Ficlet: Not Like I Ever
Title: Not Like I Ever
Author: perspi
Rating: PG-13, for language
Word Count: ~560
Summary: "I'm forty-four years old," John grits out, "and I can still move my entire life in a duffel bag."
Notes: No warnings needed. Written on an epic road trip with a two-year-old; this hasn't been seen by anyone but me. And now you! Hooray!
Rodney doesn't notice his door gliding open, doesn't notice the eddies of air pressure as his room is suddenly occupied by someone else--no, he only notices when a duffel bag (military issue, black, ugly but roomy and nearly indestructible) lands hard on his floor with a rattling flop.
"Hey asshole, I'm home," John announces loudly, and Rodney turns and looks up from his laptop to see the man himself, standing square in his big boots (also military issue, black, and ugly-but-indestructible, despite how John's tried) with his hands on his hips--and not tiredly, no, his hands rest pissily on his hips; his whole posture screams pissiness (but not truly pissed off, not at Rodney, not yet).
"I can see that," Rodney snips, just to watch the way John's jaw twitches underneath a three-day beard and his fingers tighten into the BDUs on his hips. And then, because even Rodney can tell that all John really wants is a way to start talking (permission to speak freely), he asks, "And?"
"I'm forty-four years old," John grits out before he can't take standing still and starts to pace. "And I have never, not once, needed help to move. I sold books every semester, I left a really fucking comfortable couch on a street corner, I was never posted anywhere long enough to unpack; everything in our apartment was Nancy's. I moved to a new galaxy with a goddamned backpack and I can still move my entire life in a duffel bag."
"You sold your books?"
John scowls at him. "I'm trying to--" John waves one hand around like he's attempting the sign language of M4S-330-- "Rodney."
"I know, John, what you're trying to do, but I gotta say, you suck at it," Rodney tells him as he gets up and crosses over to crowd John into standing still by the balcony door.
Which John does, standing still (although he vibrates in place, just a little) and refusing to meet Rodney's eyes. "I just--" John sighs gustily, rubbing one hand over his head before letting his shoulders droop, all the pissiness evaporating away from him in a wash of weariness. "Ronon has a lot of shit."
Rodney crosses his arms. "And?"
John mirrors the gesture and adds a pouty lean against the balcony door. "And it's official, now, him and Amelia. To the whole city."
"Ah," Rodney sighs, because finally. "That's actually...kind of sweet."
"Don't, McKay," John warns, but Rodney's already got him cornered and leaning; it doesn't take much to wrap his arms around John and catch him up tight.
"I can give you official," he says softly just before he kisses John, slow and sweet and soft. "We can broadcast the filling of your dresser drawer on the citywide." Another kiss, this time to the upturned corner of John's mouth. "Teyla can attend the placing of your giant boring book on the nightstand."
"Maybe," John whispers back, "maybe we could sign something. You know, official."
Rodney pulls back a little, just enough to see that John is wide-eyed and just a little greenish. "Did you just propose to me?"
John swallows like he's gulping in air, but he lifts his chin and says, "I want to move more than just my duffel bag."
And Rodney takes John's face between his hands, John's beard rough against his palms, and places his lips against the precious divot of bone right between John's eyes. Rodney promises, "You can move my books."
Author: perspi
Rating: PG-13, for language
Word Count: ~560
Summary: "I'm forty-four years old," John grits out, "and I can still move my entire life in a duffel bag."
Notes: No warnings needed. Written on an epic road trip with a two-year-old; this hasn't been seen by anyone but me. And now you! Hooray!
Rodney doesn't notice his door gliding open, doesn't notice the eddies of air pressure as his room is suddenly occupied by someone else--no, he only notices when a duffel bag (military issue, black, ugly but roomy and nearly indestructible) lands hard on his floor with a rattling flop.
"Hey asshole, I'm home," John announces loudly, and Rodney turns and looks up from his laptop to see the man himself, standing square in his big boots (also military issue, black, and ugly-but-indestructible, despite how John's tried) with his hands on his hips--and not tiredly, no, his hands rest pissily on his hips; his whole posture screams pissiness (but not truly pissed off, not at Rodney, not yet).
"I can see that," Rodney snips, just to watch the way John's jaw twitches underneath a three-day beard and his fingers tighten into the BDUs on his hips. And then, because even Rodney can tell that all John really wants is a way to start talking (permission to speak freely), he asks, "And?"
"I'm forty-four years old," John grits out before he can't take standing still and starts to pace. "And I have never, not once, needed help to move. I sold books every semester, I left a really fucking comfortable couch on a street corner, I was never posted anywhere long enough to unpack; everything in our apartment was Nancy's. I moved to a new galaxy with a goddamned backpack and I can still move my entire life in a duffel bag."
"You sold your books?"
John scowls at him. "I'm trying to--" John waves one hand around like he's attempting the sign language of M4S-330-- "Rodney."
"I know, John, what you're trying to do, but I gotta say, you suck at it," Rodney tells him as he gets up and crosses over to crowd John into standing still by the balcony door.
Which John does, standing still (although he vibrates in place, just a little) and refusing to meet Rodney's eyes. "I just--" John sighs gustily, rubbing one hand over his head before letting his shoulders droop, all the pissiness evaporating away from him in a wash of weariness. "Ronon has a lot of shit."
Rodney crosses his arms. "And?"
John mirrors the gesture and adds a pouty lean against the balcony door. "And it's official, now, him and Amelia. To the whole city."
"Ah," Rodney sighs, because finally. "That's actually...kind of sweet."
"Don't, McKay," John warns, but Rodney's already got him cornered and leaning; it doesn't take much to wrap his arms around John and catch him up tight.
"I can give you official," he says softly just before he kisses John, slow and sweet and soft. "We can broadcast the filling of your dresser drawer on the citywide." Another kiss, this time to the upturned corner of John's mouth. "Teyla can attend the placing of your giant boring book on the nightstand."
"Maybe," John whispers back, "maybe we could sign something. You know, official."
Rodney pulls back a little, just enough to see that John is wide-eyed and just a little greenish. "Did you just propose to me?"
John swallows like he's gulping in air, but he lifts his chin and says, "I want to move more than just my duffel bag."
And Rodney takes John's face between his hands, John's beard rough against his palms, and places his lips against the precious divot of bone right between John's eyes. Rodney promises, "You can move my books."