Fog Days
Rodney never knew that all fog originates on Nantucket, but apparently that's the case; they make it, he's heard, just off the coast in a huge cauldron that brews cloud day and night. Utterly ridiculous way to explain a perfectly logical meteorological phenomenon, but some times Rodney's not sure there's not something to it.
Some days, like today, the air turns to grey soup five feet past the front door. There's no point driving anywhere because the Wagoneer's headlights refract off the fog, an opaque sheet of yellow-white that's just as impenetrable as the fog itself. He tried it once and had almost run over two people and hit a (parked) car within a hundred yards of the driveway, and hasn't tried it since.
Not long ago, this would have been completely unacceptable, and he would have either driven himself to work, forced someone else to do it, or (shudder) taken public transportation. Now that he works mostly in their microscopic kitchen, he doesn't need to worry about delays in important research, which has done wonders for his blood pressure.
The fog is soporific anyway, so even with the lights on full-blaze and fresh coffee coursing through his veins, Rodney can't concentrate on the equations on his screen. He tries to rub sleep from his eyes, dislodging the glasses he's still not used to, but it doesn't do much. He's too aware of the half-muted TV playing in the living room, and John's warm presence draped over the couch, the cat snoozing on his stomach.
Concentrate. He still gets paid to do what he does, mostly consulting these days, but people appreciate it if they can actually consult you and get an answer. Sighing, Rodney pulls up another window and tries to focus on the numbers there.
He's in kind of a groove, riding a modest caffiene high, when warm hands slide over his shoulders and fingers spider up his neck.
"Ticklish!" He tries to bat John's hands away, but John's hands are quick and clever and evade him. "Ow! Quit!"
"I can hear you concentrating over The Price Is Right," John says, bending over. His breath dances languidly over Rodney's ear. "You should relax for a bit."
Before Rodney can say anything to that, John carefully pulls his glasses off, his thumbs sliding across Rodney's temples. The numbers on the screen go a bit blurry.
"Hey!" Rodney makes a half-hearted grab for his glasses, but John folds them up with a click and sets them on the kitchen counter.
"C'mon, Rodney." John manages to sound coaxing, wheedling, insulting, and hot all at once. "Bob Barker awaits."
Rodney sighs in token protest, because this is one other thing he used to dislike violently: doing nothing when he could be doing something useful. That had taken getting used to, John's easy shrug and hey, tomorrow's good approach to life. For Rodney, time flickers and flies and he's always chasing after it. But for John, time goes at his own pace, which is to say, it slouches along and slides to a stop, like today, every now and then.
John pulls him along effortlessly, Rodney's fingers trapped in one hand and Rodney's coffee cup in another. Feet bare on the floor, track pants hanging off John's ass like a teenager's, blue-striped boxers also riding improbably low, John wears comfort. He is, for Rodney anyway, warm and deceptively lazy, a slow grace in the way he folds his long legs to fit onto their couch and pulls Rodney down to him.
"I don't understand how we can fit on this thing," Rodney mutters, wedging himself into the small space left to him. The hideous Mrs. Kaplan-knitted afghan appears, engulfing them in plaid.
"Maybe it's like the tents in Harry Potter," John says.
"I knew you read those," Rodney crows. "I knew it!"
"Saw the movie," John says defensively, like the distinction really matters. One arm threads around Rodney's waist, anchoring him, muscle under tanned skin to remind Rodney of the kind of life John's led.
Rodney really doesn't want to let this go (it's just too good, come on), but John's arm is warm and tight around him, and John's mouth is on his neck, not really erotic, or calming either, but something in between and distracting.
"Does it have to be Bob Barker?" he mutters, though he's really too lost in John curled around him, their legs tangling together and fingers, to care.
John lets go to reach for the remote and turn off the TV, but then his fingers are back in Rodney's, his face tucked against the curve of Rodney's neck, and they stay like that in slow warmth and light, with grey outside the windows.