Whiskey Cupcakes (AU, NSFW, NC17)
Title: Whiskey Cupcakes
Author: Cesare (almostnever) & anatsuno
Pairing: John/Rodney
Series: Foster's Bakery AU.
Word count: ~5600
Ratings/Warnings: NSFW, NC17, explicit. This story should be safe for people with triggers.
Summary: Dating John Sheppard is remarkably easy for Rodney.
Notes: Thanks to chkc for her artwork, especially this chibi cartoon which inspired Rodney's orange hoodie and John's pink apron.
*
Dating John Sheppard is remarkably easy for Rodney.
Well. Granted, he did misstep after their first date, when he spent three solid days working nonstop while sending emails meant for John to the wrong address.
But! Since then, things have gone very well, better than Rodney could have imagined.
At night after the bakery closes, he takes John out to dinner, or more often, brings over takeout. They talk, complaining about various stupidities they have to deal with (mostly Rodney) and cracking jokes at each others' expense (mostly John,) and then they make out. Sometimes it develops into sex, and sometimes it doesn't, and instead ends in another discussion of Crisis on Infinite Earths.
(John has somehow managed to partake of nearly every significant artifact of the geek canon without ever considering himself particularly "into" genre fiction, much less a "fan." At first Rodney theorizes that John thinks he's too cool to be a science fiction geek, which makes him want to like John less; but the truth seems to be more complex, in that John considers his interest in everything from Asimov to Zelazny to be "normal" and doesn't seem to understand why anyone isn't interested in those things. He holds equally intransigent views on flying and football. It's very strange.)
Each of his dates with John is totally satisfactory to Rodney as a discrete social interaction. Even the ones that don't end in sex, to Rodney's surprise; he certainly prefers to have sex, and he's frustrated when they don't, but the frustration is somehow almost pleasant because it's both deliberate and finite.
They're continuing to "take it slow," a prohibition they observe perhaps two dates out of three. Meanwhile, when they do have sex, there's a frisson of the forbidden about it, even though they're only breaking their own loosely enforced rule.
(Rodney occasionally suspects that John suggested taking it slow specifically to provide the opportunity to thrillingly rebel. If so, it's clever of him. Rodney's impressed.)
However, based on his past relationships and the feedback he's received therefrom, Rodney's forced to conclude that while each date is a success in and of itself, he's failing to drive the relationship forward in any significant way.
It's too bad, because he's having a good time, during what's usually the most boring part of establishing a relationship. Rodney can't help it, he's just not very interested in people. He's interested in ideas, and the vast majority of people - even relatively intelligent people - tend to have a limited number of ideas.
Instead they have lots of things that Rodney has to force himself to pay attention to: memories and anecdotes and oh, god, beliefs that are usually based on nothing at all.
John, though, seems to like ideas too. He appears interested when Rodney discusses his own ideas, and follows Rodney's thoughts to a high degree of complexity. Sometimes he anticipates the next step in Rodney's explanations aloud, or reframes Rodney's ideas using different terms and analogies that prove illuminating.
Of course, John doesn't have the advanced knowledge necessary to contribute substantively once Rodney really gets in gear, but he's an excellent sounding board. Rodney finds it refreshing to talk through his wilder ideas with someone who doesn't think like a physicist. Rodney supplies enough physicist-style thinking for any ten physicists; it's much more fun to have a different perspective, especially from John, who's good-natured enough not to mind when Rodney mocks his lack of scientific acumen.
They don't talk about the weather, or traffic, or their dreams. It's fantastic.
However, they also don't talk about memories or experiences or beliefs, and Rodney is fairly certain that they're supposed to do that. Oddly enough, Rodney is even beginning to actually want to hear those things from John.
"What do you think, Mahler?" Rodney asks his cat, stroking his furry cheek with one thumb. "Crazy, right?"
Mahler stretches and rolls onto his side, purring. Rodney checks his watch; if he leaves now, he should arrive just as John is closing up.
"I have to go. Be good," he says, standing with Mahler in his arms, and then he turns around and lays Mahler on the sofa in the warm spot where he's been sitting.
And people say he's thoughtless and insensitive. He's kind to animals, shouldn't that count for something? Well... he's kind to cats. It still counts!
He gives Mahler a farewell pat. "Be good," he says. Mahler purriaows a little, arranges himself in a ball, and shuts his eyes.
*
At this time of night there are plenty of spaces available on the street, but Rodney parks in the municipal lot a block away regardless, tucking his car between an SUV and the back of a pet boutique. Walking over to Foster's Bakery, he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, which doesn't do nearly enough to keep out the November chill. By the time he gets inside, he's already stiff with cold.
Ronon stands behind the cash register, counting down the drawer, while behind him, John swabs away at the countertop. The wrought iron chairs are inverted on the tables, and in the sane, actually comfortable seating area, Ronon's long leather coat lies across one of the soft armchairs, a sizable bag full of stacked pastry boxes nearby on the end table.
"You know, someday you're going to need more work out of Ronon than even he can eat in baked goods," Rodney says.
Flicking a glance at him, Ronon shakes his head. "I've got scholarships," he says. "Only thing I have to buy for myself is food, practically. Might as well trade."
"I still don't understand how you can be doing a master's in English lit when I don't think I've ever heard you speak in a complete sentence."
"Maybe he's saving words for his thesis," John says, dishtowel slung over his shoulder. "Hey."
"Hello. Something hot to drink?" Rodney hopes.
"Already dumped out the coffee. There's tea."
"As long as it's warm," Rodney allows. "I'm pretty sure my core temperature dropped between here and the car."
"Even in your fleece?" John hands him a mug. "I thought it was comfort rated for absolute zero."
"What? I left my coat at the lab, I've just got this completely inadequate sweatshirt."
"Oh yeah. They're that same traffic cone orange, that's all."
Ronon looks over again, mouth tilting slightly. "To have one jacket that color may be regarded as unfortunate; to have two looks like carelessness."
Rodney boggles at him through the steam of his tea.
"Complete sentence," Ronon offers, and shuts the cash register drawer. "G'night."
"Thanks again," John says, with a manly thump to Ronon's shoulder in passing.
"Sure. Sorry about the fire."
"The what?" Rodney asks in an extremely level and reasonable tone that in no way resembles a shriek.
John sighs. "You know, when I said 'It's okay, don't mention it' I really did mean don't mention it."
Ronon shrugs into his coat and hefts the healthy stack of boxes, almost smiling. "Uh-huh. See you."
"The fire?" Rodney demands as the door shuts behind Ronon.
"I made whiskey cupcakes," John says brightly. "Want one?"
"Yes, but don't think I can be swayed from investigating th - mmmm." Rodney tucks the delicious bite of sweet, smoky, cakey goodness into his cheek and says thickly, "Fire. Talk."
"It was no big deal," John says. "I was working on whiskey cupcakes, and Ronon and Laura were helping me out, and we thought it'd be fun to try a kind of a flambé thing with them. We had the fire extinguisher right there, and a metal trash can. It was all totally under control."
"Wait a minute," Rodney says, "if it was all under control, what happened to your apron?" He could have sworn that John's apron was... well, he can't remember precisely, but some neutral color. He's not all that observant sometimes, but surely he would have noticed if John switched to pink before today.
"Welllll," John stalls. "There might have been a little mishap with some burning streusel. It's fine, Ronon hit it with the fire extinguisher right away. But the apron was pretty singed, and it was getting kind of dingy anyway. Laura volunteered to run out and get me a new one, and..." John does a little mock fashion model hip-cock, showing off the pink apron.
"Should've known it was Cadman," Rodney grumbles. "I guess it could've been worse, could be a rainbow flag."
"Would that be worse?" John asks, his body language downshifting to something at once looser and more guarded.
"Huhm?" Rodney sucks down the last of his tea. "Um. Well, in the sense that I think rainbow flags look tacky, then... yes?"
"Says the guy dressed for deer hunting."
"If you must know, when I bought this and my fleece coat, I was slated to go to Siberia, and I thought bright orange would give me the best possible chance of being found by a rescue party when I inevitably ended up lost in the snow."
John refills his mug with tea. "Tacky?" he prompts.
"Okay, I don't claim to have any particular fashion sense, but I've always thought so, don't you?"
"Depends if you mean it's tacky because it's ugly to look at, or tacky because it's, you know... in your face."
Oh, okay, Rodney gets it now. "I just think it's unsightly, that's all. You know I have no problem getting up in anyone's face."
"Yeah," John smiles a little, thawing. "Guess not."
"I thought maybe you were more interested in keeping quiet. You're not... obvious." Which is an understatement. Rodney didn't even seriously entertain the possibility that John might be gay until Carson told him so. The sad thing is, it wasn't even the first time that's happened. Carson seems to have somehow ended up with the gaydar to which Rodney, as an actual practicing bisexual, is more rightfully entitled.
John shrugs. "That's just habit. Bad habit."
Rodney nods slowly. "I like the pink apron," he offers.
"Cool," John grins, his expression quickly growing mischievous. "Should I keep it on?"
That sounds promising. "No, I think the less layers you wear, the better."
John hangs up the apron on a peg and snags Rodney's hand, leading him upstairs.
*
As soon as they shut the loft door behind them, John accosts Rodney with kisses; Rodney's back thumps solidly against the wall next to the door, and his arms are already winding around John before he quite registers what's happening, his brain briefly stuttering because everything just feels so good.
Tonight, he suspects, dropping his hand to cup the shallow firm curve of John's ass, is not going to be a taking-it-slow night.
John's hands span Rodney's chest, thumbs finding and waking his nipples, palms smoothing over them. They've always been sensitive, and Rodney's had partners who noticed that before, but no one's worked them over with quite the gusto that John tends to bring to it, not to mention his rather fearless use of teeth in particularly heated moments.
Just now, though, Rodney stops him and kisses him again and suggests, "I think we should move. I want to blow you and I want to take my time, and that means going somewhere where I won't have to do it on my knees. That's not at all ergonomic."
John snickers, but he juts his hips, rubbing against Rodney a little, and agrees, "Sure. Come to bed."
"I'm going to break my neck and die with a hard-on," Rodney complains as John drags him up the ladder to the loft bed, but John is unmoved.
"Gotta admit, worse ways to go," he says, drawing Rodney up the steps after him and lying back, stretching out across the bed invitingly. Rodney keeps expecting to feel crunched and uncomfortable up here, but the mattress is a nice springy queen and there's clearance on all sides. It's pleasantly enclosed and feels protected, and there's plenty of room.
John kicks off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor below with a pair of loud thunks, and Rodney does the same, too eager now to keep complaining about the height of the bed. He strips John's jeans down and goes for it, groaning happily.
It's only the second time he's sucked John; he's really looking forward to losing track of that number. John's cut and clean, substantial and even challenging in Rodney's mouth, but Rodney's sure that this time he can get him all the way down. It's just a matter of finding the right angle.
With a little more experience, Rodney will probably be able to find it without even thinking about it, but for now, he has to experiment with his approach vector before he's able to slide the glans down the back of his tongue and further, carefully, holding John's hip to keep him from moving til Rodney gets this right. He has a very sensitive gag reflex, but only in one particular spot on his upper palate. As long as he can guide John past that...
There.
Now that he's properly positioned, he can widen the scope of his attention a little. John's hands are fisted, knuckles nearly white, which is kind of gratifying; he's propped himself up on all the pillows as if to watch, but his eyes are smoothly shut, lashes dark against his cheek, his own mouth bitten, face flushed and lax. It's... inspiring. Rodney rocks himself forward a little, and John inhales shakily and grabs for him, hanging on.
It feels good, John's hand strong on his shoulder and then, as Rodney moves with more purpose, slipping to instead grip and twist in the fabric of his t-shirt.
So far, John's been quiet during sex. This time though, when Rodney really lunges and gulps him down, John gasps his name before clamping his mouth shut hard, his face tight with silence. Rodney would like to drag it out long enough to get at least another word out of him, but he can feel how close John is, and he's too hot for it himself, he has to get John off.
Really, it's all he can do to keep from shoving one hand down his pants to finish himself off right now, but he's fairly sure John would pout. The sex so far has been decidedly quid pro quo.
He cradles John's sac in his palm, brushing his thumb over the sensitive crinkled skin, and hums deeply around the cock in his mouth, rippling his tongue underneath, inhaling the heady smell of musk and sweat. Soon John's bowing up and pulsing down Rodney's throat.
Still quiet, though, Rodney notes with mild disappointment. But maybe by the time he loses track of how many blowjobs he's given John, he'll know how to make John say his name whenever he wants to hear it. That's certainly a goal worth working toward.
John eventually makes an inarticulate sound as he comes down, a sort of shyewwww outrush of air that sounds very, very contented. Rodney takes that as his cue to finally slide his mouth off and knee up the bed to recline next to him. John rolls and kisses him, stroking down his side and dreamily unbuttoning his pants.
He slithers down, tugging Rodney's pants with him, and takes Rodney in almost languorously, his mouth unbearably soft and warm. John has interesting, shapely lips, a curvy top one and a full bottom one; Rodney's always liked them and now he's completely mesmerized by the sight of them wrapped, not to put too fine a point on it, around his cock.
Just when Rodney's beginning to feel the first tidings of orgasm, John replaces his mouth with his fist, squeezing and stroking lightly, his thumb delicately swiping at Rodney's foreskin. "You set the bar pretty high, there," he says. "Overachiever. I don't think I can go that deep." He circles just his forefinger and thumb around Rodney's shaft as if measuring and looks up at him with dubiously arched eyebrows.
Rodney gapes momentarily. "I'm not exactly feeling deprived," he says.
"No?" John pumps him a few more strokes. "Good." He comes at it tongue-first this time, swirling around the head, licking the gathered foreskin with apparent fascination, slowly enveloping Rodney and bringing his lips down to meet his fist, still rhythmically squeezing at the base of Rodney's shaft.
And really, deep-throating is nothing compared to the thrill that Rodney gets out of watching John work him over like that, trying to go deeper again and again and not quite able to - the ego charge is almost as good as the blowjob. Whatever sex life John managed to eke out between the lines when he was in the Air Force, he's good at this but not experienced enough to accommodate Rodney completely, and that's painfully hot.
He is, though, experienced or just naturally ingenious enough to press his knuckles against Rodney's perineum at just the right moment. Rodney can't help groaning out loud as he comes, especially when John backs off him enough to catch it on his tongue and even a little, ohhh, on his lips, that's - John licks it off with a filthy little grin that says he knows exactly how obscene he looks, and Rodney's dick jumps in a valiant but doomed attempt to get going again right away now.
Rodney lets his head fall back and gasps at the ceiling. "Really not feeling deprived," he says.
"Glad to hear it," John says smugly, swimming back up the bed and pulling the sheet with him. Rodney gratefully tugs it up around his waist, because even if they did just have fantastic sex, he feels exposed and silly just lying around with his dick hanging out. Especially since they're both still wearing their t-shirts.
"I can't wait for you to fuck me," he says before he can think better of it, and then after a few moments of unreadable silence, he backpedals, "I don't mean that I literally can't wait. Waiting is fine. We can wait as long as you want. What I mean is I'm looking forward to it. Eventually happening. But it doesn't have to. If that's not something you do."
John goes up on his elbow and leans over to kiss him aggressively enough to communicate a world of yes. His mouth is a fascinatingly darker pink, post-blowjob. "Bottom, huh?"
"Not exclusively, but..." Rodney shrugs. "Yeah."
"Guess we need to get tested."
"We should've done that already, really," Rodney sighs. He thought of it the first time he went down, but even the tiny chance of viral transmission through oral microabrasions hadn't been enough to make him wait. In retrospect he can only marvel at the power of hormones to overcome sweet reason. It's not only his very rational fear of illness and decay; he has an obligation to the world to continue to supply it with his genius!
"Better late than never."
"Of course I wouldn't have risked it if I weren't assured of my own good standing. I have thorough blood tests from six months ago, that - still apply. But I'll get new ones."
"Yeah. I was in the hospital after, you know..." John shrugs, which is as much as Rodney ever gets from him about the helicopter crash that landed him with a medical discharge. The most John's ever said was that he was grounded on a technicality. "Not sure there was anything they didn't screen me for, then."
"And you've been safe since then," Rodney infers.
John makes a funny little resigned noise. "Yeah. The safest."
"...Oh." That's. Wow. He snags John's wrist. "You should come here."
"I am here."
"More here. Here here," Rodney says, tugging John over to drape against him.
After a moment's hesitation, John settles in readily enough, his head next to Rodney's, his hand resting on Rodney's belly.
It feels wonderful, warm and easy, and Rodney drifts on it til he wakes himself up with a choked-off snore.
"Sorry," he says.
"Hm?"
"Falling asleep."
"S'okay."
"It's late," Rodney goes up on one elbow, "and... yeah."
"You could stay," John offers.
"Oh?"
"Sure. There's a spare toothbrush," he says. "In fact, there's three."
"Hmh. Planning a harem?"
"Nah, I just have a pushy dentist."
So that's hygiene settled, and Rodney has fresh clothes at the office. Coffee and breakfast are, of course, built right in. Just one other thing, then. "You have to take the outside of the bed," he says. "I can't sleep near the edge, what if I roll out and crack open my skull? Too risky."
"Gotcha covered."
"Okay. Good. Then... that would be nice." Rodney finds his boxers and drags them back on. "Watch me break my neck on this thing now that I'm sleepy," he says as he lumbers down the ladder.
John rolls his eyes and swings down from the loft, his hand on the support beam, his arm taking his full weight, bicep bulging impressively before he lets go and drops on his feet.
"Nice," Rodney comments as they crowd into the bathroom. "I mean, really, who needs an intact rotator cuff anyway?"
Verbally bested, John resorts to reaching over and messing up Rodney's hair til Rodney's reflection looks as disheveled as Zelenka. John routs a spare toothbrush, still plastic-wrapped, out of the drawer for Rodney and then wanders out with a string of floss twanging around his gums.
"My hair's going even more directions than yours! Just for that I'm snooping in your medicine cabinet!" Rodney calls after him, and he noisily opens and closes the cabinet doors, pleased with himself. Now if he ever slips and mentions that he saw John's cache of baby aspirin and Clinique for Men, he's got an alibi. He really is a genius.
He finishes his dental care and nightly ablutions before John finally drifts back, barefoot in his black t-shirt and blue-striped boxers, to take his turn at the sink. Rodney lingers, not quite ready to get back into bed without him. He's not unaware that this is kind of a big deal, though he finds it impossible to accurately gauge how big a deal it really is. John's being casual about it, but John is casual about most things.
But then apparently he may be the first person John's slept with since moving to Colorado, which is, hm, a year? Something like that. So... medium big deal, Rodney decides.
"Should we get something to eat? I mean, did you have dinner?" he asks, suddenly struck.
John eyes him. "Yeah..."
"Oh, good. Me too, we ordered in at the lab."
Spitting toothpaste froth and rinsing, John says, "Nice timing."
"I thought so."
John herds him up the loft ladder. "If this is supposed to make the whole proposition feel less dangerous," Rodney says, "it really doesn't. This just means that when I inevitably slip and fall, I'll take you down too. I'd rather you were intact to call 911."
"You're not going to slip, and if you do, I'll keep you from going anywhere."
"You have the approximate dimensions of an anorexic twig." This isn't even a little bit true - John has significant muscle in his arms and the rest of him is solidly toned, but his waist and hips are slim and Rodney is not above petty mockery.
"I can bench three hundred pounds."
"Oh, you can not."
"I have benched three hundred pounds," John modifies as they climb back into bed.
"Once, in a haze of 'roid rage?"
"Hey."
"Withdrawn," Rodney says quickly. But he can't resist adding, "Were you lifting the barbell off a trapped child?"
"You're such a jerk," says John, but he sounds almost impressed, and as Rodney settles facedown to sleep, John curls close, his hand resting at the small of Rodney's back.
True though they may be, Rodney doesn't really want those to be the last words of the night. "This is nice," he says finally, cringing a little at how sincere and small and awkward it sounds.
"Yeah," John says, and bumbles a kiss onto Rodney's cheek.
*
Rodney is patiently explaining at the top of his voice that Simpson is just going to have to find her own laptop, because this one is very clearly Rodney's, and even if her new suction-cup hands adhere to things, she still has to respect property rights and fair play and, and droit du seigneur. She can't have his laptop just because the market responded to changes in the valuation of the Chinese yuan -
"What?" John asks. The voice of a radio news announcer recounting the morning's financials abruptly clicks off.
"Huh?" Rodney blinks, disoriented, expecting the couch at the lab, the familiar drop tile ceiling. Instead he's apparently in a Japanese capsule hotel.
"It's okay, just my alarm."
Right. John's loft. "Ah! I... Did I say any - I dreamed Simpson was taking my - not important. Um. Hi?"
John smiles a little, softened and sleepy-eyed. "Hey," he says, settling back down under the covers. "Sorry about that. I turned it off, you can go back to sleep."
Rodney rubs his face, hoping there's no dried drool or sleep gunk on him. "Time is it, anyway?"
"Four thirty."
"Ugh. Inhuman!" He pulls John closer by the shoulder and kisses his neck. If that's too affectionate, well, he can blame it on sleepiness and the unreasonable hour.
John doesn't seem to mind, resting his arm around Rodney. "Sorry." His early-morning voice is rusty and seems to come from deeper in his chest, without the usual detour through his nose. "Most mornings I work out before my shower. Forgot to change the alarm."
"Ungodly hours and exercise?" Rodney mutters. "Masochist."
"Yeah, yeah," John says, his mouth tickling against Rodney's temple.
Rodney fortunately has no more pilfered-laptop dreams, and instead drifts along pleasantly in a shallow sleep, occasionally surfacing a little to register that he's still toasty and comfortable in a half-embrace with John. It's really... nice. He doesn't usually like to stay this close; the skin-on-skin sensation makes him self-conscious about sweat and stickiness and so on. Since he and John are both still in t-shirts, that's not an issue.
Thanks to the dilatory effect of half-consciousness, it seems like days before the clock radio switches on again. But it still feels too soon for Rodney's taste, especially since the radio's bleating the noise of some yodeling country singer.
John slaps the alarm off and starts extracting himself from bed. "Time to make the donuts."
Rodney resists briefly and gets a pillow in the face for his trouble, so he grumpily relents. "I guess I can allow that," he yawns, flopping back into the lamentably Johnless bed.
"I'm gonna do the morning baking and then I'll be out on deliveries. If you need to head out before I'm back, there's a spare set of keys... uh, I'll get them out and put them with your laptop bag."
"I'll come down for coffee, anyway, if I'm up before you're - wait, the shop will be closed while you're delivering, huh. I guess I'll be here then," Rodney says. There's no way he's going to leave any room for ambiguity at all after staying the night for the first time. He really doesn't want to inspire any more citrus-laced baking. He steals John's pillow and snuggles back down into the blankets. "Your mattress is nicer than I thought."
"Even though it's not prescription?"
Rodney ignores the possible sarcasm in favor of cocooning with the entire comforter. "Even though."
John starts down the ladder and pauses, adding, "The bakery keys are on the ring with the spares if you want coffee from downstairs. There's a French press up here. I'll leave it on the counter. So... yeah. See you later." He gives an ironic little wave and half a smile, and then his head disappears.
Rodney wouldn't mind dozing just a little more. Ordinarily he can't sleep more than five hours at a stretch, but his post-coital repose tends to last a little longer and he likes to take advantage when he can. He doesn't manage to drop off again right away, though, just listens to John shower and enjoys the general feeling of well-being that's bound to dissipate all too soon.
When John comes into view again he's freshly shaved and dressed. Rodney really wants to haul him back into bed and mess him up again, but he just smiles weakly back as John aims another wave at him and goes, locking the door behind him.
*
Rodney ends up sleeping some more after all, once John leaves. He takes his time showering and shaving before heading down to the bakery. Fortunately he times it right and John's back from his deliveries by the time Rodney tries the door. It's nice to come in through the kitchen, like going through Narnia on the way to the wardrobe. John's leaning against the wall reading a thick book, somehow, even though he's wearing oven mitts.
"Hey," Rodney beams. "Coffee?"
John points at the carafe. It seems entering through the kitchen means Rodney is now expected to help himself. That makes sense, he decides, pouring his coffee. John can't be expected to keep serving him as if he's a customer.
So far Rodney's made a point of continuing to pay for everything he gets at the bakery, even though John tried to demur once or twice. But it's probably time to formulate new parameters. Anything he gets from the other side of the counter, he decides, he'll pay for, and whatever he's given in kitchen Narnia is free. But he'll have to do his own fetching and pouring and tidying up. He should probably help out now when the bakery gets busy, too. If he's not busy with something else. Which he usually is. But when he's not, he can stand to hop up and pour some coffee.
A timer dings, and John draws tins out of the oven, sliding them onto the grooves of a wheeled metal rack. He plucks a chocolate squared muffin from the top, cradling it between his oven mitts, and sets it on the counter next to the coffee carafe.
"Give it a couple of minutes to cool," John says.
"Of course." Rodney interprets "minutes" liberally and tears off a piece as soon as John turns back to the ovens. It's too hot but fresh and steamy and so, so delicious.
Taking another bite, Rodney tries to recall suitable conduct for a morning-after breakfast and draws a blank. Oh yeah: he never paid any attention to suitable conduct. It didn't seem important.
It'd be nice to know what to do now, though, whether he should seize an opening and kiss John, or back off and eat, or rush out and get to work. Lacking guidelines, he opts for the virtue of selfishness, which at least ascertains that somebody gets what they want. After John racks another hot pan of pastries fresh from the oven, Rodney interposes himself and kisses him.
John returns the kiss readily, but doesn't lean into it or put his hands on Rodney. For a moment Rodney thinks he got it wrong, but when he draws back, John looks pleased.
"How bad did you burn your mouth?" John asks, in a confusingly sexy low voice.
"I didn't," Rodney lies.
One of John's timers goes off, and he steps away to pull more trays out of the ovens. Once that's done he plucks a muffin from one of the cooler trays and brings it over. "Something new, see what you think."
Rodney bites. The muffin is dark brown, spiced and mildly sweet, moist and densely textured, slightly resisting Rodney's teeth. He tilts his head, nodding in consideration. "Interesting. Is that molasses?"
"Yep. They're pumpkin chai quinoa muffins."
"The weird hippie grain?"
"I didn't have to buy it from a guy in sandals and peace beads, so, no," John replies with a quirked brow. "Just a grain. It's got a lot of protein, good for breakfast."
"I like it. The chai flavor is good, and the moistness from the pumpkin is really nice. It'd be too chewy otherwise."
"Cool," John nods, leaning back against the counter. He looks good, Rodney thinks; he looks content, maybe.
"Yes." Rodney clears his throat. "Yes, well. I should go. I'll see you tonight?"
"I'll be here." John straightens and initiates the kiss this time, lingering but light.
It's nice, but Rodney's determined to leave the right impression. He wraps his hands around John's biceps and tilts his head, kissing more insistently, tipping John back against the counter. John grabs Rodney's pockets and licks into Rodney's mouth, his body sealing against Rodney's, and from there it rapidly escalates into shortened breath and borderline frottage until John rakes his teeth gently across Rodney's lower lip and Rodney really has to stop.
"Okay," Rodney pants, breaking away, "maybe next time we'll do that your way."
"Oh, I don't know," John grins, "I'm thinking your way's got a lot going for it," and he kisses Rodney deeply one more time before letting him go.
Author: Cesare (almostnever) & anatsuno
Pairing: John/Rodney
Series: Foster's Bakery AU.
Word count: ~5600
Ratings/Warnings: NSFW, NC17, explicit. This story should be safe for people with triggers.
Summary: Dating John Sheppard is remarkably easy for Rodney.
Notes: Thanks to chkc for her artwork, especially this chibi cartoon which inspired Rodney's orange hoodie and John's pink apron.
*
Dating John Sheppard is remarkably easy for Rodney.
Well. Granted, he did misstep after their first date, when he spent three solid days working nonstop while sending emails meant for John to the wrong address.
But! Since then, things have gone very well, better than Rodney could have imagined.
At night after the bakery closes, he takes John out to dinner, or more often, brings over takeout. They talk, complaining about various stupidities they have to deal with (mostly Rodney) and cracking jokes at each others' expense (mostly John,) and then they make out. Sometimes it develops into sex, and sometimes it doesn't, and instead ends in another discussion of Crisis on Infinite Earths.
(John has somehow managed to partake of nearly every significant artifact of the geek canon without ever considering himself particularly "into" genre fiction, much less a "fan." At first Rodney theorizes that John thinks he's too cool to be a science fiction geek, which makes him want to like John less; but the truth seems to be more complex, in that John considers his interest in everything from Asimov to Zelazny to be "normal" and doesn't seem to understand why anyone isn't interested in those things. He holds equally intransigent views on flying and football. It's very strange.)
Each of his dates with John is totally satisfactory to Rodney as a discrete social interaction. Even the ones that don't end in sex, to Rodney's surprise; he certainly prefers to have sex, and he's frustrated when they don't, but the frustration is somehow almost pleasant because it's both deliberate and finite.
They're continuing to "take it slow," a prohibition they observe perhaps two dates out of three. Meanwhile, when they do have sex, there's a frisson of the forbidden about it, even though they're only breaking their own loosely enforced rule.
(Rodney occasionally suspects that John suggested taking it slow specifically to provide the opportunity to thrillingly rebel. If so, it's clever of him. Rodney's impressed.)
However, based on his past relationships and the feedback he's received therefrom, Rodney's forced to conclude that while each date is a success in and of itself, he's failing to drive the relationship forward in any significant way.
It's too bad, because he's having a good time, during what's usually the most boring part of establishing a relationship. Rodney can't help it, he's just not very interested in people. He's interested in ideas, and the vast majority of people - even relatively intelligent people - tend to have a limited number of ideas.
Instead they have lots of things that Rodney has to force himself to pay attention to: memories and anecdotes and oh, god, beliefs that are usually based on nothing at all.
John, though, seems to like ideas too. He appears interested when Rodney discusses his own ideas, and follows Rodney's thoughts to a high degree of complexity. Sometimes he anticipates the next step in Rodney's explanations aloud, or reframes Rodney's ideas using different terms and analogies that prove illuminating.
Of course, John doesn't have the advanced knowledge necessary to contribute substantively once Rodney really gets in gear, but he's an excellent sounding board. Rodney finds it refreshing to talk through his wilder ideas with someone who doesn't think like a physicist. Rodney supplies enough physicist-style thinking for any ten physicists; it's much more fun to have a different perspective, especially from John, who's good-natured enough not to mind when Rodney mocks his lack of scientific acumen.
They don't talk about the weather, or traffic, or their dreams. It's fantastic.
However, they also don't talk about memories or experiences or beliefs, and Rodney is fairly certain that they're supposed to do that. Oddly enough, Rodney is even beginning to actually want to hear those things from John.
"What do you think, Mahler?" Rodney asks his cat, stroking his furry cheek with one thumb. "Crazy, right?"
Mahler stretches and rolls onto his side, purring. Rodney checks his watch; if he leaves now, he should arrive just as John is closing up.
"I have to go. Be good," he says, standing with Mahler in his arms, and then he turns around and lays Mahler on the sofa in the warm spot where he's been sitting.
And people say he's thoughtless and insensitive. He's kind to animals, shouldn't that count for something? Well... he's kind to cats. It still counts!
He gives Mahler a farewell pat. "Be good," he says. Mahler purriaows a little, arranges himself in a ball, and shuts his eyes.
*
At this time of night there are plenty of spaces available on the street, but Rodney parks in the municipal lot a block away regardless, tucking his car between an SUV and the back of a pet boutique. Walking over to Foster's Bakery, he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, which doesn't do nearly enough to keep out the November chill. By the time he gets inside, he's already stiff with cold.
Ronon stands behind the cash register, counting down the drawer, while behind him, John swabs away at the countertop. The wrought iron chairs are inverted on the tables, and in the sane, actually comfortable seating area, Ronon's long leather coat lies across one of the soft armchairs, a sizable bag full of stacked pastry boxes nearby on the end table.
"You know, someday you're going to need more work out of Ronon than even he can eat in baked goods," Rodney says.
Flicking a glance at him, Ronon shakes his head. "I've got scholarships," he says. "Only thing I have to buy for myself is food, practically. Might as well trade."
"I still don't understand how you can be doing a master's in English lit when I don't think I've ever heard you speak in a complete sentence."
"Maybe he's saving words for his thesis," John says, dishtowel slung over his shoulder. "Hey."
"Hello. Something hot to drink?" Rodney hopes.
"Already dumped out the coffee. There's tea."
"As long as it's warm," Rodney allows. "I'm pretty sure my core temperature dropped between here and the car."
"Even in your fleece?" John hands him a mug. "I thought it was comfort rated for absolute zero."
"What? I left my coat at the lab, I've just got this completely inadequate sweatshirt."
"Oh yeah. They're that same traffic cone orange, that's all."
Ronon looks over again, mouth tilting slightly. "To have one jacket that color may be regarded as unfortunate; to have two looks like carelessness."
Rodney boggles at him through the steam of his tea.
"Complete sentence," Ronon offers, and shuts the cash register drawer. "G'night."
"Thanks again," John says, with a manly thump to Ronon's shoulder in passing.
"Sure. Sorry about the fire."
"The what?" Rodney asks in an extremely level and reasonable tone that in no way resembles a shriek.
John sighs. "You know, when I said 'It's okay, don't mention it' I really did mean don't mention it."
Ronon shrugs into his coat and hefts the healthy stack of boxes, almost smiling. "Uh-huh. See you."
"The fire?" Rodney demands as the door shuts behind Ronon.
"I made whiskey cupcakes," John says brightly. "Want one?"
"Yes, but don't think I can be swayed from investigating th - mmmm." Rodney tucks the delicious bite of sweet, smoky, cakey goodness into his cheek and says thickly, "Fire. Talk."
"It was no big deal," John says. "I was working on whiskey cupcakes, and Ronon and Laura were helping me out, and we thought it'd be fun to try a kind of a flambé thing with them. We had the fire extinguisher right there, and a metal trash can. It was all totally under control."
"Wait a minute," Rodney says, "if it was all under control, what happened to your apron?" He could have sworn that John's apron was... well, he can't remember precisely, but some neutral color. He's not all that observant sometimes, but surely he would have noticed if John switched to pink before today.
"Welllll," John stalls. "There might have been a little mishap with some burning streusel. It's fine, Ronon hit it with the fire extinguisher right away. But the apron was pretty singed, and it was getting kind of dingy anyway. Laura volunteered to run out and get me a new one, and..." John does a little mock fashion model hip-cock, showing off the pink apron.
"Should've known it was Cadman," Rodney grumbles. "I guess it could've been worse, could be a rainbow flag."
"Would that be worse?" John asks, his body language downshifting to something at once looser and more guarded.
"Huhm?" Rodney sucks down the last of his tea. "Um. Well, in the sense that I think rainbow flags look tacky, then... yes?"
"Says the guy dressed for deer hunting."
"If you must know, when I bought this and my fleece coat, I was slated to go to Siberia, and I thought bright orange would give me the best possible chance of being found by a rescue party when I inevitably ended up lost in the snow."
John refills his mug with tea. "Tacky?" he prompts.
"Okay, I don't claim to have any particular fashion sense, but I've always thought so, don't you?"
"Depends if you mean it's tacky because it's ugly to look at, or tacky because it's, you know... in your face."
Oh, okay, Rodney gets it now. "I just think it's unsightly, that's all. You know I have no problem getting up in anyone's face."
"Yeah," John smiles a little, thawing. "Guess not."
"I thought maybe you were more interested in keeping quiet. You're not... obvious." Which is an understatement. Rodney didn't even seriously entertain the possibility that John might be gay until Carson told him so. The sad thing is, it wasn't even the first time that's happened. Carson seems to have somehow ended up with the gaydar to which Rodney, as an actual practicing bisexual, is more rightfully entitled.
John shrugs. "That's just habit. Bad habit."
Rodney nods slowly. "I like the pink apron," he offers.
"Cool," John grins, his expression quickly growing mischievous. "Should I keep it on?"
That sounds promising. "No, I think the less layers you wear, the better."
John hangs up the apron on a peg and snags Rodney's hand, leading him upstairs.
*
As soon as they shut the loft door behind them, John accosts Rodney with kisses; Rodney's back thumps solidly against the wall next to the door, and his arms are already winding around John before he quite registers what's happening, his brain briefly stuttering because everything just feels so good.
Tonight, he suspects, dropping his hand to cup the shallow firm curve of John's ass, is not going to be a taking-it-slow night.
John's hands span Rodney's chest, thumbs finding and waking his nipples, palms smoothing over them. They've always been sensitive, and Rodney's had partners who noticed that before, but no one's worked them over with quite the gusto that John tends to bring to it, not to mention his rather fearless use of teeth in particularly heated moments.
Just now, though, Rodney stops him and kisses him again and suggests, "I think we should move. I want to blow you and I want to take my time, and that means going somewhere where I won't have to do it on my knees. That's not at all ergonomic."
John snickers, but he juts his hips, rubbing against Rodney a little, and agrees, "Sure. Come to bed."
"I'm going to break my neck and die with a hard-on," Rodney complains as John drags him up the ladder to the loft bed, but John is unmoved.
"Gotta admit, worse ways to go," he says, drawing Rodney up the steps after him and lying back, stretching out across the bed invitingly. Rodney keeps expecting to feel crunched and uncomfortable up here, but the mattress is a nice springy queen and there's clearance on all sides. It's pleasantly enclosed and feels protected, and there's plenty of room.
John kicks off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor below with a pair of loud thunks, and Rodney does the same, too eager now to keep complaining about the height of the bed. He strips John's jeans down and goes for it, groaning happily.
It's only the second time he's sucked John; he's really looking forward to losing track of that number. John's cut and clean, substantial and even challenging in Rodney's mouth, but Rodney's sure that this time he can get him all the way down. It's just a matter of finding the right angle.
With a little more experience, Rodney will probably be able to find it without even thinking about it, but for now, he has to experiment with his approach vector before he's able to slide the glans down the back of his tongue and further, carefully, holding John's hip to keep him from moving til Rodney gets this right. He has a very sensitive gag reflex, but only in one particular spot on his upper palate. As long as he can guide John past that...
There.
Now that he's properly positioned, he can widen the scope of his attention a little. John's hands are fisted, knuckles nearly white, which is kind of gratifying; he's propped himself up on all the pillows as if to watch, but his eyes are smoothly shut, lashes dark against his cheek, his own mouth bitten, face flushed and lax. It's... inspiring. Rodney rocks himself forward a little, and John inhales shakily and grabs for him, hanging on.
It feels good, John's hand strong on his shoulder and then, as Rodney moves with more purpose, slipping to instead grip and twist in the fabric of his t-shirt.
So far, John's been quiet during sex. This time though, when Rodney really lunges and gulps him down, John gasps his name before clamping his mouth shut hard, his face tight with silence. Rodney would like to drag it out long enough to get at least another word out of him, but he can feel how close John is, and he's too hot for it himself, he has to get John off.
Really, it's all he can do to keep from shoving one hand down his pants to finish himself off right now, but he's fairly sure John would pout. The sex so far has been decidedly quid pro quo.
He cradles John's sac in his palm, brushing his thumb over the sensitive crinkled skin, and hums deeply around the cock in his mouth, rippling his tongue underneath, inhaling the heady smell of musk and sweat. Soon John's bowing up and pulsing down Rodney's throat.
Still quiet, though, Rodney notes with mild disappointment. But maybe by the time he loses track of how many blowjobs he's given John, he'll know how to make John say his name whenever he wants to hear it. That's certainly a goal worth working toward.
John eventually makes an inarticulate sound as he comes down, a sort of shyewwww outrush of air that sounds very, very contented. Rodney takes that as his cue to finally slide his mouth off and knee up the bed to recline next to him. John rolls and kisses him, stroking down his side and dreamily unbuttoning his pants.
He slithers down, tugging Rodney's pants with him, and takes Rodney in almost languorously, his mouth unbearably soft and warm. John has interesting, shapely lips, a curvy top one and a full bottom one; Rodney's always liked them and now he's completely mesmerized by the sight of them wrapped, not to put too fine a point on it, around his cock.
Just when Rodney's beginning to feel the first tidings of orgasm, John replaces his mouth with his fist, squeezing and stroking lightly, his thumb delicately swiping at Rodney's foreskin. "You set the bar pretty high, there," he says. "Overachiever. I don't think I can go that deep." He circles just his forefinger and thumb around Rodney's shaft as if measuring and looks up at him with dubiously arched eyebrows.
Rodney gapes momentarily. "I'm not exactly feeling deprived," he says.
"No?" John pumps him a few more strokes. "Good." He comes at it tongue-first this time, swirling around the head, licking the gathered foreskin with apparent fascination, slowly enveloping Rodney and bringing his lips down to meet his fist, still rhythmically squeezing at the base of Rodney's shaft.
And really, deep-throating is nothing compared to the thrill that Rodney gets out of watching John work him over like that, trying to go deeper again and again and not quite able to - the ego charge is almost as good as the blowjob. Whatever sex life John managed to eke out between the lines when he was in the Air Force, he's good at this but not experienced enough to accommodate Rodney completely, and that's painfully hot.
He is, though, experienced or just naturally ingenious enough to press his knuckles against Rodney's perineum at just the right moment. Rodney can't help groaning out loud as he comes, especially when John backs off him enough to catch it on his tongue and even a little, ohhh, on his lips, that's - John licks it off with a filthy little grin that says he knows exactly how obscene he looks, and Rodney's dick jumps in a valiant but doomed attempt to get going again right away now.
Rodney lets his head fall back and gasps at the ceiling. "Really not feeling deprived," he says.
"Glad to hear it," John says smugly, swimming back up the bed and pulling the sheet with him. Rodney gratefully tugs it up around his waist, because even if they did just have fantastic sex, he feels exposed and silly just lying around with his dick hanging out. Especially since they're both still wearing their t-shirts.
"I can't wait for you to fuck me," he says before he can think better of it, and then after a few moments of unreadable silence, he backpedals, "I don't mean that I literally can't wait. Waiting is fine. We can wait as long as you want. What I mean is I'm looking forward to it. Eventually happening. But it doesn't have to. If that's not something you do."
John goes up on his elbow and leans over to kiss him aggressively enough to communicate a world of yes. His mouth is a fascinatingly darker pink, post-blowjob. "Bottom, huh?"
"Not exclusively, but..." Rodney shrugs. "Yeah."
"Guess we need to get tested."
"We should've done that already, really," Rodney sighs. He thought of it the first time he went down, but even the tiny chance of viral transmission through oral microabrasions hadn't been enough to make him wait. In retrospect he can only marvel at the power of hormones to overcome sweet reason. It's not only his very rational fear of illness and decay; he has an obligation to the world to continue to supply it with his genius!
"Better late than never."
"Of course I wouldn't have risked it if I weren't assured of my own good standing. I have thorough blood tests from six months ago, that - still apply. But I'll get new ones."
"Yeah. I was in the hospital after, you know..." John shrugs, which is as much as Rodney ever gets from him about the helicopter crash that landed him with a medical discharge. The most John's ever said was that he was grounded on a technicality. "Not sure there was anything they didn't screen me for, then."
"And you've been safe since then," Rodney infers.
John makes a funny little resigned noise. "Yeah. The safest."
"...Oh." That's. Wow. He snags John's wrist. "You should come here."
"I am here."
"More here. Here here," Rodney says, tugging John over to drape against him.
After a moment's hesitation, John settles in readily enough, his head next to Rodney's, his hand resting on Rodney's belly.
It feels wonderful, warm and easy, and Rodney drifts on it til he wakes himself up with a choked-off snore.
"Sorry," he says.
"Hm?"
"Falling asleep."
"S'okay."
"It's late," Rodney goes up on one elbow, "and... yeah."
"You could stay," John offers.
"Oh?"
"Sure. There's a spare toothbrush," he says. "In fact, there's three."
"Hmh. Planning a harem?"
"Nah, I just have a pushy dentist."
So that's hygiene settled, and Rodney has fresh clothes at the office. Coffee and breakfast are, of course, built right in. Just one other thing, then. "You have to take the outside of the bed," he says. "I can't sleep near the edge, what if I roll out and crack open my skull? Too risky."
"Gotcha covered."
"Okay. Good. Then... that would be nice." Rodney finds his boxers and drags them back on. "Watch me break my neck on this thing now that I'm sleepy," he says as he lumbers down the ladder.
John rolls his eyes and swings down from the loft, his hand on the support beam, his arm taking his full weight, bicep bulging impressively before he lets go and drops on his feet.
"Nice," Rodney comments as they crowd into the bathroom. "I mean, really, who needs an intact rotator cuff anyway?"
Verbally bested, John resorts to reaching over and messing up Rodney's hair til Rodney's reflection looks as disheveled as Zelenka. John routs a spare toothbrush, still plastic-wrapped, out of the drawer for Rodney and then wanders out with a string of floss twanging around his gums.
"My hair's going even more directions than yours! Just for that I'm snooping in your medicine cabinet!" Rodney calls after him, and he noisily opens and closes the cabinet doors, pleased with himself. Now if he ever slips and mentions that he saw John's cache of baby aspirin and Clinique for Men, he's got an alibi. He really is a genius.
He finishes his dental care and nightly ablutions before John finally drifts back, barefoot in his black t-shirt and blue-striped boxers, to take his turn at the sink. Rodney lingers, not quite ready to get back into bed without him. He's not unaware that this is kind of a big deal, though he finds it impossible to accurately gauge how big a deal it really is. John's being casual about it, but John is casual about most things.
But then apparently he may be the first person John's slept with since moving to Colorado, which is, hm, a year? Something like that. So... medium big deal, Rodney decides.
"Should we get something to eat? I mean, did you have dinner?" he asks, suddenly struck.
John eyes him. "Yeah..."
"Oh, good. Me too, we ordered in at the lab."
Spitting toothpaste froth and rinsing, John says, "Nice timing."
"I thought so."
John herds him up the loft ladder. "If this is supposed to make the whole proposition feel less dangerous," Rodney says, "it really doesn't. This just means that when I inevitably slip and fall, I'll take you down too. I'd rather you were intact to call 911."
"You're not going to slip, and if you do, I'll keep you from going anywhere."
"You have the approximate dimensions of an anorexic twig." This isn't even a little bit true - John has significant muscle in his arms and the rest of him is solidly toned, but his waist and hips are slim and Rodney is not above petty mockery.
"I can bench three hundred pounds."
"Oh, you can not."
"I have benched three hundred pounds," John modifies as they climb back into bed.
"Once, in a haze of 'roid rage?"
"Hey."
"Withdrawn," Rodney says quickly. But he can't resist adding, "Were you lifting the barbell off a trapped child?"
"You're such a jerk," says John, but he sounds almost impressed, and as Rodney settles facedown to sleep, John curls close, his hand resting at the small of Rodney's back.
True though they may be, Rodney doesn't really want those to be the last words of the night. "This is nice," he says finally, cringing a little at how sincere and small and awkward it sounds.
"Yeah," John says, and bumbles a kiss onto Rodney's cheek.
*
Rodney is patiently explaining at the top of his voice that Simpson is just going to have to find her own laptop, because this one is very clearly Rodney's, and even if her new suction-cup hands adhere to things, she still has to respect property rights and fair play and, and droit du seigneur. She can't have his laptop just because the market responded to changes in the valuation of the Chinese yuan -
"What?" John asks. The voice of a radio news announcer recounting the morning's financials abruptly clicks off.
"Huh?" Rodney blinks, disoriented, expecting the couch at the lab, the familiar drop tile ceiling. Instead he's apparently in a Japanese capsule hotel.
"It's okay, just my alarm."
Right. John's loft. "Ah! I... Did I say any - I dreamed Simpson was taking my - not important. Um. Hi?"
John smiles a little, softened and sleepy-eyed. "Hey," he says, settling back down under the covers. "Sorry about that. I turned it off, you can go back to sleep."
Rodney rubs his face, hoping there's no dried drool or sleep gunk on him. "Time is it, anyway?"
"Four thirty."
"Ugh. Inhuman!" He pulls John closer by the shoulder and kisses his neck. If that's too affectionate, well, he can blame it on sleepiness and the unreasonable hour.
John doesn't seem to mind, resting his arm around Rodney. "Sorry." His early-morning voice is rusty and seems to come from deeper in his chest, without the usual detour through his nose. "Most mornings I work out before my shower. Forgot to change the alarm."
"Ungodly hours and exercise?" Rodney mutters. "Masochist."
"Yeah, yeah," John says, his mouth tickling against Rodney's temple.
Rodney fortunately has no more pilfered-laptop dreams, and instead drifts along pleasantly in a shallow sleep, occasionally surfacing a little to register that he's still toasty and comfortable in a half-embrace with John. It's really... nice. He doesn't usually like to stay this close; the skin-on-skin sensation makes him self-conscious about sweat and stickiness and so on. Since he and John are both still in t-shirts, that's not an issue.
Thanks to the dilatory effect of half-consciousness, it seems like days before the clock radio switches on again. But it still feels too soon for Rodney's taste, especially since the radio's bleating the noise of some yodeling country singer.
John slaps the alarm off and starts extracting himself from bed. "Time to make the donuts."
Rodney resists briefly and gets a pillow in the face for his trouble, so he grumpily relents. "I guess I can allow that," he yawns, flopping back into the lamentably Johnless bed.
"I'm gonna do the morning baking and then I'll be out on deliveries. If you need to head out before I'm back, there's a spare set of keys... uh, I'll get them out and put them with your laptop bag."
"I'll come down for coffee, anyway, if I'm up before you're - wait, the shop will be closed while you're delivering, huh. I guess I'll be here then," Rodney says. There's no way he's going to leave any room for ambiguity at all after staying the night for the first time. He really doesn't want to inspire any more citrus-laced baking. He steals John's pillow and snuggles back down into the blankets. "Your mattress is nicer than I thought."
"Even though it's not prescription?"
Rodney ignores the possible sarcasm in favor of cocooning with the entire comforter. "Even though."
John starts down the ladder and pauses, adding, "The bakery keys are on the ring with the spares if you want coffee from downstairs. There's a French press up here. I'll leave it on the counter. So... yeah. See you later." He gives an ironic little wave and half a smile, and then his head disappears.
Rodney wouldn't mind dozing just a little more. Ordinarily he can't sleep more than five hours at a stretch, but his post-coital repose tends to last a little longer and he likes to take advantage when he can. He doesn't manage to drop off again right away, though, just listens to John shower and enjoys the general feeling of well-being that's bound to dissipate all too soon.
When John comes into view again he's freshly shaved and dressed. Rodney really wants to haul him back into bed and mess him up again, but he just smiles weakly back as John aims another wave at him and goes, locking the door behind him.
*
Rodney ends up sleeping some more after all, once John leaves. He takes his time showering and shaving before heading down to the bakery. Fortunately he times it right and John's back from his deliveries by the time Rodney tries the door. It's nice to come in through the kitchen, like going through Narnia on the way to the wardrobe. John's leaning against the wall reading a thick book, somehow, even though he's wearing oven mitts.
"Hey," Rodney beams. "Coffee?"
John points at the carafe. It seems entering through the kitchen means Rodney is now expected to help himself. That makes sense, he decides, pouring his coffee. John can't be expected to keep serving him as if he's a customer.
So far Rodney's made a point of continuing to pay for everything he gets at the bakery, even though John tried to demur once or twice. But it's probably time to formulate new parameters. Anything he gets from the other side of the counter, he decides, he'll pay for, and whatever he's given in kitchen Narnia is free. But he'll have to do his own fetching and pouring and tidying up. He should probably help out now when the bakery gets busy, too. If he's not busy with something else. Which he usually is. But when he's not, he can stand to hop up and pour some coffee.
A timer dings, and John draws tins out of the oven, sliding them onto the grooves of a wheeled metal rack. He plucks a chocolate squared muffin from the top, cradling it between his oven mitts, and sets it on the counter next to the coffee carafe.
"Give it a couple of minutes to cool," John says.
"Of course." Rodney interprets "minutes" liberally and tears off a piece as soon as John turns back to the ovens. It's too hot but fresh and steamy and so, so delicious.
Taking another bite, Rodney tries to recall suitable conduct for a morning-after breakfast and draws a blank. Oh yeah: he never paid any attention to suitable conduct. It didn't seem important.
It'd be nice to know what to do now, though, whether he should seize an opening and kiss John, or back off and eat, or rush out and get to work. Lacking guidelines, he opts for the virtue of selfishness, which at least ascertains that somebody gets what they want. After John racks another hot pan of pastries fresh from the oven, Rodney interposes himself and kisses him.
John returns the kiss readily, but doesn't lean into it or put his hands on Rodney. For a moment Rodney thinks he got it wrong, but when he draws back, John looks pleased.
"How bad did you burn your mouth?" John asks, in a confusingly sexy low voice.
"I didn't," Rodney lies.
One of John's timers goes off, and he steps away to pull more trays out of the ovens. Once that's done he plucks a muffin from one of the cooler trays and brings it over. "Something new, see what you think."
Rodney bites. The muffin is dark brown, spiced and mildly sweet, moist and densely textured, slightly resisting Rodney's teeth. He tilts his head, nodding in consideration. "Interesting. Is that molasses?"
"Yep. They're pumpkin chai quinoa muffins."
"The weird hippie grain?"
"I didn't have to buy it from a guy in sandals and peace beads, so, no," John replies with a quirked brow. "Just a grain. It's got a lot of protein, good for breakfast."
"I like it. The chai flavor is good, and the moistness from the pumpkin is really nice. It'd be too chewy otherwise."
"Cool," John nods, leaning back against the counter. He looks good, Rodney thinks; he looks content, maybe.
"Yes." Rodney clears his throat. "Yes, well. I should go. I'll see you tonight?"
"I'll be here." John straightens and initiates the kiss this time, lingering but light.
It's nice, but Rodney's determined to leave the right impression. He wraps his hands around John's biceps and tilts his head, kissing more insistently, tipping John back against the counter. John grabs Rodney's pockets and licks into Rodney's mouth, his body sealing against Rodney's, and from there it rapidly escalates into shortened breath and borderline frottage until John rakes his teeth gently across Rodney's lower lip and Rodney really has to stop.
"Okay," Rodney pants, breaking away, "maybe next time we'll do that your way."
"Oh, I don't know," John grins, "I'm thinking your way's got a lot going for it," and he kisses Rodney deeply one more time before letting him go.