Drabble marathon: #4.
Okay, so that was a longer gap there then I meant it to be, but my time was filled up with awesome people being hilarious and distracting, so I really can't manage to feel that bad. Hopefully you all won't hold it against me.
#4. This is for M., who requested Coda, after the end of the concert, please. SGA AU, probably makes little sense if you haven't read Unidentified and Coda.
[2009. March.]
When it comes to some things, John's always been content to improvise. Still, the flight back into L.A. that afternoon had given him plenty of time to think, and he'd come up a few ideas for after the recital. Not an itinerary for the evening, just things like: Rodney's appreciation of John in a suit, and how there was no need to take it off right away. Or the image of the L.A. lights at night through the glass wall at the end of Rodney's condo, and how anything that happened on the balcony stayed pretty much invisible after dark. Or how much (or little) persuasion it might take for Rodney to do John up against the piano.
Yet again, John's imagined future fails at any resemblance to reality, which is that 3 a.m. finds him half-drunk and jammed into the back of a corner booth at the IHOP on Santa Monica: Carson and Ronon on his right, Jeannie on his left, Laura and Teyla bracketing Rodney, and enough food on the table in front of them to put the L.A. Lakers into simultaneous cardiac arrest.
"I really think I ought to start canvassing the other patrons to make sure there are at least five other people here capable of performing CPR," Carson says, voice flat under the accent in that way it only gets when he's truly and deeply appalled. Beside him, Ronon spares a moment to roll his eyes before reaching for his second cheeseburger.
"Quit worrying," Rodney mumbles through a mouthful of bacon. "I'm sure the panic attack I spent the afternoon having burned at least three thousand extra calories."
"Yes, but unless it also applied Teflon to your arterial walls--" Carson starts, leaning forward as he gets into it.
"John, Ronon: back," Jeannie orders; their shoulders slap against the vinyl booth wall, and the french fry she launches thwacks into Carson's cheek and slides down his shirt front into his lap. He makes a startled noise, slapping it away and onto the floor, and Teyla shoves the back of her hand against her mouth as she sets her water glass hastily down.
"Well done," she says to Jeannie after a very deliberate swallow. "The ketchup is a particularly ... inspired touch." She arches her eyebrows, mouth wavering as she fights for a neutral expression. John flicks a butter pat at her. She beans him in the forehead with an ice cube.
Laura waves her napkin in the air between them. "Truce, truce," she exclaims, then tosses the napkin to Carson, who makes a second-act production number out of cleaning himself off. "Getting kicked out of Mastro's was funny. Getting kicked out of IHOP is just humiliating. I'm a public servant and all here."
Rodney shuffles the plates around in front of him like a shell game until he's got an obscenely large slice of peanut butter pie settled front and center. "Oh yes, stellar job keeping the peace," he snorts, digging the fork in, "I seem to remember a martini olive launched from your direction being the proximate cause of our disinvitation there."
"I was asking for it," Ronon says with a shrug, licking mustard off his fingers.
"See?" Laura demands. Rodney shovels about a third of the pie into his mouth and gestures disdainfully with his fork, then squawks as Laura sweeps two slices of bacon off one of his other plates and pops them straight into her mouth.
"Hey, there's a penalty for unfair accusation, McKay," she tells him through the bacon, and easily parries Rodney's attempts to stab her.
"Oh my god, can we stop doing scenes from my childhood?" Jeannie groans, slumping over onto John's shoulder and covering her face with both hands.
Across the table, Rodney catches John's eyes as he raises a second forkful of pie to his mouth, and the grin he's trying to hide is brighter than the spotlight had been in the auditorium. John stares at it, its familiar, loved shape, and hears the septet singing in his head under the peal of Laura's laugh, in Ronon's deep voice and Teyla's lighter one twining together as they bicker. He raises his coke and takes a long sip, cold bubbles stinging his throat, and he knows that when he sets it down, he's still flushed and smiling stupidly, but he doesn't really care.
Under the table, Rodney slides his foot forward to fit against John's, and John slouches down a little farther and settles in for the night.
#4. This is for M., who requested Coda, after the end of the concert, please. SGA AU, probably makes little sense if you haven't read Unidentified and Coda.
[2009. March.]
When it comes to some things, John's always been content to improvise. Still, the flight back into L.A. that afternoon had given him plenty of time to think, and he'd come up a few ideas for after the recital. Not an itinerary for the evening, just things like: Rodney's appreciation of John in a suit, and how there was no need to take it off right away. Or the image of the L.A. lights at night through the glass wall at the end of Rodney's condo, and how anything that happened on the balcony stayed pretty much invisible after dark. Or how much (or little) persuasion it might take for Rodney to do John up against the piano.
Yet again, John's imagined future fails at any resemblance to reality, which is that 3 a.m. finds him half-drunk and jammed into the back of a corner booth at the IHOP on Santa Monica: Carson and Ronon on his right, Jeannie on his left, Laura and Teyla bracketing Rodney, and enough food on the table in front of them to put the L.A. Lakers into simultaneous cardiac arrest.
"I really think I ought to start canvassing the other patrons to make sure there are at least five other people here capable of performing CPR," Carson says, voice flat under the accent in that way it only gets when he's truly and deeply appalled. Beside him, Ronon spares a moment to roll his eyes before reaching for his second cheeseburger.
"Quit worrying," Rodney mumbles through a mouthful of bacon. "I'm sure the panic attack I spent the afternoon having burned at least three thousand extra calories."
"Yes, but unless it also applied Teflon to your arterial walls--" Carson starts, leaning forward as he gets into it.
"John, Ronon: back," Jeannie orders; their shoulders slap against the vinyl booth wall, and the french fry she launches thwacks into Carson's cheek and slides down his shirt front into his lap. He makes a startled noise, slapping it away and onto the floor, and Teyla shoves the back of her hand against her mouth as she sets her water glass hastily down.
"Well done," she says to Jeannie after a very deliberate swallow. "The ketchup is a particularly ... inspired touch." She arches her eyebrows, mouth wavering as she fights for a neutral expression. John flicks a butter pat at her. She beans him in the forehead with an ice cube.
Laura waves her napkin in the air between them. "Truce, truce," she exclaims, then tosses the napkin to Carson, who makes a second-act production number out of cleaning himself off. "Getting kicked out of Mastro's was funny. Getting kicked out of IHOP is just humiliating. I'm a public servant and all here."
Rodney shuffles the plates around in front of him like a shell game until he's got an obscenely large slice of peanut butter pie settled front and center. "Oh yes, stellar job keeping the peace," he snorts, digging the fork in, "I seem to remember a martini olive launched from your direction being the proximate cause of our disinvitation there."
"I was asking for it," Ronon says with a shrug, licking mustard off his fingers.
"See?" Laura demands. Rodney shovels about a third of the pie into his mouth and gestures disdainfully with his fork, then squawks as Laura sweeps two slices of bacon off one of his other plates and pops them straight into her mouth.
"Hey, there's a penalty for unfair accusation, McKay," she tells him through the bacon, and easily parries Rodney's attempts to stab her.
"Oh my god, can we stop doing scenes from my childhood?" Jeannie groans, slumping over onto John's shoulder and covering her face with both hands.
Across the table, Rodney catches John's eyes as he raises a second forkful of pie to his mouth, and the grin he's trying to hide is brighter than the spotlight had been in the auditorium. John stares at it, its familiar, loved shape, and hears the septet singing in his head under the peal of Laura's laugh, in Ronon's deep voice and Teyla's lighter one twining together as they bicker. He raises his coke and takes a long sip, cold bubbles stinging his throat, and he knows that when he sets it down, he's still flushed and smiling stupidly, but he doesn't really care.
Under the table, Rodney slides his foot forward to fit against John's, and John slouches down a little farther and settles in for the night.