Drabble marathon: #3.
#3. This one is for V., who said, If you would write me a little teensy bit of Rodney back-story from before the event that precipitates 'Unidentified' I will be your slave ever so pleased and happy. (Especially if there is sex.) SGA AU, adult, probably makes little sense if you haven't read Unidentified. Expands on a very vague hint dropped in the conversation in the kitchen in Canon for Two Instruments.
[2005. October.]
The one time it happens, it's entirely unintentional. Rodney has never in his life left his condo intending to exchange any actual words with another L.A. resident not aimed at procuring himself food, goods, and/or services. This is one of the reasons he has nearly everything delivered: reduced potential for the aggravation resulting from excessive human contact. But the proof refuses to cooperate and he can feel his thoughts starting to snag, like the buffers between them are eroding, leaving the live wires exposed. There's a state he knows and dreads: not really a headache, but a frustrating mental myopia where nothing useful will coalesce, so in the name of prophylaxis he stuffs the notebooks into his backpack and walks the half-mile to the Second Door.
He takes over a small table against the wall and a few minutes later, his drink shows up in front of him. He pays the waitress without making eye contact but jerks a nod of thanks at the bartender, who nods back. The drink in question is seven-tenths of the reason Rodney comes here: silty black coffee, nearly Turkish, two shots of bourbon. A West Virginia Bullet, not that Rodney would ever order it by any such name. He drains a third of it in the first too-hot swallow and closes his eyes, letting the taste burn the haze out of his brain.
The other three-tenths of the reason he comes here is that no one cares, or expects him to pretend to.
The television above the bar is tuned to CNN with the volume off, footage of Bush in a press conference. Rodney's reaching down to fish one of the journals out of his bag when he hears the guy a couple of tables down sputter and choke. Rodney glances reflexively over at him, then follows his appalled stare back to the screen, where close captioning has achieved stunning heights of incompetence and accuracy via the spelling of the word nucular.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Rodney moans, digging his thumb into the center of his forehead.
Two tables down, the guy finishes his coughing fit and says, "How are we supposed to know if it's a mistake or a joke?" Rodney's laugh is involuntary, but he's surprised enough to meet the guy's eyes on purpose.
It's all unintentional: the sporadic exchange of color commentary as the press conference descends farther into stupidity, the shift to the next table when another patron accidentally sloshes beer onto Rodney's, the gradual slide into a mutually-acknowledged conversation. Rodney doesn't remember the guy's name afterward, or whether he even says it, though it seems like he must. He remembers the degree in chemical engineering, but not where the guy got it from, and not whether he'd paid for the third round or the fourth. He remembers the guy's hair, recently cut but messy in a way that doesn't look like it's by design, and the way he sits in his chair, leaning back a little too squarely for a real slouch, the long bones of his forearm when he raises his beer for a drink.
He doesn't register how they end up walking out together, or what topic they've moved tangentially onto, but he knows they're both basically sober. The most vivid moment of the night, in retrospect, comes half a block up from Rodney's building, when he catches the guy's eyes, no particular color under the streetlight, and sees the way they narrow speculatively at the corners. Oh, Rodney thinks, that's what we're doing here, and when they reach the walkway of Rodney's condo, Rodney turns without any preamble and kisses him, because he's strangely fascinated by the theory that he can.
Upstairs, they kiss less once they get down to it, but the guy is strong and cooperative, surprisingly heavy pressed against Rodney, good with his hands. His chest is mostly smooth but his thighs are traced with wiry hair, his skin is interestingly rough, and he groans in appreciation and says, "Yeah, that's it," when Rodney shakes off the post-orgasmic fog and jerks him off. He falls asleep way before Rodney does, and Rodney lays there and stares up through the dark at the ceiling, taken aback, tempted to maybe sneak back out to the study and work on the proof. When he wakes up the next morning, the guy is gone, and Rodney doesn't register either relief or disappointment at that, just stares at the faint indentation on the pillow next to him, the space outlined by the covers left folded back.
He doesn't tell John.
[2005. October.]
The one time it happens, it's entirely unintentional. Rodney has never in his life left his condo intending to exchange any actual words with another L.A. resident not aimed at procuring himself food, goods, and/or services. This is one of the reasons he has nearly everything delivered: reduced potential for the aggravation resulting from excessive human contact. But the proof refuses to cooperate and he can feel his thoughts starting to snag, like the buffers between them are eroding, leaving the live wires exposed. There's a state he knows and dreads: not really a headache, but a frustrating mental myopia where nothing useful will coalesce, so in the name of prophylaxis he stuffs the notebooks into his backpack and walks the half-mile to the Second Door.
He takes over a small table against the wall and a few minutes later, his drink shows up in front of him. He pays the waitress without making eye contact but jerks a nod of thanks at the bartender, who nods back. The drink in question is seven-tenths of the reason Rodney comes here: silty black coffee, nearly Turkish, two shots of bourbon. A West Virginia Bullet, not that Rodney would ever order it by any such name. He drains a third of it in the first too-hot swallow and closes his eyes, letting the taste burn the haze out of his brain.
The other three-tenths of the reason he comes here is that no one cares, or expects him to pretend to.
The television above the bar is tuned to CNN with the volume off, footage of Bush in a press conference. Rodney's reaching down to fish one of the journals out of his bag when he hears the guy a couple of tables down sputter and choke. Rodney glances reflexively over at him, then follows his appalled stare back to the screen, where close captioning has achieved stunning heights of incompetence and accuracy via the spelling of the word nucular.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Rodney moans, digging his thumb into the center of his forehead.
Two tables down, the guy finishes his coughing fit and says, "How are we supposed to know if it's a mistake or a joke?" Rodney's laugh is involuntary, but he's surprised enough to meet the guy's eyes on purpose.
It's all unintentional: the sporadic exchange of color commentary as the press conference descends farther into stupidity, the shift to the next table when another patron accidentally sloshes beer onto Rodney's, the gradual slide into a mutually-acknowledged conversation. Rodney doesn't remember the guy's name afterward, or whether he even says it, though it seems like he must. He remembers the degree in chemical engineering, but not where the guy got it from, and not whether he'd paid for the third round or the fourth. He remembers the guy's hair, recently cut but messy in a way that doesn't look like it's by design, and the way he sits in his chair, leaning back a little too squarely for a real slouch, the long bones of his forearm when he raises his beer for a drink.
He doesn't register how they end up walking out together, or what topic they've moved tangentially onto, but he knows they're both basically sober. The most vivid moment of the night, in retrospect, comes half a block up from Rodney's building, when he catches the guy's eyes, no particular color under the streetlight, and sees the way they narrow speculatively at the corners. Oh, Rodney thinks, that's what we're doing here, and when they reach the walkway of Rodney's condo, Rodney turns without any preamble and kisses him, because he's strangely fascinated by the theory that he can.
Upstairs, they kiss less once they get down to it, but the guy is strong and cooperative, surprisingly heavy pressed against Rodney, good with his hands. His chest is mostly smooth but his thighs are traced with wiry hair, his skin is interestingly rough, and he groans in appreciation and says, "Yeah, that's it," when Rodney shakes off the post-orgasmic fog and jerks him off. He falls asleep way before Rodney does, and Rodney lays there and stares up through the dark at the ceiling, taken aback, tempted to maybe sneak back out to the study and work on the proof. When he wakes up the next morning, the guy is gone, and Rodney doesn't register either relief or disappointment at that, just stares at the faint indentation on the pillow next to him, the space outlined by the covers left folded back.
He doesn't tell John.