never asked for, everything that history and shitty luck and the laws of the universe say they shouldn't get. As they both start to come apart, their rhythm fragmenting, losing everything but the feeling of their bodies rocking together, John catches just the faintest glimpse of the horizon laid out before them, stretching on forever.
--
Author's note: I wrote this back in the summer of 2007, while Unidentified was in beta. It was a thank-you gift for cindyjade, and while it's very much part of Unidentified itself, I never intended to include it in the actual story. I spent a long time uncertain of whether or not I'd ever post this -- the idea made me apprehensive, for a lot of reasons, but over time some good people persuaded me to take the chance.
As for the soundtrack: like this smaller story, it's half-meant as a supplement to the main soundtrack itself. Tracks 2 and 4 were late cuts from that, and the other three are songs I stumbled onto after Unidentified had been posted.
1. The Mountain Goats, "How to Embrace a Swamp Creature" -- I try to tell you just why I’ve come/ It’s like I’ve got molasses on my tongue. John makes this journey twice: when he gets back to L.A. from Germany, and again the day that this missing scene takes place.
2. Joan Osborne, "Ladder" -- You're giving me crooked answers, I'm cracking your little code/ I'm learning another language, so full it's about to explode. It takes Rodney fifteen years and then forgetting all of them to finally understand what's been there, under the surface, but he gets there in the end.
3. Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, "Please Read the Letter" -- Please read the letter, I wrote it in my sleep/ With help and consultation from the angels of the deep. I've made three soundtracks to go with this 'verse now, but this one song captures all of Unidentified better than any other. It took my breath away the first time I heard it.
4. Mary Lou Lord, "Turn Me Round" -- Roll the dice/ Raise the stakes/ Don't be scared to make mistakes. This is the plunge they take in this missing scene.
5. Lucinda Williams, "West" -- Come out west and see/ The best that it could be/ I know you won’t stay permanently/ But come out west and see. Seventeen years of chance and luck and history, and it all starts -- and ends -- with California.
Thank you, so much, for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it.