Fic: Popular Vote
Popular Vote (~400 words, G, waiting for the results of Maine's same-sex marriage vote)
They listen to the results coming in on the radio, gathered around John's kitchen table, John and Teyla and Ronon and Rodney. It's better than watching the local news or, god forbid, the cable pundits-hearing mellow, disembodied public radio voices reporting about polls and percentages and districts.
Rodney makes them food because it's what he does, and because it gives him something to focus on-free-form pizzas with some of John's honey worked into the dough and some of Teyla's tangy goat cheese on top, and little chocolate pots de crème that have everyone scraping spoons against ceramic when they're done. He and Teyla split an amazing bottle of wine that Ronon brought up while Ronon and John drink some kind of godawful pumpkin ale, and the four of them flow and ebb between conversation and quiet.
It's been dark for hours already, thanks to the time change, and the November chill's seeping in now that the sun's gone down. The moon's just past full, and Rodney can hear leaves skittering outside and some bird that's calling into the night.
Teyla and Ronon start a down-and-dirty game of Snap, and Rodney gets up again and starts a pot of coffee. He washes the dishes-he needs something to do, and it drowns out the sound of the radio for a few minutes. He's considering the idea of scrubbing down John's counters, wondering what kinds of cleaning products he might have on hand, when John calls out, "Rodney, come on, leave it, sit down."
He does, wrapping his hands around his cup of coffee, and he watches the way John plucks at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt, pulling and pulling until there's a ragged edge; the way he picks restlessly at his "I voted!" sticker, rolling the edge tightly and unrolling it again. Rodney reaches over and takes it from him, smoothing it out and sticking it to the table with his thumb. John doesn't meet Rodney's eyes, but Rodney's pretty sure it's not an accident when he shifts in his chair so that his shoulder is pressed against Rodney's, warm and strong and steady-like Rodney's the one who's unsettled, who needs reassurance, and oh, oh, okay, yes.
John turns the volume on the radio up, and Rodney leans into him, and somehow, it feels like luck.
They listen to the results coming in on the radio, gathered around John's kitchen table, John and Teyla and Ronon and Rodney. It's better than watching the local news or, god forbid, the cable pundits-hearing mellow, disembodied public radio voices reporting about polls and percentages and districts.
Rodney makes them food because it's what he does, and because it gives him something to focus on-free-form pizzas with some of John's honey worked into the dough and some of Teyla's tangy goat cheese on top, and little chocolate pots de crème that have everyone scraping spoons against ceramic when they're done. He and Teyla split an amazing bottle of wine that Ronon brought up while Ronon and John drink some kind of godawful pumpkin ale, and the four of them flow and ebb between conversation and quiet.
It's been dark for hours already, thanks to the time change, and the November chill's seeping in now that the sun's gone down. The moon's just past full, and Rodney can hear leaves skittering outside and some bird that's calling into the night.
Teyla and Ronon start a down-and-dirty game of Snap, and Rodney gets up again and starts a pot of coffee. He washes the dishes-he needs something to do, and it drowns out the sound of the radio for a few minutes. He's considering the idea of scrubbing down John's counters, wondering what kinds of cleaning products he might have on hand, when John calls out, "Rodney, come on, leave it, sit down."
He does, wrapping his hands around his cup of coffee, and he watches the way John plucks at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt, pulling and pulling until there's a ragged edge; the way he picks restlessly at his "I voted!" sticker, rolling the edge tightly and unrolling it again. Rodney reaches over and takes it from him, smoothing it out and sticking it to the table with his thumb. John doesn't meet Rodney's eyes, but Rodney's pretty sure it's not an accident when he shifts in his chair so that his shoulder is pressed against Rodney's, warm and strong and steady-like Rodney's the one who's unsettled, who needs reassurance, and oh, oh, okay, yes.
John turns the volume on the radio up, and Rodney leans into him, and somehow, it feels like luck.