.ficlet: Telescope (John/Rodney) 1.1
.Telescope (John/Rodney) ~774 words [Nantucket index]
Inspired by siriaeve's lovely Nantucket kiss from yesterday, but this could really happen at any time. Also inspired by this totally awesome article. EXTRASOLAR PLANETS OMG.
Telescope
The Delacourts, Wagners, and Quincys all have a disturbing sixth sense when it comes to Rodney. It is, John supposes, the kid sixth sense for adults who are uneasy and not entirely thrilled about their presence, sort of like how cats sense that some people are allergic and so make sure to climb into their laps. Paradoxically, Rodney has a gravity well or some weird pheromone that draws to him all kids under eight, and whenever they show up to pet Cash, or with remote-controlled cars in hand for fixing, or anything really, Rodney looks at them with a mixture of terror, bemusement, and annoyance before saying something cutting that the kids usually ignore.
Tonight, it’s practically a foregone conclusion that every kid in the neighborhood will flock around Rodney, a clear summer night with a new moon and the promise of meteor showers, and Rodney’s telescope parked out on the front lawn. When John breathes in, salt air washes through his lungs, clean and clear and bracing, and sand from their evening walk still grits between his toes. He has a beer, cool but warming, dangling between his fingers, and Rodney’s condenses on the stool next to him, forgotten in favor of getting the telescope set up and making sure the hellions don’t break anything.
Excited kid-babble rises and falls, Amy Delacourt’s five-year-old voice spiking shrilly when Tracy Wagner tries to cut in front of her. Rodney overrides all of them, deeper and, to John, attractive, a stream of commentary on the Hertzsprung-Russell diagram and laminar flow and the different kinds of galaxy in the universe. He breaks off a lecture on exoplanets and how no rocketship can get to them, do you not understand the concept of the light-year? to holler for an orderliness the kids never show their parents, but all eight of them fall in line, even Matt, who is four and according to Rodney, disturbingly like John in some respects.
“Pipe down,” Rodney advises, “or no one gets to look.”
The kids fall silent, except for James, who says, “I wanna see the moon.”
“There’s no moon tonight, moron,” Kimberly tells him. “It’s a new moon.” She tosses her ponytail over her shoulder with seven-year-old superiority. James demands to know why it’s new if it’s not even there and makes a rude noise, but cuts off quickly. Rodney must be glaring.
John hangs back, mostly to enjoy the spectacle of Rodney’s odd, rough management of a bunch of overprivileged and overexcited kids, explaining telescope rules to them in a tone that John imagines Rodney once adopted with his lab minions. Rodney explains the rules once more, and glances up at the sky, starlight limning the smooth line of his face and haloing oddly in his hair. The excitement reaches a subdued, if fever pitch, when Rodney says James, despite his disgraceful lack of familiarity with lunar phases, can step up.
Grownups wander over after a bit, checking in to make sure Rodney hasn’t tossed their kids into the ocean, even asking if they might take a look. From his perch on his lawn chair, John can see Rodney hesitate in surprise and slowly straighten from where he’s been helping Amy look at Sirius. He says something to a silhouette whose voice identifies it as belonging to Frank Quincy, and a moment later Frank is taking over telescope supervision, and Rodney’s walking over to John.
He moves slow for Rodney, relaxed with hands in his pockets and shoulders lazily loose, and he wears contentment well, comfortable like worn cargo pants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days.
“You can see the Pleiades tonight,” he offers, and takes his beer from John’s outstretched hand. “You can see a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” John agrees, but right now he can only see Rodney, barely illuminated by the stars and the distant light from their house. When he touches Rodney’s face the warm skin against his fingers reminds him of Rodney’s slight sunburn, stubble on Rodney’s jaw because he’s nervous about shaving. John likes it, the roughness when Rodney says maybe - the kids - okay, okay, to John threading his fingers through his hair to pull him close.
Like the rest of him, Rodney’s mouth is warm and comfortable, familiar contours and sharp edges that soften out with each slow breath. Rodney’s tongue slips along his, sweet sweet and teasing even though there’s no going anywhere right now, not with the kids poring over the starmap and shouting out their discoveries, clamoring for Rodney to come back. No going anywhere except the moment, Rodney’s hands cupping his cheeks and then teasing his hair, mouths breaking apart to Rodney’s fond smile, no going anywhere except right here under the wide, slowly spinning sky.
-end-
Inspired by siriaeve's lovely Nantucket kiss from yesterday, but this could really happen at any time. Also inspired by this totally awesome article. EXTRASOLAR PLANETS OMG.
Telescope
The Delacourts, Wagners, and Quincys all have a disturbing sixth sense when it comes to Rodney. It is, John supposes, the kid sixth sense for adults who are uneasy and not entirely thrilled about their presence, sort of like how cats sense that some people are allergic and so make sure to climb into their laps. Paradoxically, Rodney has a gravity well or some weird pheromone that draws to him all kids under eight, and whenever they show up to pet Cash, or with remote-controlled cars in hand for fixing, or anything really, Rodney looks at them with a mixture of terror, bemusement, and annoyance before saying something cutting that the kids usually ignore.
Tonight, it’s practically a foregone conclusion that every kid in the neighborhood will flock around Rodney, a clear summer night with a new moon and the promise of meteor showers, and Rodney’s telescope parked out on the front lawn. When John breathes in, salt air washes through his lungs, clean and clear and bracing, and sand from their evening walk still grits between his toes. He has a beer, cool but warming, dangling between his fingers, and Rodney’s condenses on the stool next to him, forgotten in favor of getting the telescope set up and making sure the hellions don’t break anything.
Excited kid-babble rises and falls, Amy Delacourt’s five-year-old voice spiking shrilly when Tracy Wagner tries to cut in front of her. Rodney overrides all of them, deeper and, to John, attractive, a stream of commentary on the Hertzsprung-Russell diagram and laminar flow and the different kinds of galaxy in the universe. He breaks off a lecture on exoplanets and how no rocketship can get to them, do you not understand the concept of the light-year? to holler for an orderliness the kids never show their parents, but all eight of them fall in line, even Matt, who is four and according to Rodney, disturbingly like John in some respects.
“Pipe down,” Rodney advises, “or no one gets to look.”
The kids fall silent, except for James, who says, “I wanna see the moon.”
“There’s no moon tonight, moron,” Kimberly tells him. “It’s a new moon.” She tosses her ponytail over her shoulder with seven-year-old superiority. James demands to know why it’s new if it’s not even there and makes a rude noise, but cuts off quickly. Rodney must be glaring.
John hangs back, mostly to enjoy the spectacle of Rodney’s odd, rough management of a bunch of overprivileged and overexcited kids, explaining telescope rules to them in a tone that John imagines Rodney once adopted with his lab minions. Rodney explains the rules once more, and glances up at the sky, starlight limning the smooth line of his face and haloing oddly in his hair. The excitement reaches a subdued, if fever pitch, when Rodney says James, despite his disgraceful lack of familiarity with lunar phases, can step up.
Grownups wander over after a bit, checking in to make sure Rodney hasn’t tossed their kids into the ocean, even asking if they might take a look. From his perch on his lawn chair, John can see Rodney hesitate in surprise and slowly straighten from where he’s been helping Amy look at Sirius. He says something to a silhouette whose voice identifies it as belonging to Frank Quincy, and a moment later Frank is taking over telescope supervision, and Rodney’s walking over to John.
He moves slow for Rodney, relaxed with hands in his pockets and shoulders lazily loose, and he wears contentment well, comfortable like worn cargo pants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days.
“You can see the Pleiades tonight,” he offers, and takes his beer from John’s outstretched hand. “You can see a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” John agrees, but right now he can only see Rodney, barely illuminated by the stars and the distant light from their house. When he touches Rodney’s face the warm skin against his fingers reminds him of Rodney’s slight sunburn, stubble on Rodney’s jaw because he’s nervous about shaving. John likes it, the roughness when Rodney says maybe - the kids - okay, okay, to John threading his fingers through his hair to pull him close.
Like the rest of him, Rodney’s mouth is warm and comfortable, familiar contours and sharp edges that soften out with each slow breath. Rodney’s tongue slips along his, sweet sweet and teasing even though there’s no going anywhere right now, not with the kids poring over the starmap and shouting out their discoveries, clamoring for Rodney to come back. No going anywhere except the moment, Rodney’s hands cupping his cheeks and then teasing his hair, mouths breaking apart to Rodney’s fond smile, no going anywhere except right here under the wide, slowly spinning sky.
-end-