minty freshness
Title: Minty Freshness
By: Cesare (almostnever)
Rating: Worksafe. Domesticity... can be AU or futurefic.
*
"Rodney? The new kitten's psycho," John says.
"You're just jealous 'cause she loves me best," Rodney answers smugly from the bedroom.
"It's not so much that she loves you best as that she hates you least."
"That counts! I'll take it!"
John sighs and tries again to edge past the tiny kitten stationed in the bathroom doorway. The kitten hisses fiercely and feints at his bare toes; John jumps back. He's already got six Band-Aids all over his feet thanks to the little monster. Any more swipes from her and he'll have to switch to armored socks.
"Nice kitty," he lies, "good kitty," and ventures another inch forward. The kitten pounces, and John flinches, but for once she's not intent on shredding his instep. Instead she paws nearby at some invisible speck detectable only to her.
"Stop calling her kitty," Rodney says, hopping into sight as he hooks his socks onto his feet, one after the other. "She's never going to learn her name if we don't use it."
"We didn't pick a name yet," John calls after him as Rodney bobs away.
"Yes we did, she's Fran. Franny."
"We didn't pick that. You picked that, which just goes to show why you shouldn't name things. I said it was ugly. It's an ugly name, Rodney."
"It is not! It's a great name. Short for Francesca! Like Francesca Caccini, the first woman to ever write an opera."
"Since when do you like opera? I thought you liked science. What about a nice science name, huh? Hypatia! Marie Curie! Émilie du Château!"
"Châtelet!" Rodney yells from the kitchen.
"Whatever!" John tries to escape the bathroom again, and little Marie-Émilie rares up to take a chunk out of his toe. Fortunately she snags on a Band-Aid, and after another hiss for form's sake, she falls back to play with her speck some more. John can see it now; it's blue, and Émilie-Marie is trying earnestly to eat it.
"Psycho kitten's eating something blue off the bathroom floor," John reports.
"And you're just letting her?"
"I'm still trying to make a break for it without losing a limb, here."
"Oh, for--" Rodney pads back, sock-footed in khakis and one of those blue shirts with the zip-up mandarin collars, the shirts that stretch over his shoulders so nicely and beckon John's fingers to unzip and reach inside. He catches John staring and his hand flies up self-consciously. "What? Something on my face? Sleep in my eyes?"
"I just like that shirt," John says.
"Oh. I mean, yes, of course. Thanks." Rodney ducks his head and pretends to watch the kitten. Then he actually takes in what the kitten's doing and frowns. "Huh. Come to think of it, I think I've seen her eating that stuff before."
"That might explain the psychosis," John says. "I'm pretty sure there's nothing blue around here that a kitten should be eating."
"It could be flavor crystals," Rodney posits.
"Flavor crystals from what."
"Toothpaste? I don't know! You're the one in charge of edible things," Rodney abruptly decrees.
"I don't think that is an edible thing, that's kind of the problem. And by the way," John picks up their toothpaste and displays it, "no flavor crystals."
"Oh god," Rodney says. "I think I got the kind of litter that turns blue when it's peed on."
They both lunge for the kitten at the same time; John takes a shoulder to the chest, right on the sternum where it hurts the most. "Ow."
"Give me that, give me that!" Rodney says, cradling the kitten and borderline panicking, getting blue all over his fingers as he wrests the blue crystal out of her little mouth.
Then he sniffs it.
"Rodney! Jeez!"
"No, it's spearmint," says Rodney, and at the same time they both remember the mint-scented bath salts Rodney's sister gave John for Christmas that first year, when she still seemed to think that gay guys were just like women with a little more muscle and chest hair.
John opens the cabinet under the sink and the bath salts just come pouring out, little rocks and powder, white and blue and minty-reeky.
"I used to like spearmint," John says sadly, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm gonna be late."
"Move, move, the kitten was my idea, I'll get it," Rodney grumbles, shoving John out the door.
"Okay," says John, dropping a kiss on Rodney's temple. "We'll call her Fran."
By: Cesare (almostnever)
Rating: Worksafe. Domesticity... can be AU or futurefic.
*
"Rodney? The new kitten's psycho," John says.
"You're just jealous 'cause she loves me best," Rodney answers smugly from the bedroom.
"It's not so much that she loves you best as that she hates you least."
"That counts! I'll take it!"
John sighs and tries again to edge past the tiny kitten stationed in the bathroom doorway. The kitten hisses fiercely and feints at his bare toes; John jumps back. He's already got six Band-Aids all over his feet thanks to the little monster. Any more swipes from her and he'll have to switch to armored socks.
"Nice kitty," he lies, "good kitty," and ventures another inch forward. The kitten pounces, and John flinches, but for once she's not intent on shredding his instep. Instead she paws nearby at some invisible speck detectable only to her.
"Stop calling her kitty," Rodney says, hopping into sight as he hooks his socks onto his feet, one after the other. "She's never going to learn her name if we don't use it."
"We didn't pick a name yet," John calls after him as Rodney bobs away.
"Yes we did, she's Fran. Franny."
"We didn't pick that. You picked that, which just goes to show why you shouldn't name things. I said it was ugly. It's an ugly name, Rodney."
"It is not! It's a great name. Short for Francesca! Like Francesca Caccini, the first woman to ever write an opera."
"Since when do you like opera? I thought you liked science. What about a nice science name, huh? Hypatia! Marie Curie! Émilie du Château!"
"Châtelet!" Rodney yells from the kitchen.
"Whatever!" John tries to escape the bathroom again, and little Marie-Émilie rares up to take a chunk out of his toe. Fortunately she snags on a Band-Aid, and after another hiss for form's sake, she falls back to play with her speck some more. John can see it now; it's blue, and Émilie-Marie is trying earnestly to eat it.
"Psycho kitten's eating something blue off the bathroom floor," John reports.
"And you're just letting her?"
"I'm still trying to make a break for it without losing a limb, here."
"Oh, for--" Rodney pads back, sock-footed in khakis and one of those blue shirts with the zip-up mandarin collars, the shirts that stretch over his shoulders so nicely and beckon John's fingers to unzip and reach inside. He catches John staring and his hand flies up self-consciously. "What? Something on my face? Sleep in my eyes?"
"I just like that shirt," John says.
"Oh. I mean, yes, of course. Thanks." Rodney ducks his head and pretends to watch the kitten. Then he actually takes in what the kitten's doing and frowns. "Huh. Come to think of it, I think I've seen her eating that stuff before."
"That might explain the psychosis," John says. "I'm pretty sure there's nothing blue around here that a kitten should be eating."
"It could be flavor crystals," Rodney posits.
"Flavor crystals from what."
"Toothpaste? I don't know! You're the one in charge of edible things," Rodney abruptly decrees.
"I don't think that is an edible thing, that's kind of the problem. And by the way," John picks up their toothpaste and displays it, "no flavor crystals."
"Oh god," Rodney says. "I think I got the kind of litter that turns blue when it's peed on."
They both lunge for the kitten at the same time; John takes a shoulder to the chest, right on the sternum where it hurts the most. "Ow."
"Give me that, give me that!" Rodney says, cradling the kitten and borderline panicking, getting blue all over his fingers as he wrests the blue crystal out of her little mouth.
Then he sniffs it.
"Rodney! Jeez!"
"No, it's spearmint," says Rodney, and at the same time they both remember the mint-scented bath salts Rodney's sister gave John for Christmas that first year, when she still seemed to think that gay guys were just like women with a little more muscle and chest hair.
John opens the cabinet under the sink and the bath salts just come pouring out, little rocks and powder, white and blue and minty-reeky.
"I used to like spearmint," John says sadly, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm gonna be late."
"Move, move, the kitten was my idea, I'll get it," Rodney grumbles, shoving John out the door.
"Okay," says John, dropping a kiss on Rodney's temple. "We'll call her Fran."