SGA Fanfic: Simple Pleasures
Dear SGA,
I may stray to other fandoms, but I'll always come home to you.
Much love,
Kat
Title: Simple Pleasures
Author: Mistress Kat
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG
Word count: ~2700
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Pairing/Category: Beckett/McKay, AU
Summary: Carson liked the restaurant and he absolutely loved the food. He just wasn't sure about the chef.
Author notes: Written for the
notmcshep AU challenge for
flatlanddan, whose three prompts were: blue, orchid, a glass of wine. I managed to incorporate them all into the story - a fact that I’m feeling unaccountably smug about. As always, many thanks to my betas
lorellipsis and
loobilou, who whipped the story into shape.
Simple Pleasures
Carson stared at the plate in front of him with a vague sense of unease. Sugar should not bend like that, forming a perfect geometrical shape of - he counted the sides - a square-based pyramid, sitting on top of the dessert bowl like a tiny caramelised hat. Nor should - he inspected the fruit pieces closely - pears? peaches? …ever come in that colour. It was unnatural.
Carson glanced around the crowded restaurant, trying in vain to catch the eye of one of the waiting staff rushing between the tables. After a minute of increasingly comical facial expressions, he finally gave up. It seemed he was being ignored on purpose. Oh, everyone was being very polite about it, walking past him with apologetic smiles - but walking past, nonetheless.
Turning back to the dessert with a resigned, but determined, air of St. George facing the dragon, he picked up the fork with his right hand while reaching for the wine glass with his left. The generous mouthful of Cabernet Sauvignon had less to do with cleaning his palate than simply seeking extra fortitude.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Carson had given the dessert menu a thorough inspection and then ordered a slice of cherry pie. This - he glanced down at the concoction in front of him - was not cherry pie. In fact, he didn’t know what it was. Depressingly, that wasn’t a novel experience in this particular restaurant.
Since moving to Canada three months ago to start his visiting fellowship at the university, Carson Beckett had been too busy to stock his kitchen with anything beyond the mere essentials. Besides, it felt silly to cook just for one. It’d been different before with Laura…
Carson shook his head to rid his mind of regrets and brought the fork to his mouth, moaning audibly in pleasure as the sticky-sweet taste of caramel and pears exploded on his tongue, the dark burn of rum sliding all the way down to his toes.
About five minutes later, Carson was scraping the last piece of heaven onto his fork as he sighed contently. It was an effort, but he managed to restrain himself from licking the plate clean. That, too, was a familiar experience. He’d been coming here at least twice a week ever since, after hearing him reminisce about his mum’s cooking one time too many, his research assistant had recommended McKay’s.
The restaurant was situated not far from the campus and extremely popular with the faculty. Its’ prices, whilst wholly justified, put it out of the reach of most students - a fact Carson was secretly grateful for.
The place was surprisingly warm and welcoming, the interior somehow achieving a style that was both classy and unpretentious. Light wooden furniture of distantly Scandinavian design and white tablecloths were off-set with occasional swatches of colour. The strong blues and greens of the glassware echoed the more muted shades of the abstract paintings sparsely decorating the walls. On every table sat a single orchid, its exotic beauty a product of both nature and careful cultivation
Carson found the place unaccountably restful, and barring the fact that not once had he been served exactly what he’d ordered, it would’ve been perfect.
At first the changes had been subtle; a herby dressing on his chicken instead of a creamy one or crispy stir-fried vegetables instead of a side salad. However, gradually the difference between what it said on the menu and what Carson actually found on his plate became more pronounced.
He’d never complained though. The undeniable fact was that, despite the ever-increasing complexity of the dishes he was served, they were all consistently delicious.
Well, no - ‘delicious’ was a woefully inadequate word for describing the food at McKay’s. The first time Carson had tasted their Pasta alla Norma he’d thought he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in Italy. McKay’s special salmon in green broth literally melted in his mouth, while the chocolate cheesecake had him writhing in near-orgasmic bliss. The truth was, the food here was better than his mum’s cooking - a revelation that he would take to his grave.
Now that his food was gone, he had no problem catching the attention of a passing waitress and getting the bill. After she’d returned with his credit card and the receipt Carson stood up and headed toward the men’s room, leaving a sizeable tip on the table.
However, instead of taking the right turn to the toilets, he ducked behind a flower display and counted to ten. A quick glance from between the greenery, a dash to the left and he was slipping into the kitchen through the double doors.
Still dizzy from the success of his James Bond impersonation, Carson parked himself by the wall, momentarily unnoticed among the frantic activity of the room. Much of it seemed to concentrate around a man in his mid-thirties with a solid build and slightly receding hair the colour of wet sand. His expression was a curious, yet captivating, mixture of annoyance and contentment. It was the look of a man who was deeply in love with what he was doing and expected that everyone else felt the same.
“I wanted it heated gently, not boiled down to glue, you moron! I wouldn’t feed this to my dog, even if I had one, which I don’t because they are stupid creatures that do nothing but drool and smell bad. And yet!”
The man, whose manner exceeded the reputation of the owner and the executive chef of McKay’s so spectacularly that he could only be Rodney McKay himself, held up one imperious finger. Carson winced in sympathy at the way it was jabbed against the chest of a hapless young man. It looked painful.
“Yet, dogs can at least follow orders. Unlike you lot.” The sweeping arch of his arm encompassed the whole kitchen and the sous-chef backed away, looking terrified and clutching a saucepan to his front like armour.
However, on the edges of the drama, more and more people were ceasing their mixing and seasoning, the thwack-thwack-thwack of knives on cutting boards gradually slowing down. Carson shifted his feet uncomfortably, resisting the urge to fidget under the combined weight of dozens of stares. He was not going to slink away like a naughty schoolboy. It wasn’t his idea to intrude where he was clearly not supposed to be. The bizarre game of culinary tag had simply gone on long enough. God knew he’d tried to talk to McKay several times before - first to express his appreciation, later to demand an explanation and finally just to meet the man who clearly went to so much trouble to… Well, the why of it was what he was here to find out. And he wasn’t leaving until he did.
Carson squared his shoulders and waited for the chips to fall as they may.
Oblivious to the by-play happening behind his back, McKay continued his lecture, barely pausing to draw breath. “I find it very hard to believe you all actually graduated from Le Gordon Bleu training schools! This is…” His eyes narrowed dangerously as he realised that his minions were distracted by something behind him. “What? Now I don’t even warrant your full attention anymore? And why have you stopped working? The goddamn peppers aren’t going to stuff themselves, you idio-” His tirade was cut short as he swivelled around, hands on hips, finally deciding to determine the source of the disturbance.
The strangled noise that emitted from McKay’s mouth was high-pitched and resembled that of a frog being choked to death. His face, already flushed from the combination of shouting and the heat of the ovens, turned several shades darker.
The sudden silence was eerie, interrupted only by bubbling and sizzling of mouth-watering dishes in various stages of preparation. McKay’s hands performed a brief uncoordinated flutter before crossing protectively over his broad chest. “Um,” he said, eyes blinking rapidly.
Carson agreed. This was not going quite the way he’d imagined.
“Erm. I’m sorry t’ disturb you.” Well, he wasn’t really - but it felt like a good place to start. “My name is Carson Beckett and I jus’ wondered if there’s any chance I could-”
“You’re not supposed to be in here. You have to leave.” McKay took a step forward, chin jutting up in a way that made every hair on Carson’ neck bristle with indignation. “Right. Now.”
“No.”
“No?” The man gaped like he’d never heard the word before. Come to think of it, he probably hadn’t.
Goddamn it! All he’d wanted was a meal that didn’t come out of a can, not this awkward dance of… whatever this was. “I would like a word with you, Mr. McKay, and I’m no’ leaving until I get it.”
“Dr. McKay,” the other man corrected distractedly. “And you can’t. I’m too busy. I have a group of fifteen council members waiting impatiently for their mushroom risotto and-”
“We got it covered, Chef,” a bright female voice called from somewhere among the throng of interested spectators. Others seemed to agree.
“Yeah, you should totally go, McKay.”
“Nothing to worry about - you’re on overtime already as it is.”
“Besides, Zelenka will be here in half an hour. He’ll take care of the late sitting,” came the chorus of voices.
McKay was seething and clearly feeling betrayed. It was, nevertheless, impossible to identify the culprits. The kitchen staff had closed ranks with long-practiced ease and was presenting a united front of bland benevolence. At the edge of the group, a man with gravity-defying brown hair and a wicked looking meat-cleaver, winked at Carson outrageously.
No, it was not going at all like he’d imagined.
With lips pursed into an unhappy line, McKay stripped off his white coat, bundled it up and threw it toward the nearest corner. Then he walked to the backdoor, a curt jerk of his head indicating that Carson should follow him outside.
The door opened to the back of the restaurant and on the side of the loading bay, narrow stairs led down to the ground level. Carson skirted an occasional empty crate, careful not to slip on the damp steps. It had been raining earlier and the pavement was glistening darkly in the evening sun. They came to a halt at the corner of the building and McKay turned to face him with an expression that was both defiant and resigned.
Up close, the man looked far less formidable. Perhaps it was the lack of grovelling lackeys or the way he kept worrying the frayed hem of his light blue t-shirt - the colour of which, Carson was somewhat reluctant to notice, exactly matched that of his eyes.
None of these observations were at all conducive to the purpose at hand. Carson cleared his throat nervously. “Right, well… No’ that I don’t appreciate th’ trouble you’ve gone to, because, aye, despite blatantly disregarding my wishes, th’ food has been incredible…”
A quick grin, there and gone almost too fast to see, flashed across McKay’s face.
“But I am at a loss as to why you would…” Carson let the sentence peter out unfinished.
For a few seconds McKay’s expression stayed impassive as he contemplated the possibility of playing dumb. Carson could see the exact moment the man wisely abandoned the idea, lifting his gaze to meet Carson’s eyes.
The silence stretched on for good ten seconds before McKay sighed. “I like you.”
“You don’ even know me!”
McKay looked affronted. “Your name is Carson Beckett. Your credit card tells me you’re a doctor - an MD would be my first guess. You have that benevolent do-gooder air about you, which, for some reason, I find sort of appealing - even though it usually irritates the hell out of me. But if not a medical doctor, then surely something to do with life sciences. You work at the university - you just don’t seem ruthless enough for the private sector - and you’re clearly new to town.”
McKay was ticking off the points on his fingers now. “Your accent totally gives away your country of origin. You’re kind and polite to the waiters and tip them too much - which tells me you have good manners and respect other people. Last week, when Alison splashed hot soup on your trousers, you didn’t make a fuss or demand compensation but instead calmed her down and ate the soup like nothing had happened. This tells me you’re a good man. You always dine alone, which tells me that you’re probably available and that you like the food in here - which tells me you have great taste.”
Carson boggled. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he managed to get anything out. “Look, that’s… I’m flattered, really.”
“But?”
Carson sighed. “But, I tend to like things to be simple. Straightforward. Uncomplicated.”
“You mean like stew? Or bangers and mash?” McKay sneered derisively.
“No. Well yes, those are nice. But I was actually talking in a more general sense.”
McKay stared at him for a while, comprehension dawning. “Oh,” he said, eyes dropping down. “I’m really complicated. And difficult. Or so people tell me.” His voice had gone small and kind of sad.
This was the point where Carson had expected to leave - only he clearly wasn’t. In fact, he seemed to be doing quite the opposite. “However…” He took a step closer to McKay, his hand coming up to curl around the other man’s forearm. “You have introduced me to quite an array o’ complex things over th’ last few months. Granted, they have all come on a plate and been accompanied by a basket of crusty bread, but th’ point is…”
McKay was watching him intently.
“Th’ point is,” he repeated, a giddy mixture of anticipation and apprehension twisting somewhere low in his stomach. “I really, really liked it. A lot. So I think perhaps I should try new things more often.” He was pretty sure it was his turn to be blushing now.
Rodney looked at him, looked at the hand on his forearm and again back at him. “Even if they’re complicated?”
“Especially if they’re complicated.”
Carson felt Rodney turn in his grip until he was loosely clasping Carson’s arm in return. They stood like that for a moment, shivering slightly in the chilly breeze of the evening and from the unexpected, but welcome, sensation of skin against skin.
“So...” The smile on McKay’s face looked unused and bewildered, like it didn’t get to spend much time there. It looked really good. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to ask you to dinner then?”
Carson shook his head wordlessly, eyes crinkling in laughter. Well now, the man had a sense of humour after all - even if it was buried under an ego the size of a small planet.
“How about a beer? Or coffee?” McKay improvised. “You drink coffee, right? Of course you do. Or maybe we should just stay away from anything digestible? We could go for… a walk?” The way the nerve on his cheek twitched at the suggestion, told Carson that, while walking was not something that Rodney McKay considered a particularly pleasant pastime, he was willing to make an exception today.
“Beer sounds good,” Carson inserted quickly into the brief pause during which Rodney sucked in oxygen like it was going out of fashion. He seized the opportunity, and Rodney, with both hands and pushed on toward the busy sidewalk. Surely there was a bar somewhere close by.
“Yes, excellent idea.” Rodney nodded. “I know this little place a few blocks from here. They have the best selection of imported beers. You drink that, don’t you? What am I saying? You’re practically an import yourself…”
McKay’s chatter seemed more cheerful than nervous, so Carson indulged himself and concentrated on Rodney’s voice and the animated way his face reflected every nuance of emotion like an open book.
Night was slowly creeping over the city, the air gaining that white-soft quality it had during summer months in the North, making every movement feel like swimming through warmed milk. Somewhere between the restaurant and the bar, Carson realised they were holding hands. He felt no inclination to let go anytime soon.
And that, after all, was a pretty simple thing in itself.
THE END
Author’s dedication, feel free to skip: I would like to dedicate this story to my friend M, who, even though he will never, ever read it, has made me think. This morning I received a letter from M, telling me he had fallen in love. With a man. It wasn’t a happy letter as the guy had broken M’s heart and M didn’t really have many people he could talk about it. It is sad that we still live in a world where he feels he cannot tell his family or his colleagues or even all his ‘friends’ about what was wrong, just because the person who broke his heart happened to be same gender as he. It is sad that even though we have been friends for seven years and I know for a fact that I have never said or done anything that should make him doubt my reaction to the news, he still felt he needed to write “I hope I haven’t disappointed you” and “Please don’t think I have lied to you in the past” and “I’m still me”. So I’m dedicating this story to M who is a great big romantic at heart. I wish we lived in a world where you wouldn’t have to worry and feel unsure.
ETA 20/08/2006: I have forwarded your well-wishes to M, who has this message to you all.
I may stray to other fandoms, but I'll always come home to you.
Much love,
Kat
Title: Simple Pleasures
Author: Mistress Kat
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG
Word count: ~2700
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Pairing/Category: Beckett/McKay, AU
Summary: Carson liked the restaurant and he absolutely loved the food. He just wasn't sure about the chef.
Author notes: Written for the
notmcshep AU challenge for
flatlanddan, whose three prompts were: blue, orchid, a glass of wine. I managed to incorporate them all into the story - a fact that I’m feeling unaccountably smug about. As always, many thanks to my betas
lorellipsis and
loobilou, who whipped the story into shape.
Simple Pleasures
Carson stared at the plate in front of him with a vague sense of unease. Sugar should not bend like that, forming a perfect geometrical shape of - he counted the sides - a square-based pyramid, sitting on top of the dessert bowl like a tiny caramelised hat. Nor should - he inspected the fruit pieces closely - pears? peaches? …ever come in that colour. It was unnatural.
Carson glanced around the crowded restaurant, trying in vain to catch the eye of one of the waiting staff rushing between the tables. After a minute of increasingly comical facial expressions, he finally gave up. It seemed he was being ignored on purpose. Oh, everyone was being very polite about it, walking past him with apologetic smiles - but walking past, nonetheless.
Turning back to the dessert with a resigned, but determined, air of St. George facing the dragon, he picked up the fork with his right hand while reaching for the wine glass with his left. The generous mouthful of Cabernet Sauvignon had less to do with cleaning his palate than simply seeking extra fortitude.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Carson had given the dessert menu a thorough inspection and then ordered a slice of cherry pie. This - he glanced down at the concoction in front of him - was not cherry pie. In fact, he didn’t know what it was. Depressingly, that wasn’t a novel experience in this particular restaurant.
Since moving to Canada three months ago to start his visiting fellowship at the university, Carson Beckett had been too busy to stock his kitchen with anything beyond the mere essentials. Besides, it felt silly to cook just for one. It’d been different before with Laura…
Carson shook his head to rid his mind of regrets and brought the fork to his mouth, moaning audibly in pleasure as the sticky-sweet taste of caramel and pears exploded on his tongue, the dark burn of rum sliding all the way down to his toes.
About five minutes later, Carson was scraping the last piece of heaven onto his fork as he sighed contently. It was an effort, but he managed to restrain himself from licking the plate clean. That, too, was a familiar experience. He’d been coming here at least twice a week ever since, after hearing him reminisce about his mum’s cooking one time too many, his research assistant had recommended McKay’s.
The restaurant was situated not far from the campus and extremely popular with the faculty. Its’ prices, whilst wholly justified, put it out of the reach of most students - a fact Carson was secretly grateful for.
The place was surprisingly warm and welcoming, the interior somehow achieving a style that was both classy and unpretentious. Light wooden furniture of distantly Scandinavian design and white tablecloths were off-set with occasional swatches of colour. The strong blues and greens of the glassware echoed the more muted shades of the abstract paintings sparsely decorating the walls. On every table sat a single orchid, its exotic beauty a product of both nature and careful cultivation
Carson found the place unaccountably restful, and barring the fact that not once had he been served exactly what he’d ordered, it would’ve been perfect.
At first the changes had been subtle; a herby dressing on his chicken instead of a creamy one or crispy stir-fried vegetables instead of a side salad. However, gradually the difference between what it said on the menu and what Carson actually found on his plate became more pronounced.
He’d never complained though. The undeniable fact was that, despite the ever-increasing complexity of the dishes he was served, they were all consistently delicious.
Well, no - ‘delicious’ was a woefully inadequate word for describing the food at McKay’s. The first time Carson had tasted their Pasta alla Norma he’d thought he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in Italy. McKay’s special salmon in green broth literally melted in his mouth, while the chocolate cheesecake had him writhing in near-orgasmic bliss. The truth was, the food here was better than his mum’s cooking - a revelation that he would take to his grave.
Now that his food was gone, he had no problem catching the attention of a passing waitress and getting the bill. After she’d returned with his credit card and the receipt Carson stood up and headed toward the men’s room, leaving a sizeable tip on the table.
However, instead of taking the right turn to the toilets, he ducked behind a flower display and counted to ten. A quick glance from between the greenery, a dash to the left and he was slipping into the kitchen through the double doors.
Still dizzy from the success of his James Bond impersonation, Carson parked himself by the wall, momentarily unnoticed among the frantic activity of the room. Much of it seemed to concentrate around a man in his mid-thirties with a solid build and slightly receding hair the colour of wet sand. His expression was a curious, yet captivating, mixture of annoyance and contentment. It was the look of a man who was deeply in love with what he was doing and expected that everyone else felt the same.
“I wanted it heated gently, not boiled down to glue, you moron! I wouldn’t feed this to my dog, even if I had one, which I don’t because they are stupid creatures that do nothing but drool and smell bad. And yet!”
The man, whose manner exceeded the reputation of the owner and the executive chef of McKay’s so spectacularly that he could only be Rodney McKay himself, held up one imperious finger. Carson winced in sympathy at the way it was jabbed against the chest of a hapless young man. It looked painful.
“Yet, dogs can at least follow orders. Unlike you lot.” The sweeping arch of his arm encompassed the whole kitchen and the sous-chef backed away, looking terrified and clutching a saucepan to his front like armour.
However, on the edges of the drama, more and more people were ceasing their mixing and seasoning, the thwack-thwack-thwack of knives on cutting boards gradually slowing down. Carson shifted his feet uncomfortably, resisting the urge to fidget under the combined weight of dozens of stares. He was not going to slink away like a naughty schoolboy. It wasn’t his idea to intrude where he was clearly not supposed to be. The bizarre game of culinary tag had simply gone on long enough. God knew he’d tried to talk to McKay several times before - first to express his appreciation, later to demand an explanation and finally just to meet the man who clearly went to so much trouble to… Well, the why of it was what he was here to find out. And he wasn’t leaving until he did.
Carson squared his shoulders and waited for the chips to fall as they may.
Oblivious to the by-play happening behind his back, McKay continued his lecture, barely pausing to draw breath. “I find it very hard to believe you all actually graduated from Le Gordon Bleu training schools! This is…” His eyes narrowed dangerously as he realised that his minions were distracted by something behind him. “What? Now I don’t even warrant your full attention anymore? And why have you stopped working? The goddamn peppers aren’t going to stuff themselves, you idio-” His tirade was cut short as he swivelled around, hands on hips, finally deciding to determine the source of the disturbance.
The strangled noise that emitted from McKay’s mouth was high-pitched and resembled that of a frog being choked to death. His face, already flushed from the combination of shouting and the heat of the ovens, turned several shades darker.
The sudden silence was eerie, interrupted only by bubbling and sizzling of mouth-watering dishes in various stages of preparation. McKay’s hands performed a brief uncoordinated flutter before crossing protectively over his broad chest. “Um,” he said, eyes blinking rapidly.
Carson agreed. This was not going quite the way he’d imagined.
“Erm. I’m sorry t’ disturb you.” Well, he wasn’t really - but it felt like a good place to start. “My name is Carson Beckett and I jus’ wondered if there’s any chance I could-”
“You’re not supposed to be in here. You have to leave.” McKay took a step forward, chin jutting up in a way that made every hair on Carson’ neck bristle with indignation. “Right. Now.”
“No.”
“No?” The man gaped like he’d never heard the word before. Come to think of it, he probably hadn’t.
Goddamn it! All he’d wanted was a meal that didn’t come out of a can, not this awkward dance of… whatever this was. “I would like a word with you, Mr. McKay, and I’m no’ leaving until I get it.”
“Dr. McKay,” the other man corrected distractedly. “And you can’t. I’m too busy. I have a group of fifteen council members waiting impatiently for their mushroom risotto and-”
“We got it covered, Chef,” a bright female voice called from somewhere among the throng of interested spectators. Others seemed to agree.
“Yeah, you should totally go, McKay.”
“Nothing to worry about - you’re on overtime already as it is.”
“Besides, Zelenka will be here in half an hour. He’ll take care of the late sitting,” came the chorus of voices.
McKay was seething and clearly feeling betrayed. It was, nevertheless, impossible to identify the culprits. The kitchen staff had closed ranks with long-practiced ease and was presenting a united front of bland benevolence. At the edge of the group, a man with gravity-defying brown hair and a wicked looking meat-cleaver, winked at Carson outrageously.
No, it was not going at all like he’d imagined.
With lips pursed into an unhappy line, McKay stripped off his white coat, bundled it up and threw it toward the nearest corner. Then he walked to the backdoor, a curt jerk of his head indicating that Carson should follow him outside.
The door opened to the back of the restaurant and on the side of the loading bay, narrow stairs led down to the ground level. Carson skirted an occasional empty crate, careful not to slip on the damp steps. It had been raining earlier and the pavement was glistening darkly in the evening sun. They came to a halt at the corner of the building and McKay turned to face him with an expression that was both defiant and resigned.
Up close, the man looked far less formidable. Perhaps it was the lack of grovelling lackeys or the way he kept worrying the frayed hem of his light blue t-shirt - the colour of which, Carson was somewhat reluctant to notice, exactly matched that of his eyes.
None of these observations were at all conducive to the purpose at hand. Carson cleared his throat nervously. “Right, well… No’ that I don’t appreciate th’ trouble you’ve gone to, because, aye, despite blatantly disregarding my wishes, th’ food has been incredible…”
A quick grin, there and gone almost too fast to see, flashed across McKay’s face.
“But I am at a loss as to why you would…” Carson let the sentence peter out unfinished.
For a few seconds McKay’s expression stayed impassive as he contemplated the possibility of playing dumb. Carson could see the exact moment the man wisely abandoned the idea, lifting his gaze to meet Carson’s eyes.
The silence stretched on for good ten seconds before McKay sighed. “I like you.”
“You don’ even know me!”
McKay looked affronted. “Your name is Carson Beckett. Your credit card tells me you’re a doctor - an MD would be my first guess. You have that benevolent do-gooder air about you, which, for some reason, I find sort of appealing - even though it usually irritates the hell out of me. But if not a medical doctor, then surely something to do with life sciences. You work at the university - you just don’t seem ruthless enough for the private sector - and you’re clearly new to town.”
McKay was ticking off the points on his fingers now. “Your accent totally gives away your country of origin. You’re kind and polite to the waiters and tip them too much - which tells me you have good manners and respect other people. Last week, when Alison splashed hot soup on your trousers, you didn’t make a fuss or demand compensation but instead calmed her down and ate the soup like nothing had happened. This tells me you’re a good man. You always dine alone, which tells me that you’re probably available and that you like the food in here - which tells me you have great taste.”
Carson boggled. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he managed to get anything out. “Look, that’s… I’m flattered, really.”
“But?”
Carson sighed. “But, I tend to like things to be simple. Straightforward. Uncomplicated.”
“You mean like stew? Or bangers and mash?” McKay sneered derisively.
“No. Well yes, those are nice. But I was actually talking in a more general sense.”
McKay stared at him for a while, comprehension dawning. “Oh,” he said, eyes dropping down. “I’m really complicated. And difficult. Or so people tell me.” His voice had gone small and kind of sad.
This was the point where Carson had expected to leave - only he clearly wasn’t. In fact, he seemed to be doing quite the opposite. “However…” He took a step closer to McKay, his hand coming up to curl around the other man’s forearm. “You have introduced me to quite an array o’ complex things over th’ last few months. Granted, they have all come on a plate and been accompanied by a basket of crusty bread, but th’ point is…”
McKay was watching him intently.
“Th’ point is,” he repeated, a giddy mixture of anticipation and apprehension twisting somewhere low in his stomach. “I really, really liked it. A lot. So I think perhaps I should try new things more often.” He was pretty sure it was his turn to be blushing now.
Rodney looked at him, looked at the hand on his forearm and again back at him. “Even if they’re complicated?”
“Especially if they’re complicated.”
Carson felt Rodney turn in his grip until he was loosely clasping Carson’s arm in return. They stood like that for a moment, shivering slightly in the chilly breeze of the evening and from the unexpected, but welcome, sensation of skin against skin.
“So...” The smile on McKay’s face looked unused and bewildered, like it didn’t get to spend much time there. It looked really good. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to ask you to dinner then?”
Carson shook his head wordlessly, eyes crinkling in laughter. Well now, the man had a sense of humour after all - even if it was buried under an ego the size of a small planet.
“How about a beer? Or coffee?” McKay improvised. “You drink coffee, right? Of course you do. Or maybe we should just stay away from anything digestible? We could go for… a walk?” The way the nerve on his cheek twitched at the suggestion, told Carson that, while walking was not something that Rodney McKay considered a particularly pleasant pastime, he was willing to make an exception today.
“Beer sounds good,” Carson inserted quickly into the brief pause during which Rodney sucked in oxygen like it was going out of fashion. He seized the opportunity, and Rodney, with both hands and pushed on toward the busy sidewalk. Surely there was a bar somewhere close by.
“Yes, excellent idea.” Rodney nodded. “I know this little place a few blocks from here. They have the best selection of imported beers. You drink that, don’t you? What am I saying? You’re practically an import yourself…”
McKay’s chatter seemed more cheerful than nervous, so Carson indulged himself and concentrated on Rodney’s voice and the animated way his face reflected every nuance of emotion like an open book.
Night was slowly creeping over the city, the air gaining that white-soft quality it had during summer months in the North, making every movement feel like swimming through warmed milk. Somewhere between the restaurant and the bar, Carson realised they were holding hands. He felt no inclination to let go anytime soon.
And that, after all, was a pretty simple thing in itself.
THE END
Author’s dedication, feel free to skip: I would like to dedicate this story to my friend M, who, even though he will never, ever read it, has made me think. This morning I received a letter from M, telling me he had fallen in love. With a man. It wasn’t a happy letter as the guy had broken M’s heart and M didn’t really have many people he could talk about it. It is sad that we still live in a world where he feels he cannot tell his family or his colleagues or even all his ‘friends’ about what was wrong, just because the person who broke his heart happened to be same gender as he. It is sad that even though we have been friends for seven years and I know for a fact that I have never said or done anything that should make him doubt my reaction to the news, he still felt he needed to write “I hope I haven’t disappointed you” and “Please don’t think I have lied to you in the past” and “I’m still me”. So I’m dedicating this story to M who is a great big romantic at heart. I wish we lived in a world where you wouldn’t have to worry and feel unsure.
ETA 20/08/2006: I have forwarded your well-wishes to M, who has this message to you all.