Fic: Amuse Bouche
Amuse Bouche (~560 words, G, John meets Rodney)
There's a buzzing in John's ears, and for once, it's not his bees. It's McKay, the chef Ronon brought up, and he's holding court in John's kitchen, going on and on about his latest culinary triumph, the story taking impressive, meandering detours into how he recalibrated Sateda's big oven and what an idiot his sous-chef is. Ronon's looking on, clearly amused, and John can't figure out if it's at McKay's expense or his.
He'd walked McKay and Ronon around the property-showed them the beehives and the chicken coop (McKay maintaining what he insisted was "a respectful distance" from both), pointed out which way his bees flew to find apple blossoms and wildflowers, raspberries and buckwheat. Ronon wouldn't work with anyone he didn't think had real skills, John knows, and if McKay was mostly a lot of bluster, at least he also asked questions that made it sound like he was genuinely interested.
"Sorry," McKay finally interrupts himself, waving a hand in John's direction, "sorry, carried away, that probably didn't mean much to you, but the bottom line is, it was amazing. And unless your honey is just complete dumb happenstance, which is entirely possible, of course, you must have some inkling about what tastes good."
John smirks and leans against the wall by the fridge; he's not prepared to give anything away to this guy, except that his stomach betrays him, losing its cool and rumbling loudly.
Ronon snorts, and McKay points at John gleefully and says "Ha!", and before he knows it, McKay's diving headfirst into John's pantry.
Ronon steps outside to take a phone call-a client, maybe, from the way his voice is low and soothing and no-nonsense-or else he's just making a strategic escape, because McKay immediately presses John into service, snapping his fingers and instructing him to root around for this ingredient or that, shooing him outside twice-once for fresh eggs, and once to snip some of the chives that John had no idea were growing in a sunny spot against the south side of the house.
In between tasks, John watches McKay's hands as he peels and chops and stirs, watches him bring herbs up to his nose and sniff them, watches him dip the tip of his pinky finger into a sauce and suck it into his mouth.
Ronon reappears just in time to join them around John's little kitchen table, and all three of them go silent as they eat. Whatever McKay's cooked up-and John honestly has no idea what to call it, though he saw everything McKay did to put it together-it's answering a craving John didn't even know he had. By the time he's scraping his plate with the side of his fork and wishing there were more, he figures McKay's pretty much earned the smug, pleased look on his face.
When it's time for them to head back, Ronon claps John on the shoulder hard and winks, an entire discourse on "See what I do for you?" wrapped up in the gestures. McKay shakes John's hand, oddly formal, and stutters out an awkwardly earnest compliment about the "really, very very fine" quality of his honey, and long after they're gone, even after he's washed the dishes and scrubbed the cutting board and pan and knife McKay used, the kitchen still smells like chives and garlic.
There's a buzzing in John's ears, and for once, it's not his bees. It's McKay, the chef Ronon brought up, and he's holding court in John's kitchen, going on and on about his latest culinary triumph, the story taking impressive, meandering detours into how he recalibrated Sateda's big oven and what an idiot his sous-chef is. Ronon's looking on, clearly amused, and John can't figure out if it's at McKay's expense or his.
He'd walked McKay and Ronon around the property-showed them the beehives and the chicken coop (McKay maintaining what he insisted was "a respectful distance" from both), pointed out which way his bees flew to find apple blossoms and wildflowers, raspberries and buckwheat. Ronon wouldn't work with anyone he didn't think had real skills, John knows, and if McKay was mostly a lot of bluster, at least he also asked questions that made it sound like he was genuinely interested.
"Sorry," McKay finally interrupts himself, waving a hand in John's direction, "sorry, carried away, that probably didn't mean much to you, but the bottom line is, it was amazing. And unless your honey is just complete dumb happenstance, which is entirely possible, of course, you must have some inkling about what tastes good."
John smirks and leans against the wall by the fridge; he's not prepared to give anything away to this guy, except that his stomach betrays him, losing its cool and rumbling loudly.
Ronon snorts, and McKay points at John gleefully and says "Ha!", and before he knows it, McKay's diving headfirst into John's pantry.
Ronon steps outside to take a phone call-a client, maybe, from the way his voice is low and soothing and no-nonsense-or else he's just making a strategic escape, because McKay immediately presses John into service, snapping his fingers and instructing him to root around for this ingredient or that, shooing him outside twice-once for fresh eggs, and once to snip some of the chives that John had no idea were growing in a sunny spot against the south side of the house.
In between tasks, John watches McKay's hands as he peels and chops and stirs, watches him bring herbs up to his nose and sniff them, watches him dip the tip of his pinky finger into a sauce and suck it into his mouth.
Ronon reappears just in time to join them around John's little kitchen table, and all three of them go silent as they eat. Whatever McKay's cooked up-and John honestly has no idea what to call it, though he saw everything McKay did to put it together-it's answering a craving John didn't even know he had. By the time he's scraping his plate with the side of his fork and wishing there were more, he figures McKay's pretty much earned the smug, pleased look on his face.
When it's time for them to head back, Ronon claps John on the shoulder hard and winks, an entire discourse on "See what I do for you?" wrapped up in the gestures. McKay shakes John's hand, oddly formal, and stutters out an awkwardly earnest compliment about the "really, very very fine" quality of his honey, and long after they're gone, even after he's washed the dishes and scrubbed the cutting board and pan and knife McKay used, the kitchen still smells like chives and garlic.