Fic: SGA: One Man's Trash, M/S
Title: One Man’s Trash
Pairing: John/Rodney
Warnings: None, unless you need to be warned for schmoopy, happy domestic fic. If so, BEWARE!
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sometimes the depth of important decisions doesn’t really sink in until much later and the smallest thing might trigger a revelation. Also, Rodney argues with his trashcan.
Author's Notes: I pronounce this part of the Take Out ‘verse, where John and Rodney are on Earth for John’s recovery from injury and a superbug that nearly killed him. (I haven't written that part yet; this story is taking it's own sweet time.)
They’re in a little New England village much like my own, in a big old house with large porches and a big garden out back. Also, I own a trashcan very much like the one described here and I was telling propinquitine about it. So. It’s her fault this time and not seperis’ or ladyflowdi’s like it has been of late. I'm sure they'll do something to rectify that soon enough.
unbeta'd because this is so silly, I was kind of shy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The day John Sheppard figured out he was happy, he snorted soda up his nose.
Well, he’d known he was happy before, but this was happy, happy. Lifetime happy. This-was-it and this-would-always-be-it happy, which he had honestly thought he had covered before, back when he lost his mind and hooked up with Rodney and all.
Rodney was awesome. And he tended to bring out John’s awesome and John brought out more of Rodney’s awesome and it was all, in a word, awesome.
So it was a bit of a surprise when true love and happiness found him and hit, bone deep, right about lunchtime one Friday afternoon.
They were having pizza. Frozen pizza and a salad and they’d probably go outside after and Rodney wouldn’t fuss if John sat in the warm sunshine to bake his hip and knee. They’d watch Folsom chase leaves in the back yard and eat popcicles because this time of day the sun slanted across Rodney’s desk in a way that made it hard to see his computer screen. They hadn’t put up the blinds yet.
Not that John was avoiding the blinds, but Rodney did break for lunch because it was too bright and then there were lots of opportunities for slow, lazy afternoon sex, which John was a big fan of, along with the naps that followed. It did not escape John’s attention that Rodney was also perfectly capable of putting up the blinds himself. Also, Rodney’s computer was a laptop.
Anyway, it was the pizza that mattered. Healthy, cracker-thin crust pizza with added fiber and lots of vegetables and Rodney had no idea unless he took it upon himself to read the box, which John whisked out of the way and into the recycling bin every time.
Rodney had waved him off, saying he would fix the rest of lunch - neither of them remarking on how badly John was limping today - so John was finishing up the last of the paper at the kitchen table. Rodney puttered around fixing their salads, another mandatory addition to Rodney’s diet after John really looked at what Rodney ate and had gone, metaphorical hat in hand, to wheedle Rodney’s health stats from Jennifer Keller.
Anyway, Rodney was puttering and singing under his breath, “Moo be boo boo boo,” in a tuneless, chipper way and having a spat with their trash can.
Rodney had rigged it to open when you waved a hand in front of its motion sensors. It also had a perfectly good foot pedal, but John’s balance wasn’t what it had been yet and he wasn’t going to look a gift robot trashcan in the mouth. But it also opened if you slipped by it on your way to the fridge or oven or stood at a certain angle at the sink. John hadn’t moved it yet, because was in just the right spot near their kitchen island and it was funny to watch Rodney apologize to it.
“No,” he said indulgently, in the voice he used on their pets, when the trash can first opened wide with a hopeful little mechanical “aaaah?” He chuckled at it a couple of times as he moved around the kitchen, getting salad fixings and tossing it bits of wrappers or twist ties.
John, who had read all five books of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, thought the trashcan sounded like those doors in The Guide, programmed with personalities and talked back to everyone.
In his mind, it said (kind of wistfully), “Trash?” Three seconds later, it would close with a happy, relieved, “traaash,” or, even weirder, John admitted, it sounded like it sighed, “no trash,” when thwarted. Intellectually, John knew it was the same sound, but he still heard it anyway.
“Trash?” the can asked as Rodney dumped red bell pepper seeds in the sink.
“No, it’s….well I suppose I should have composted that. No trash for you.” Rodney replied, frowning into the sink.
“No trash,” the can sighed. Rodney tsked in annoyance and stepped around the end of the island to check the pizza.
“Trash?”
“No! Geez! Here!” John glanced up to watch Rodney give it a bit of wadded up paper towel.
“Traaaash.”
Rodney huffed and peeked at the pizza. He leaned over to get a platter to slide the sitting-directly-on-the-rack pizza on.
“Trash?” Rodney growled and smacked the lid closed with his hand.
He closed the oven door. “Trash?” Smack. He searched for something in the utencil drawer. “Trash?” Smack. Rodney found what he was looking for and stomped over to the pizza, brandishing the kitchen shears, better for cutting hot pizza and not smooshing the cheese around.
The lid wavered up and creaked, “Trash?” kind of pathetically.
“I’m sorry!" Rodney wailed, distraught, as it seemed to quaver, “No trash,” and close. He grabbed bits of paper towel and the shrink wrap from the pizza and scraped a few bits of stuff from the counter top to offer the little can.
Rodney McKay, the terror of two galaxies, apologizing to his trashcan. Awesome.
“Trash?” it whispered, opening hopefully. Rodney fed it and murmured, “We’re going to work on your timing and sensitivity settings later, okay?”
“Traaash,” it cooed, clicking shut.
Rodney looked up as he wiped his hands on his shirt, caught John’s eye and looked flustered, a little defiant and by god, like the absolute once and future love of John’s life. “What?” he said defensively.
And that’s when John snorted the soda up his nose.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Pairing: John/Rodney
Warnings: None, unless you need to be warned for schmoopy, happy domestic fic. If so, BEWARE!
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sometimes the depth of important decisions doesn’t really sink in until much later and the smallest thing might trigger a revelation. Also, Rodney argues with his trashcan.
Author's Notes: I pronounce this part of the Take Out ‘verse, where John and Rodney are on Earth for John’s recovery from injury and a superbug that nearly killed him. (I haven't written that part yet; this story is taking it's own sweet time.)
They’re in a little New England village much like my own, in a big old house with large porches and a big garden out back. Also, I own a trashcan very much like the one described here and I was telling propinquitine about it. So. It’s her fault this time and not seperis’ or ladyflowdi’s like it has been of late. I'm sure they'll do something to rectify that soon enough.
unbeta'd because this is so silly, I was kind of shy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The day John Sheppard figured out he was happy, he snorted soda up his nose.
Well, he’d known he was happy before, but this was happy, happy. Lifetime happy. This-was-it and this-would-always-be-it happy, which he had honestly thought he had covered before, back when he lost his mind and hooked up with Rodney and all.
Rodney was awesome. And he tended to bring out John’s awesome and John brought out more of Rodney’s awesome and it was all, in a word, awesome.
So it was a bit of a surprise when true love and happiness found him and hit, bone deep, right about lunchtime one Friday afternoon.
They were having pizza. Frozen pizza and a salad and they’d probably go outside after and Rodney wouldn’t fuss if John sat in the warm sunshine to bake his hip and knee. They’d watch Folsom chase leaves in the back yard and eat popcicles because this time of day the sun slanted across Rodney’s desk in a way that made it hard to see his computer screen. They hadn’t put up the blinds yet.
Not that John was avoiding the blinds, but Rodney did break for lunch because it was too bright and then there were lots of opportunities for slow, lazy afternoon sex, which John was a big fan of, along with the naps that followed. It did not escape John’s attention that Rodney was also perfectly capable of putting up the blinds himself. Also, Rodney’s computer was a laptop.
Anyway, it was the pizza that mattered. Healthy, cracker-thin crust pizza with added fiber and lots of vegetables and Rodney had no idea unless he took it upon himself to read the box, which John whisked out of the way and into the recycling bin every time.
Rodney had waved him off, saying he would fix the rest of lunch - neither of them remarking on how badly John was limping today - so John was finishing up the last of the paper at the kitchen table. Rodney puttered around fixing their salads, another mandatory addition to Rodney’s diet after John really looked at what Rodney ate and had gone, metaphorical hat in hand, to wheedle Rodney’s health stats from Jennifer Keller.
Anyway, Rodney was puttering and singing under his breath, “Moo be boo boo boo,” in a tuneless, chipper way and having a spat with their trash can.
Rodney had rigged it to open when you waved a hand in front of its motion sensors. It also had a perfectly good foot pedal, but John’s balance wasn’t what it had been yet and he wasn’t going to look a gift robot trashcan in the mouth. But it also opened if you slipped by it on your way to the fridge or oven or stood at a certain angle at the sink. John hadn’t moved it yet, because was in just the right spot near their kitchen island and it was funny to watch Rodney apologize to it.
“No,” he said indulgently, in the voice he used on their pets, when the trash can first opened wide with a hopeful little mechanical “aaaah?” He chuckled at it a couple of times as he moved around the kitchen, getting salad fixings and tossing it bits of wrappers or twist ties.
John, who had read all five books of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, thought the trashcan sounded like those doors in The Guide, programmed with personalities and talked back to everyone.
In his mind, it said (kind of wistfully), “Trash?” Three seconds later, it would close with a happy, relieved, “traaash,” or, even weirder, John admitted, it sounded like it sighed, “no trash,” when thwarted. Intellectually, John knew it was the same sound, but he still heard it anyway.
“Trash?” the can asked as Rodney dumped red bell pepper seeds in the sink.
“No, it’s….well I suppose I should have composted that. No trash for you.” Rodney replied, frowning into the sink.
“No trash,” the can sighed. Rodney tsked in annoyance and stepped around the end of the island to check the pizza.
“Trash?”
“No! Geez! Here!” John glanced up to watch Rodney give it a bit of wadded up paper towel.
“Traaaash.”
Rodney huffed and peeked at the pizza. He leaned over to get a platter to slide the sitting-directly-on-the-rack pizza on.
“Trash?” Rodney growled and smacked the lid closed with his hand.
He closed the oven door. “Trash?” Smack. He searched for something in the utencil drawer. “Trash?” Smack. Rodney found what he was looking for and stomped over to the pizza, brandishing the kitchen shears, better for cutting hot pizza and not smooshing the cheese around.
The lid wavered up and creaked, “Trash?” kind of pathetically.
“I’m sorry!" Rodney wailed, distraught, as it seemed to quaver, “No trash,” and close. He grabbed bits of paper towel and the shrink wrap from the pizza and scraped a few bits of stuff from the counter top to offer the little can.
Rodney McKay, the terror of two galaxies, apologizing to his trashcan. Awesome.
“Trash?” it whispered, opening hopefully. Rodney fed it and murmured, “We’re going to work on your timing and sensitivity settings later, okay?”
“Traaash,” it cooed, clicking shut.
Rodney looked up as he wiped his hands on his shirt, caught John’s eye and looked flustered, a little defiant and by god, like the absolute once and future love of John’s life. “What?” he said defensively.
And that’s when John snorted the soda up his nose.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~