(no subject)
A tiny snippet of ridiculousness, inspired by dear Cate, in which Rodney has a midnight snack. :D
John wakes up to the muffled sounds of rustling in the kitchen. The space next to him in bed is warm but vacant; John holds his breath so he can hear better, and the sounds resolve themselves into the dull thuds of the fridge door and then the freezer, ding of the toaster, rattle and clank of Rodney searching for something in the utensil drawer.
John thinks about rolling over and going back to sleep, but his stomach rumbles treacherously, and he ends up levering himself up and padding downstairs to lean in the doorway and survey the damage. Rodney's incapable of being neat in the kitchen, and he's the worst late at night: the bread bag's open, crumbs are scattered across the counter, a serrated knife is balanced haphazardly on top of the ice cream container, the ice cream scoop's sitting in a chocolate puddle, and Rodney, familiar in his worn t-shirt and boxers, is snacking happily in the middle of it all.
"I couldn't decide," he says, mouth full of mocha chip and whole wheat. "Want me to make you one? 'S not bad."
"Nah," John says, grabbing a fork, pulling up a chair, and helping himself to a bite of whatever Rodney's having.
John wakes up to the muffled sounds of rustling in the kitchen. The space next to him in bed is warm but vacant; John holds his breath so he can hear better, and the sounds resolve themselves into the dull thuds of the fridge door and then the freezer, ding of the toaster, rattle and clank of Rodney searching for something in the utensil drawer.
John thinks about rolling over and going back to sleep, but his stomach rumbles treacherously, and he ends up levering himself up and padding downstairs to lean in the doorway and survey the damage. Rodney's incapable of being neat in the kitchen, and he's the worst late at night: the bread bag's open, crumbs are scattered across the counter, a serrated knife is balanced haphazardly on top of the ice cream container, the ice cream scoop's sitting in a chocolate puddle, and Rodney, familiar in his worn t-shirt and boxers, is snacking happily in the middle of it all.
"I couldn't decide," he says, mouth full of mocha chip and whole wheat. "Want me to make you one? 'S not bad."
"Nah," John says, grabbing a fork, pulling up a chair, and helping himself to a bite of whatever Rodney's having.