[SGA] I ♥ Boston: The Amanda Dillingham Young Remix
Title: I ♥ Boston: The Amanda Dillingham Young Remix
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Rodney realizes he would sell his pocketwatch for John without being asked, and want nothing in return.
Notes: This was written for the fifth
, using the-acrobat's I ♥ Boston (Five Things About John Sheppard, Librarian). Many thanks to miriam for the great beta.
Originally Posted: April 14, 2007
I ♥ Boston: The Amanda Dillingham Young Remix
one
The first time John walks into his bookstore, Rodney calls him an idiot.
He's in his office, putting together a list for a new display (working title: Science Books That Don't Suck: Brian Greene and Colleagues Notably Excepted) when Jenna calls from the front, "I've got another Kermit out here, Rodney!"
He's mid-rant before he even makes it out of his office. "You're the fifth one today," he says. "What are you all, idiots? Just because he can dumb down high concept astrophysics enough for you literary Neanderthals to understand and wrap it all up in Simpsons cartoons doesn't make him a good scientist, and it certainly doesn't make him right! You might as well pick up something that's actually intended to be fiction, not something you'll be too dumb to recognize as fiction when it isn't supposed to be. There's some classic Heinlein in the back."
"I'm a librarian at Northeastern," John says quietly.
"Oh." Rodney is derailed, but only for a moment. Then he narrows his eyes and asks suspiciously, "What kind of librarian?"
"Children's literature."
That receives a roll of the eyes. "Isn't that an oxymoron? Why would anyone want to be a children's librarian?"
"Do you like cats?" John asks, after a long moment, as though he's unsure how to respond. "You won't understand if you don't, but it was a cat named Chester..."
It's an hour before Rodney finishes explaining the miscalculations and inaccuracies in Einstein's Shadow in response to John's explanation of Chester and Harold in Howliday Inn. Jenna tidies up the store around them, quietly reshelving the day's abandoned volumes and closing out the cash register. She dawdles, putting Rodney's display together on the front table (final title: Science Books That Don't Suck: Brian Greene and Colleagues Notably Excepted, only because Rodney had left the Sharpie uncapped and there hadn't been enough ink left for a new sign).
Before long it's 6:30 and if she stays any later, the cafeteria will be closed by the time she gets back to campus. Not wanting to interrupt but needing to leave, she finally says, "Rodney, I need to sign off on today's receipts," and John looks at the clock and sees that the store should have been closed half an hour ago.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly, "I didn't mean to keep you, you should have--" and Rodney says, "No, really, it's okay, I--" and somehow John leaves with Rodney's copy of Einstein's Shadow, ink the color of his scarf ebbing like the tide across the pages.
two
When Jenna graduates in May, Rodney has a minor breakdown.
"You can't leave," he says. "The wholesalers and the UPS guys and that harpy at the sign company and even Elena at the taqueria -- they all know you and they won't work with me. How am I supposed to order books and have them shipped to me, or advertise sales, or, or even eat? You can't leave. I don't care what kind of stupid job you have lined up with your useless degree."
"Rodney," John says warningly, balanced precariously on a stool to help Jenna hang the outdoor sign for the summer sale.
"You shut up," he says. "And put it higher. You're making it crooked."
"I can't reach any higher."
"Well, try."
Jenna climbs down from the ladder when she's done and hands the hammer and nails over to John. "You were doing fine before I came along," she says to Rodney, patting him soothingly on the arm, "and you'll be fine when I'm gone. You'll just have to find someone new. If you wait until fall when all the students come back, you can have your pick."
"I don't want any of them," Rodney says sulkily, squinting off into the bright afternoon sunlight. "I want you."
"Aw, Rodney," she says, reaching up to ruffle his hair as she heads inside at the behest of a ringing phone, "I didn't know you cared."
He gapes. "I don't," he calls after her. "And don't do that again! That is improper employee behavior!"
In the end, he waits until October to hire someone, when Elena absolutely refuses to serve him anymore. He interviews five people at Labyrinths, carving idly into the bottom of the table over the course of four interminable and completely useless interviews. When his fourth admits she's never actually read any Heinlein, the butter knife he's been carving with slips in shock, adding a curve to the top of his otherwise perfect line.
It looks a little like the heart John had the barista draw on his latte during their first date, when it wasn't the only thing half-formed and only abstractly recognizable. Rodney slowly adds to the curve, remembering how John had smelled like coffee and chocolate when Rodney had pressed an awkward kiss to his cheek, breathing him in because he wasn't sure he'd get a chance to do so again.
His fifth interview is late, and Rodney finishes carving the V of the heart while he waits. He decides to hire the next interview, no matter how incompetent, if only to be done with it and get back to John.
His name is Chuck, he has stupid hair, and Rodney's sure he won't last a week.
three
There are things Rodney loves about John (his fingers warm and familiar on Rodney's naked back after they've made love, like Rodney is a favorite book and John can't get enough of his well-worn pages), things he says he hates but really loves (the way John quotes Shel Silverstein at him when he's being obnoxious, because it drives him crazy and distracts him long enough for John to end the fight with a kiss), and things he never says anything about but really hates.
That John is still a mystery to him is the worst. In the months they've been together Rodney's learned much about him, but it's little more than anyone else knows. John is an intensely private person who carries everything closely and leaves nothing behind. Rodney's afraid that one day he'll stop coming to the store and there'll be nothing to prove he was ever even there -- no note with his incongruously messy handwriting, no library newsletter with his byline on the children's column, no scarf that smells less like coffee and more like burnt wiring as the days grow colder.
The little Rodney does know worries him: he knows John said yes to a woman who'd wanted to get married and no to a man who'd wanted to get to know him better. Though John doesn't seem the type to carry shame as closely as he carries everything else, he's good at keeping secrets and Rodney can't help but wonder if that's what he is.
He wants to know more, hints with his smiles and laughter, asks with his touches and kisses. He pleads, whispering in John's ear that he'd like to spread him out on a bed, not the cramped futon in the back of the store. But even though he asks again and again, a silent request made with the brush of his lips against John's temple, John never offers to take him home. Rodney wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, wants to believe it's eagerness that makes John breathy and hurried, not shame or misdirection, but eventually he starts to wonder.
Finally, when he can't take it anymore he begs, asking John to come home with him. And just like that, he gets what he's been so desperately wanting when John says, "Okay. But I'm in the middle of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and I'd like to finish my chapter. Can we stop by my apartment and pick it up first?"
The agreement is so unexpected that Rodney spends the entire ride to John's wondering if this is some sort of goodbye instead of a welcome, if it's easy for John to let him in now because he's going to let Rodney go soon. He's a twisted up knot of worry by the time they get inside and when John opens the door to his bedroom, Rodney sees he's been wrong all along. The realization is like a punch to the gut and he huffs out a quiet breath of air, but John doesn't notice.
Rodney spends the ride back home thinking about how wrong he's been, worrying about the other men and women in John's life when he should have been worrying about John's only real love. It fills every space in John's apartment, pages and pages running over with the greatest words ever written, the greatest words John's ever read. Rodney can't compete with that. He's not an epic adventure, broad and brave, or a beautiful tragedy, noble and honorable. He's just a man who pales in comparison to the fantasies John lives out on the page every day.
So Rodney does the only thing he can: he loves John the way no words ever will, his hands and mouth determined on John's body, fingers and lips quietly possessive. The humid summer air drifts languidly through the open window and Rodney follows its path over John's back, bathed red and gold from the fireworks bursting outside. When John tries to turn over, reaching for Rodney, Rodney drops kisses down his spine and says, "No, just for you." John sighs in breathy acquiescence.
When John's done, he reaches for his book.
The next time John comes over, Rodney has a new king size bed. He hates himself for being willing to share John, but he'll do whatever it takes to keep him. At least the new bed is big enough for the three of them.
four
Seven thirty-eight has never meant anything particularly important to Rodney before, but with the slamming of the door still echoing around him, it suddenly means everything.
He empties John's cereal bowl and puts it in the sink, gathers up the coat and scarf he left behind. He sags against the counter for a long moment, listening to nothing but the tick of his watch, then makes a decision and sets his resolve.
He spends the ride to the bookstore composing lists in his head, trying to keep them straight and keep from forgetting anything that might be important. When he gets to the store he grabs the first pad of Post-Its he sees and scribbles a to do list that spans eight yellow squares by 10:00.
When he breaks for a second pot of coffee a whole new set of lists occurs to him, and he switches from bright yellow to washed out blue.
Important Things You Should Know
is the first list he finishes, and he sticks it to the front cover of the phone book. Chuck doodles a DeLorean while he's on hold with Scholastic placing the back to school order. Rodney blacks it out with an extra large Sharpie while he waits for the PDF file from the Vital Records Bureau to load on the computer.
People Who Say They Don't Lie Are Obviously Lying
is Rodney's second list. It falls to the floor when he takes out the printer's toner cartridge to replace it with a new one. He picks it up and sticks it to the display of the adding machine, rubbing his thumb across the top of the page and smearing the ink into the whorls of his thumb.
Misc.
gets interrupted by a customer looking for the new issue of the Strange Charm comic. It falls forgotten behind the Rolodex.
The rest of the day that isn't spent scribbling on Post-Its is spent checking government and advocacy websites and compiling paperwork. By the time John arrives at the store after work, Rodney has condensed it all into a single sheaf of neatly paperclipped pages and a memo spike half full of confetti-colored wisdom.
He hands John a cup of coffee to say I'm sorry, and the blank forms to say I love you. "Where do we start?" he asks.
"Rodney," John says faintly, then pulls him close and touches their foreheads together. They share shaky, relieved breath for a moment while Rodney tries to figure out what to say. Before he can, John takes the forms and drops them in the recycling bin.
"We should talk about this," Rodney says, but John just shakes his head.
After a moment, Rodney retrieves John's coat and scarf from the back and helps him into them. John turns and kisses him softly, his corfee-warmed hand comforting on the nape of Rodney's neck. "Don't ever sell your pocketwatch for me," he whispers.
Rodney isn't sure about the reference, but John's hand in his as they walk home is all the certainty he needs.
five
Until John came long, Rodney was alone out in the harbor and happy that way. He was surrounded by nothing but open space, with room for all his thoughts and ideas. But John drew him in to shore, dropped an anchor of sleepy kisses and unexpected laughter that kept Rodney from drifting away.
John is a cityscape, soaring with skyline and grounded with history. He's quiet like the crisp winter chill, fanciful like the teasing spring breeze. He invites Rodney to explore, to discover, holding his hand so they're never far apart, so that everything they find they find together.
Rodney didn't know it could be like this, that he could welcome the bustle, could watch the same golden sunrise and crimson sunset as half a million other people and still feel at home. But he does, because John is his home now.
And he loves him.
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Rodney realizes he would sell his pocketwatch for John without being asked, and want nothing in return.
Notes: This was written for the fifth
, using the-acrobat's I ♥ Boston (Five Things About John Sheppard, Librarian). Many thanks to miriam for the great beta.
Originally Posted: April 14, 2007
I ♥ Boston: The Amanda Dillingham Young Remix
one
The first time John walks into his bookstore, Rodney calls him an idiot.
He's in his office, putting together a list for a new display (working title: Science Books That Don't Suck: Brian Greene and Colleagues Notably Excepted) when Jenna calls from the front, "I've got another Kermit out here, Rodney!"
He's mid-rant before he even makes it out of his office. "You're the fifth one today," he says. "What are you all, idiots? Just because he can dumb down high concept astrophysics enough for you literary Neanderthals to understand and wrap it all up in Simpsons cartoons doesn't make him a good scientist, and it certainly doesn't make him right! You might as well pick up something that's actually intended to be fiction, not something you'll be too dumb to recognize as fiction when it isn't supposed to be. There's some classic Heinlein in the back."
"I'm a librarian at Northeastern," John says quietly.
"Oh." Rodney is derailed, but only for a moment. Then he narrows his eyes and asks suspiciously, "What kind of librarian?"
"Children's literature."
That receives a roll of the eyes. "Isn't that an oxymoron? Why would anyone want to be a children's librarian?"
"Do you like cats?" John asks, after a long moment, as though he's unsure how to respond. "You won't understand if you don't, but it was a cat named Chester..."
It's an hour before Rodney finishes explaining the miscalculations and inaccuracies in Einstein's Shadow in response to John's explanation of Chester and Harold in Howliday Inn. Jenna tidies up the store around them, quietly reshelving the day's abandoned volumes and closing out the cash register. She dawdles, putting Rodney's display together on the front table (final title: Science Books That Don't Suck: Brian Greene and Colleagues Notably Excepted, only because Rodney had left the Sharpie uncapped and there hadn't been enough ink left for a new sign).
Before long it's 6:30 and if she stays any later, the cafeteria will be closed by the time she gets back to campus. Not wanting to interrupt but needing to leave, she finally says, "Rodney, I need to sign off on today's receipts," and John looks at the clock and sees that the store should have been closed half an hour ago.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly, "I didn't mean to keep you, you should have--" and Rodney says, "No, really, it's okay, I--" and somehow John leaves with Rodney's copy of Einstein's Shadow, ink the color of his scarf ebbing like the tide across the pages.
two
When Jenna graduates in May, Rodney has a minor breakdown.
"You can't leave," he says. "The wholesalers and the UPS guys and that harpy at the sign company and even Elena at the taqueria -- they all know you and they won't work with me. How am I supposed to order books and have them shipped to me, or advertise sales, or, or even eat? You can't leave. I don't care what kind of stupid job you have lined up with your useless degree."
"Rodney," John says warningly, balanced precariously on a stool to help Jenna hang the outdoor sign for the summer sale.
"You shut up," he says. "And put it higher. You're making it crooked."
"I can't reach any higher."
"Well, try."
Jenna climbs down from the ladder when she's done and hands the hammer and nails over to John. "You were doing fine before I came along," she says to Rodney, patting him soothingly on the arm, "and you'll be fine when I'm gone. You'll just have to find someone new. If you wait until fall when all the students come back, you can have your pick."
"I don't want any of them," Rodney says sulkily, squinting off into the bright afternoon sunlight. "I want you."
"Aw, Rodney," she says, reaching up to ruffle his hair as she heads inside at the behest of a ringing phone, "I didn't know you cared."
He gapes. "I don't," he calls after her. "And don't do that again! That is improper employee behavior!"
In the end, he waits until October to hire someone, when Elena absolutely refuses to serve him anymore. He interviews five people at Labyrinths, carving idly into the bottom of the table over the course of four interminable and completely useless interviews. When his fourth admits she's never actually read any Heinlein, the butter knife he's been carving with slips in shock, adding a curve to the top of his otherwise perfect line.
It looks a little like the heart John had the barista draw on his latte during their first date, when it wasn't the only thing half-formed and only abstractly recognizable. Rodney slowly adds to the curve, remembering how John had smelled like coffee and chocolate when Rodney had pressed an awkward kiss to his cheek, breathing him in because he wasn't sure he'd get a chance to do so again.
His fifth interview is late, and Rodney finishes carving the V of the heart while he waits. He decides to hire the next interview, no matter how incompetent, if only to be done with it and get back to John.
His name is Chuck, he has stupid hair, and Rodney's sure he won't last a week.
three
There are things Rodney loves about John (his fingers warm and familiar on Rodney's naked back after they've made love, like Rodney is a favorite book and John can't get enough of his well-worn pages), things he says he hates but really loves (the way John quotes Shel Silverstein at him when he's being obnoxious, because it drives him crazy and distracts him long enough for John to end the fight with a kiss), and things he never says anything about but really hates.
That John is still a mystery to him is the worst. In the months they've been together Rodney's learned much about him, but it's little more than anyone else knows. John is an intensely private person who carries everything closely and leaves nothing behind. Rodney's afraid that one day he'll stop coming to the store and there'll be nothing to prove he was ever even there -- no note with his incongruously messy handwriting, no library newsletter with his byline on the children's column, no scarf that smells less like coffee and more like burnt wiring as the days grow colder.
The little Rodney does know worries him: he knows John said yes to a woman who'd wanted to get married and no to a man who'd wanted to get to know him better. Though John doesn't seem the type to carry shame as closely as he carries everything else, he's good at keeping secrets and Rodney can't help but wonder if that's what he is.
He wants to know more, hints with his smiles and laughter, asks with his touches and kisses. He pleads, whispering in John's ear that he'd like to spread him out on a bed, not the cramped futon in the back of the store. But even though he asks again and again, a silent request made with the brush of his lips against John's temple, John never offers to take him home. Rodney wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, wants to believe it's eagerness that makes John breathy and hurried, not shame or misdirection, but eventually he starts to wonder.
Finally, when he can't take it anymore he begs, asking John to come home with him. And just like that, he gets what he's been so desperately wanting when John says, "Okay. But I'm in the middle of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and I'd like to finish my chapter. Can we stop by my apartment and pick it up first?"
The agreement is so unexpected that Rodney spends the entire ride to John's wondering if this is some sort of goodbye instead of a welcome, if it's easy for John to let him in now because he's going to let Rodney go soon. He's a twisted up knot of worry by the time they get inside and when John opens the door to his bedroom, Rodney sees he's been wrong all along. The realization is like a punch to the gut and he huffs out a quiet breath of air, but John doesn't notice.
Rodney spends the ride back home thinking about how wrong he's been, worrying about the other men and women in John's life when he should have been worrying about John's only real love. It fills every space in John's apartment, pages and pages running over with the greatest words ever written, the greatest words John's ever read. Rodney can't compete with that. He's not an epic adventure, broad and brave, or a beautiful tragedy, noble and honorable. He's just a man who pales in comparison to the fantasies John lives out on the page every day.
So Rodney does the only thing he can: he loves John the way no words ever will, his hands and mouth determined on John's body, fingers and lips quietly possessive. The humid summer air drifts languidly through the open window and Rodney follows its path over John's back, bathed red and gold from the fireworks bursting outside. When John tries to turn over, reaching for Rodney, Rodney drops kisses down his spine and says, "No, just for you." John sighs in breathy acquiescence.
When John's done, he reaches for his book.
The next time John comes over, Rodney has a new king size bed. He hates himself for being willing to share John, but he'll do whatever it takes to keep him. At least the new bed is big enough for the three of them.
four
Seven thirty-eight has never meant anything particularly important to Rodney before, but with the slamming of the door still echoing around him, it suddenly means everything.
He empties John's cereal bowl and puts it in the sink, gathers up the coat and scarf he left behind. He sags against the counter for a long moment, listening to nothing but the tick of his watch, then makes a decision and sets his resolve.
He spends the ride to the bookstore composing lists in his head, trying to keep them straight and keep from forgetting anything that might be important. When he gets to the store he grabs the first pad of Post-Its he sees and scribbles a to do list that spans eight yellow squares by 10:00.
When he breaks for a second pot of coffee a whole new set of lists occurs to him, and he switches from bright yellow to washed out blue.
Important Things You Should Know
- It might be weird having two dads, but you'll get used to it and other people will, too. Miss Piggy's a queeny pig in love with a depressed frog, but no one thinks it's weird anymore. Except me.
- If I ever hear you say that Back to the Future is a good movie, I'll have to disown you.
is the first list he finishes, and he sticks it to the front cover of the phone book. Chuck doodles a DeLorean while he's on hold with Scholastic placing the back to school order. Rodney blacks it out with an extra large Sharpie while he waits for the PDF file from the Vital Records Bureau to load on the computer.
People Who Say They Don't Lie Are Obviously Lying
- Adults lie all the time. Don't trust them any more than you trust anyone else.
- They'll also tell you they're always right just because they're adults. That's the biggest lie of all.
- We'll probably lie to you, too. I'm sorry.
is Rodney's second list. It falls to the floor when he takes out the printer's toner cartridge to replace it with a new one. He picks it up and sticks it to the display of the adding machine, rubbing his thumb across the top of the page and smearing the ink into the whorls of his thumb.
Misc.
- Learn how to drive a stick shift. You never know when you might have to.
- Be careful with your credit right from the start. If you're not careful, you won't be able to fix it by the time you really need it.
- Someday, some boy or girl (or other -- your dad and I are totally open) is going to break your heart and you're going to want to break their face. Do it. Unless she's a girl and you're a boy, because then
gets interrupted by a customer looking for the new issue of the Strange Charm comic. It falls forgotten behind the Rolodex.
The rest of the day that isn't spent scribbling on Post-Its is spent checking government and advocacy websites and compiling paperwork. By the time John arrives at the store after work, Rodney has condensed it all into a single sheaf of neatly paperclipped pages and a memo spike half full of confetti-colored wisdom.
He hands John a cup of coffee to say I'm sorry, and the blank forms to say I love you. "Where do we start?" he asks.
"Rodney," John says faintly, then pulls him close and touches their foreheads together. They share shaky, relieved breath for a moment while Rodney tries to figure out what to say. Before he can, John takes the forms and drops them in the recycling bin.
"We should talk about this," Rodney says, but John just shakes his head.
After a moment, Rodney retrieves John's coat and scarf from the back and helps him into them. John turns and kisses him softly, his corfee-warmed hand comforting on the nape of Rodney's neck. "Don't ever sell your pocketwatch for me," he whispers.
Rodney isn't sure about the reference, but John's hand in his as they walk home is all the certainty he needs.
five
Until John came long, Rodney was alone out in the harbor and happy that way. He was surrounded by nothing but open space, with room for all his thoughts and ideas. But John drew him in to shore, dropped an anchor of sleepy kisses and unexpected laughter that kept Rodney from drifting away.
John is a cityscape, soaring with skyline and grounded with history. He's quiet like the crisp winter chill, fanciful like the teasing spring breeze. He invites Rodney to explore, to discover, holding his hand so they're never far apart, so that everything they find they find together.
Rodney didn't know it could be like this, that he could welcome the bustle, could watch the same golden sunrise and crimson sunset as half a million other people and still feel at home. But he does, because John is his home now.
And he loves him.