yeast (foster's bakery au)
Title: Yeast
Author: Cesare (almostnever)
Word count: ~1500
Ratings/Warnings: SFW. Cursing, kissing. This story should be safe for people with triggers.
Summary: Rodney rescues John from the dough monster. Inspired by this cartoon by chkc. Part of the Foster's Bakery AU.
*
Another day, another breakthrough in quantum mechanics. Around midnight, Rodney's simulation finishes with successful results, proving once again that he is the preeminent astrophysicist on Earth.
And not just because Sam Carter is offworld.
Probably.
Rodney doesn't expect John to still be up, but he drives past the bakery on autopilot, and to his surprise, he can see light inside.
Probably John just forgot to switch off the kitchen light. There's no way he's awake. He gets up before dawn to start baking.
Still, Rodney finds himself sliding into a parking space and getting out anyway. He supposes there's the off chance that John has insomnia, and if nothing else, Rodney can turn the light out for him. And check if there are cookies. He will, of course, only take such cookies as represent adequate compensation for his time and effort for stopping to shut off the light.
It still weirds him out a little that he has keys to this place. And he certainly still thinks John is crazy not to have a security system. He knows he probably shouldn't harangue John about his business, but at the same time, Rodney can't help but feel a little proprietary about the bakery. He's spent so much time here, and he got to know John thanks to this place.
It's almost surreal now to think of all the time and ingenuity he devoted to trying to lure John out from behind the counter to talk rather than lurking in the back leafing through golf magazines.
Rodney leans to look under the counter on his way back. There are still a couple of dogeared old issues stowed under there, along with Rodney's extra copy of Batman: Year One that he insisted on giving John. It looks cocoa-dusted, Rodney's both pleased and pained to note. He keeps his own comics pristine, but it's nice to see signs that John actually read it.
As he slips into the kitchen, Rodney startles-- John is there, perched on a stool, arms and chin resting on the counter. He's in his usual black t-shirt and has his pink apron on, his shoulders moving slowly up and down.
Rodney clears his throat loudly. Nothing. Asleep, then.
Drawing closer, Rodney stares with alarm at the blob on the counter just beyond John. It's only once he's right next to it that he finally recognizes it as bread dough: it's billowed up to a disturbing size, its surface stretched, rubbery and tight-looking. It almost seems to quiver with life, and it's about six millimeters from adhering to John.
For a moment Rodney's tempted to wait and see what will happen if the dough collides with John's unruly dark hair. It would make for an epic confrontation: two entities, each appearing to have a rudimentary life of its own, battling it out for dominion over John's head. He could even arm each side with toothpicks.
But no, he likes John's hair as it is, reigning spikily over his scalp, and Rodney hates to think what washing bread dough out would do to it. It's surprisingly silky and pettable, and who knows if it would stay that way after intimate contact with yeast.
"John," Rodney says. It doesn't seem wise to shake him. As far as he knows, John mostly saw combat from 50,000 feet, but then again... as far as he knows isn't very far at all.
At first he's not sure John heard him, but then John's breathing changes. "John," Rodney repeats, and this time John's head rolls up and he looks around, giving Rodney a sleepy smile when he sees him.
His expression's completely dopey, but he's sleep-flushed, almost rosy with it, and his lips look full and tender. "Hey," he says.
"Uh, hi," Rodney smiles back helplessly. John gives a back-cracking yawn and it breaks the moment enough for Rodney to add, "I've had a few experiments go awry in my time, but none of them ever tried to take over my kitchen counter. Or my head."
"Hm?" John follows Rodney's sightline to the bowl brimming over with bread dough. "Oh, fuck me," he says, rocking to his feet, and he gives the dough a couple of quick punches. The huge ball hardly seems deterred. "Great. I let it go for--" he looks at this watch and hisses. "Over an hour too long. Dammit."
"What does that mean?" Rodney asks. "Airy bread?"
"Crappy bread," John says, tipping the dough monster out of the bowl and onto the wooden work surface. He sets into it with both hands, squeezing and folding and shaping.
The muscles in John's forearms do amazing things as he squishes the dough, and his upper arms flex as he lifts the whole giant lump and brings it solidly down against the counter again. "I can't believe I conked out like that," he says, folding and thumping. "If I try to bake this now, it'll just collapse and go flat and taste lousy. I'm going to have to beat it back down and knead it again, and chill it, and maybe tomorrow when I let it warm up, it'll rise again and I'll see if it's salvageable."
Rodney watches him wrestle the dough into submission and feels compelled to share, "I can't decide if you're so hot right now because you're mad, or because you're being knowledgeable, or if I just like watching you punch things."
John powders his hands with flour, slipping him a dry look. "Lucky for you, there won't be a pop quiz."
"Lucky for you I happened by," Rodney says. "That thing was about to swallow your head when I walked in."
"Swallow my head?"
"If not all of you!" Rodney warms to the exaggeration. "Like a Rover capturing Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner. That thing was showing distinct Rover-like qualities."
"Better make sure I get the upper hand fast, then, before it gets any ideas." John pushes the heels of his hands deep into the glob. "Any special reason you were coming over?"
Rodney fidgets a little. He'd like to think he's got a better handle on things with John than in his past relationships, but things seem to be going well more from luck than because Rodney has any idea what he's doing here: he really doesn't.
"Not as such," he decides to say. "I was passing by and saw a light on, so I thought I'd check in."
John gives the dough a few final thumps and wads it back into the container; it's now small enough to fit completely inside. He tears off plastic wrap and covers the bowl and stows it in the refrigerator.
"Well," he says, wiping his hands clean. "You're here now."
"So I am," Rodney agrees.
"And you did save me from being swallowed up by my own creation."
"That I did."
"My hero," John adds with a grin, and literally flutters his eyelashes. Rodney has to marvel, for possibly the millionth time, how different and how much better reality is than his fantasies. When he imagined getting together with John, it never occurred to him that John would be silly, or pouty, or sentimental, or any of a million little moods that Rodney never saw in him until they started dating.
John hooks a finger into Rodney's belt loop and adds, "How can I ever repay you?"
"Cookies," Rodney answers promptly.
That surprises John's ungodly guffaw out of him. "Not exactly flattering," he says, "but sure, buddy, knock yourself out. You know where the cookie jar is."
"Flattery has nothing to do with it," Rodney informs him, fishing a chocolate cookie out of the jar and biting off a healthy mouthful. "I need to perk up my blood sugar a little, and then we're good to go for sex-- which I don't accept as payment because it's mutually satisfying, unless there's something you want to tell me?"
"It's mutual, we're good!" John is clever enough to quickly say. He chafes the back of his neck with one hand and folds his arms, a little awkward. "Maybe not so good to go for tonight, though. I need to be up in five hours."
"Of course. Right. I need to be up early myself."
John looks at him from under his lashes; it's not deliberately coy this time, and maybe for that reason, a lot more devastating. "No point setting two alarm clocks," he suggests.
"No point at all," Rodney agrees. "I mean, what a waste of electricity, and, uh... spacetime."
"Mm-hm. Only so much of that to go around," says John.
"Oh, for-- look, I want to stay. Now will you just get over here?" Rodney breaks, and John grins, slinking over to lean against him.
"My hero," he says again with less irony than before, and opens his mouth lushly to Rodney's, kissing him so sweetly that Rodney's dizzy, buoyed and lightened, like all the air John beat out of the bread has gone straight to his head; and maybe, just maybe, Rodney has some idea what he's doing here after all.
Author: Cesare (almostnever)
Word count: ~1500
Ratings/Warnings: SFW. Cursing, kissing. This story should be safe for people with triggers.
Summary: Rodney rescues John from the dough monster. Inspired by this cartoon by chkc. Part of the Foster's Bakery AU.
*
Another day, another breakthrough in quantum mechanics. Around midnight, Rodney's simulation finishes with successful results, proving once again that he is the preeminent astrophysicist on Earth.
And not just because Sam Carter is offworld.
Probably.
Rodney doesn't expect John to still be up, but he drives past the bakery on autopilot, and to his surprise, he can see light inside.
Probably John just forgot to switch off the kitchen light. There's no way he's awake. He gets up before dawn to start baking.
Still, Rodney finds himself sliding into a parking space and getting out anyway. He supposes there's the off chance that John has insomnia, and if nothing else, Rodney can turn the light out for him. And check if there are cookies. He will, of course, only take such cookies as represent adequate compensation for his time and effort for stopping to shut off the light.
It still weirds him out a little that he has keys to this place. And he certainly still thinks John is crazy not to have a security system. He knows he probably shouldn't harangue John about his business, but at the same time, Rodney can't help but feel a little proprietary about the bakery. He's spent so much time here, and he got to know John thanks to this place.
It's almost surreal now to think of all the time and ingenuity he devoted to trying to lure John out from behind the counter to talk rather than lurking in the back leafing through golf magazines.
Rodney leans to look under the counter on his way back. There are still a couple of dogeared old issues stowed under there, along with Rodney's extra copy of Batman: Year One that he insisted on giving John. It looks cocoa-dusted, Rodney's both pleased and pained to note. He keeps his own comics pristine, but it's nice to see signs that John actually read it.
As he slips into the kitchen, Rodney startles-- John is there, perched on a stool, arms and chin resting on the counter. He's in his usual black t-shirt and has his pink apron on, his shoulders moving slowly up and down.
Rodney clears his throat loudly. Nothing. Asleep, then.
Drawing closer, Rodney stares with alarm at the blob on the counter just beyond John. It's only once he's right next to it that he finally recognizes it as bread dough: it's billowed up to a disturbing size, its surface stretched, rubbery and tight-looking. It almost seems to quiver with life, and it's about six millimeters from adhering to John.
For a moment Rodney's tempted to wait and see what will happen if the dough collides with John's unruly dark hair. It would make for an epic confrontation: two entities, each appearing to have a rudimentary life of its own, battling it out for dominion over John's head. He could even arm each side with toothpicks.
But no, he likes John's hair as it is, reigning spikily over his scalp, and Rodney hates to think what washing bread dough out would do to it. It's surprisingly silky and pettable, and who knows if it would stay that way after intimate contact with yeast.
"John," Rodney says. It doesn't seem wise to shake him. As far as he knows, John mostly saw combat from 50,000 feet, but then again... as far as he knows isn't very far at all.
At first he's not sure John heard him, but then John's breathing changes. "John," Rodney repeats, and this time John's head rolls up and he looks around, giving Rodney a sleepy smile when he sees him.
His expression's completely dopey, but he's sleep-flushed, almost rosy with it, and his lips look full and tender. "Hey," he says.
"Uh, hi," Rodney smiles back helplessly. John gives a back-cracking yawn and it breaks the moment enough for Rodney to add, "I've had a few experiments go awry in my time, but none of them ever tried to take over my kitchen counter. Or my head."
"Hm?" John follows Rodney's sightline to the bowl brimming over with bread dough. "Oh, fuck me," he says, rocking to his feet, and he gives the dough a couple of quick punches. The huge ball hardly seems deterred. "Great. I let it go for--" he looks at this watch and hisses. "Over an hour too long. Dammit."
"What does that mean?" Rodney asks. "Airy bread?"
"Crappy bread," John says, tipping the dough monster out of the bowl and onto the wooden work surface. He sets into it with both hands, squeezing and folding and shaping.
The muscles in John's forearms do amazing things as he squishes the dough, and his upper arms flex as he lifts the whole giant lump and brings it solidly down against the counter again. "I can't believe I conked out like that," he says, folding and thumping. "If I try to bake this now, it'll just collapse and go flat and taste lousy. I'm going to have to beat it back down and knead it again, and chill it, and maybe tomorrow when I let it warm up, it'll rise again and I'll see if it's salvageable."
Rodney watches him wrestle the dough into submission and feels compelled to share, "I can't decide if you're so hot right now because you're mad, or because you're being knowledgeable, or if I just like watching you punch things."
John powders his hands with flour, slipping him a dry look. "Lucky for you, there won't be a pop quiz."
"Lucky for you I happened by," Rodney says. "That thing was about to swallow your head when I walked in."
"Swallow my head?"
"If not all of you!" Rodney warms to the exaggeration. "Like a Rover capturing Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner. That thing was showing distinct Rover-like qualities."
"Better make sure I get the upper hand fast, then, before it gets any ideas." John pushes the heels of his hands deep into the glob. "Any special reason you were coming over?"
Rodney fidgets a little. He'd like to think he's got a better handle on things with John than in his past relationships, but things seem to be going well more from luck than because Rodney has any idea what he's doing here: he really doesn't.
"Not as such," he decides to say. "I was passing by and saw a light on, so I thought I'd check in."
John gives the dough a few final thumps and wads it back into the container; it's now small enough to fit completely inside. He tears off plastic wrap and covers the bowl and stows it in the refrigerator.
"Well," he says, wiping his hands clean. "You're here now."
"So I am," Rodney agrees.
"And you did save me from being swallowed up by my own creation."
"That I did."
"My hero," John adds with a grin, and literally flutters his eyelashes. Rodney has to marvel, for possibly the millionth time, how different and how much better reality is than his fantasies. When he imagined getting together with John, it never occurred to him that John would be silly, or pouty, or sentimental, or any of a million little moods that Rodney never saw in him until they started dating.
John hooks a finger into Rodney's belt loop and adds, "How can I ever repay you?"
"Cookies," Rodney answers promptly.
That surprises John's ungodly guffaw out of him. "Not exactly flattering," he says, "but sure, buddy, knock yourself out. You know where the cookie jar is."
"Flattery has nothing to do with it," Rodney informs him, fishing a chocolate cookie out of the jar and biting off a healthy mouthful. "I need to perk up my blood sugar a little, and then we're good to go for sex-- which I don't accept as payment because it's mutually satisfying, unless there's something you want to tell me?"
"It's mutual, we're good!" John is clever enough to quickly say. He chafes the back of his neck with one hand and folds his arms, a little awkward. "Maybe not so good to go for tonight, though. I need to be up in five hours."
"Of course. Right. I need to be up early myself."
John looks at him from under his lashes; it's not deliberately coy this time, and maybe for that reason, a lot more devastating. "No point setting two alarm clocks," he suggests.
"No point at all," Rodney agrees. "I mean, what a waste of electricity, and, uh... spacetime."
"Mm-hm. Only so much of that to go around," says John.
"Oh, for-- look, I want to stay. Now will you just get over here?" Rodney breaks, and John grins, slinking over to lean against him.
"My hero," he says again with less irony than before, and opens his mouth lushly to Rodney's, kissing him so sweetly that Rodney's dizzy, buoyed and lightened, like all the air John beat out of the bread has gone straight to his head; and maybe, just maybe, Rodney has some idea what he's doing here after all.