Do you know what I think we need?
Well, or maybe it's just me, but the John/Rodney DOLLHOUSE OF YAY has got me thinking that we need DOMESTIC JOHN/RODNEY ficlets. That's right, people, the sparkly-curtainfic beckons. Write some older, crotchety retired boys, some horny boys of any age, our boys moving in together, our boys getting hitched, our boys with Teyla's baby, our boys with
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John learned to cook as an act of defiance, spending more time in the kitchens then getting to know all the right kids. This is how he learned to slide between worlds, between roles. This is how he learned never to fit in again, despite all appearances to the contrary.
Rodney learned to cook as an act of survival, because he has Jeannie to watch out for. When she finally set her own path, so different from what he’d hoped for her, and so close to what he’d longed for as a child? Taught him that those you love will leave you behind.
And yet here they are, twelve years along and living in apartments on the farthest peer that stretch like a penthouse, more rooms then two middle-aged men really need, except that they have accumulated … things, memories, treasures. They need rooms for the nieces and nephews and the host of family they’ve stitched together so far away from where either of them was born, from what either of them had known before.
John is still too glib, and prone to hide. Rodney still covers hurt with bluster.
But they crawl into the same bed every night, and they curl around each other because the oceans of New Lantea kiss the winds with cool and salt. And they work through things, or let things go, or yell until they forget why they were yelling and go play video games instead.
One morning John wakes up and smells … Christ, toast and bacon and pancakes and he’s never seen Rodney cook but when he walks into the kitchen-type-room there’s Rodney, cooking. “Since when do you cook?” John asks, rubbing at stubble where salt is slowly edging out pepper.
“I learned as a kid,” Rodney says. “Cook or starve. And Ramen wasn’t common when I was eight, so it ended up being stuff like this.”
John slides in beside him, takes over flipping the pancakes as the edges brown, the tops bubble. “I learned from this big French lady, Martine. She taught me to make radish rosettes,” he says, seemingly randomly.
They take their breakfast to the breakfast bench and watch the water and they let their shoulders touch, content to be at home, content to be with each other.
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Such a perfect description of Rodney and Jeannie.
And the line about how John is still prone to being glib and hiding and Rodney hides behind bluster is spot on, as well.
The almost casual way they share pieces of themselves is lovely.
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