John/Rodney ficlet - Lack of Symmetry (Earth AU series)
This is set in the same universe as On Life and Living. 800 words. Un-beta'd, and I'm barely awake.
Lack of Symmetry
John's forearms are wet and soapy halfway to the elbow, his fingertips starting to wrinkle as he works his way down to the last few bowls and spoons.
"But why does the soccer team have to have a bake sale?" Rodney asks plaintively, not for the first time that day.
"Do we have to go over this again?" John asks, his grin reflected on the shining surface of the window, teeth unnaturally white. "They need new equipment."
"They're twelve years old!" Rodney protests. "Not to mention all the game of soccer technically requires is a soccer ball, and we could have bought one from a store on the other side of the state and been home again by now in the time it's taken us to bake these cookies." He frowns, hands on his hips. "And I'm pretty sure it would have been less expensive."
Under other circumstances, John knows, Rodney would be delighted to be surrounded by cookies. It's only because most of them are slated for the sale at the school that he's irritated. "That's not really the point."
"Actually, it is," Rodney says. "This is an incredible waste of my time and talents."
John turns his head to shoot Rodney a look. "I told you you didn't have to help."
"But you didn't mean it," Rodney says, and John laughs.
"It won't hurt you to take an afternoon off once in a while."
"It might if this is what I do with the free time," Rodney says darkly. "You do realize this burn is probably second degree, right?" He waves the hand with the bandaged finger in the air for emphasis.
"So you keep telling me." John rinses off the last spoon, props it in the drainer, and reaches for a dish towel. Turning, he leans against the counter, feeling moisture from the edge of it dampening the back of his jeans as he dries his hands.
"Well, I hope Kayla appreciates this."
From upstairs, they can hear the water turn on in the bathroom sink. Kayla's brushing her teeth, the last thing she does every night before going to bed. It's a good hour past her bedtime -- though, to be honest, she likes baking more than either John or Rodney does -- and she'd only gone upstairs ten minutes before. "I'm sure she does," John says.
He hangs the towel back up and watches Rodney poke dejectedly at one of the more mishapen cookies. It's oatmeal raisin, so John figures a certain lack of symmetry is part of its charm. "This one's defective," Rodney announces.
"It is?"
Rodney nods. "There's a raisin on the edge that isn't surrounded by dough; it's burnt. The sugar to acid ratio in dried fruit is much too high to make it a reasonable addition to baked goods."
Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, John crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Tell it to Betty Crocker."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney says. "Betty Crocker's not even real. She's a figurehead that the Washburn Crosby Company created in the early 1920s to convince oppressed housewives that someone really cared about their complaints."
"Uh-huh," John drawls. He turns, picks up the nearest cookie, and makes a show of inspecting it. "Oh, hey, look -- this one's defective, too. Good thing I know how to take care of that." He bites the cookie in half and chews happily.
"Oh, yes, very mature," Rodney says.
"Never said I was," John tells him, eating the other half.
"I could have been working on something important this afternoon," Rodney says, sounding like he's working his way back toward being genuinely upset.
Sighing, John brushes his hands off on his flour-dusted shirt and says, "Then you should have. It's not like we were holding a gun to your head."
"Good night!" Kayla calls down from upstairs, and John and Rodney chorus, "Good night!" back to her.
"Don't even try to give me that line," Rodney continues. "You wanted me to help."
"Oh, no! The nerve! I actually wanted to spend time with you," John says. "I'm the worst boyfriend ever." He holds an opened hand in front of his mouth and widens his eyes.
"Yes, well," Rodney grumbles, appeased as he always is when John uses the word 'boyfriend'. "Maybe it wasn't so bad."
"Kayla and I both appreciate the help," John says.
"You do?"
"Yes, Rodney, we do."
"No, I mean -- you, in particular." Rodney's got that thoughtful look on his face, the one that means he's weighing his options. "Exactly how appreciative are you?"
John fights the grin that's tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Very appreciative," he says, reaching out and grabbing onto the front of Rodney's shirt. He pulls, and Rodney steps toward him. "Very, very appreciative."
"Oh good," Rodney says, his arms going around John's waist. Then he adds, hopefully, "Appreciative enough to give me a blow job?" and John grins and sets about showing Rodney just how very much he's appreciated.
Lack of Symmetry
John's forearms are wet and soapy halfway to the elbow, his fingertips starting to wrinkle as he works his way down to the last few bowls and spoons.
"But why does the soccer team have to have a bake sale?" Rodney asks plaintively, not for the first time that day.
"Do we have to go over this again?" John asks, his grin reflected on the shining surface of the window, teeth unnaturally white. "They need new equipment."
"They're twelve years old!" Rodney protests. "Not to mention all the game of soccer technically requires is a soccer ball, and we could have bought one from a store on the other side of the state and been home again by now in the time it's taken us to bake these cookies." He frowns, hands on his hips. "And I'm pretty sure it would have been less expensive."
Under other circumstances, John knows, Rodney would be delighted to be surrounded by cookies. It's only because most of them are slated for the sale at the school that he's irritated. "That's not really the point."
"Actually, it is," Rodney says. "This is an incredible waste of my time and talents."
John turns his head to shoot Rodney a look. "I told you you didn't have to help."
"But you didn't mean it," Rodney says, and John laughs.
"It won't hurt you to take an afternoon off once in a while."
"It might if this is what I do with the free time," Rodney says darkly. "You do realize this burn is probably second degree, right?" He waves the hand with the bandaged finger in the air for emphasis.
"So you keep telling me." John rinses off the last spoon, props it in the drainer, and reaches for a dish towel. Turning, he leans against the counter, feeling moisture from the edge of it dampening the back of his jeans as he dries his hands.
"Well, I hope Kayla appreciates this."
From upstairs, they can hear the water turn on in the bathroom sink. Kayla's brushing her teeth, the last thing she does every night before going to bed. It's a good hour past her bedtime -- though, to be honest, she likes baking more than either John or Rodney does -- and she'd only gone upstairs ten minutes before. "I'm sure she does," John says.
He hangs the towel back up and watches Rodney poke dejectedly at one of the more mishapen cookies. It's oatmeal raisin, so John figures a certain lack of symmetry is part of its charm. "This one's defective," Rodney announces.
"It is?"
Rodney nods. "There's a raisin on the edge that isn't surrounded by dough; it's burnt. The sugar to acid ratio in dried fruit is much too high to make it a reasonable addition to baked goods."
Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, John crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Tell it to Betty Crocker."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney says. "Betty Crocker's not even real. She's a figurehead that the Washburn Crosby Company created in the early 1920s to convince oppressed housewives that someone really cared about their complaints."
"Uh-huh," John drawls. He turns, picks up the nearest cookie, and makes a show of inspecting it. "Oh, hey, look -- this one's defective, too. Good thing I know how to take care of that." He bites the cookie in half and chews happily.
"Oh, yes, very mature," Rodney says.
"Never said I was," John tells him, eating the other half.
"I could have been working on something important this afternoon," Rodney says, sounding like he's working his way back toward being genuinely upset.
Sighing, John brushes his hands off on his flour-dusted shirt and says, "Then you should have. It's not like we were holding a gun to your head."
"Good night!" Kayla calls down from upstairs, and John and Rodney chorus, "Good night!" back to her.
"Don't even try to give me that line," Rodney continues. "You wanted me to help."
"Oh, no! The nerve! I actually wanted to spend time with you," John says. "I'm the worst boyfriend ever." He holds an opened hand in front of his mouth and widens his eyes.
"Yes, well," Rodney grumbles, appeased as he always is when John uses the word 'boyfriend'. "Maybe it wasn't so bad."
"Kayla and I both appreciate the help," John says.
"You do?"
"Yes, Rodney, we do."
"No, I mean -- you, in particular." Rodney's got that thoughtful look on his face, the one that means he's weighing his options. "Exactly how appreciative are you?"
John fights the grin that's tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Very appreciative," he says, reaching out and grabbing onto the front of Rodney's shirt. He pulls, and Rodney steps toward him. "Very, very appreciative."
"Oh good," Rodney says, his arms going around John's waist. Then he adds, hopefully, "Appreciative enough to give me a blow job?" and John grins and sets about showing Rodney just how very much he's appreciated.