petal by petal (sga, john/rodney, team, 2745, g)
Title: Petal By Petal
Author: Cesare (
almostnever)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word count: 2745
Ratings/Warnings: SFW. This story should be safe for people with triggers.
Summary: The team, an offworld mission, and games with flowers. Originally posted here in response to a chibi by
chkc.
*
According to the database and the advance sensors, PZT-381 is an uninhabited world, heavily forested, sunny and mild. The only point of interest is an Ancient outpost that probably contains a ten thousand year old zoological database.
The whole thing sounds so boring and simple that John's positive disaster will strike the moment his foot's through the gate. He comes through on high alert, ready for anything.
A butterfly glides by.
"Does that look poisonous to you?" John asks Ronon.
Ronon gives him a dubious look, like he's wondering if Earth people eat nothing but lead paint with mercury sauce for breakfast, lunch and snacks. John gets that look kind of a lot.
"Never mind," says John.
"This way," Rodney commands, nose to the screen of his scanner, and they fall in around him and start marching.
The outpost is less than a mile from the gate, though they almost miss it because it's part of the landscape, carved within a large rock outcropping among the trees. A door opens revealing the distinctive crystalline look of Ancient decoration, rendered in gray stone.
It only has two closet-sized rooms. John and Ronon sweep them and find nothing more dangerous than a little dust.
They let Rodney get to work and soon he's plugging in cables and switching around crystals, keeping up a running commentary under his breath-- seems like the job's too boring for Rodney even to bother complaining about. He only conjures up an absent, "You can stop crowding the claustrophobic scientist any second now," waving them off.
"I'll stay," says Ronon.
"Great, right, of course, the biggest person should definitely stay."
"Glad we agree," Ronon says. "Scoot over."
Rodney squints at him, piqued, but moves right away and settles comfortably enough into working on the console. Ronon brings out something that looks like a wad of string, but when he smooths it out, John recognizes it as something a lot like a swath of tight, intricate knitting made from fuzzy yarn. Ronon winds some of the yarn around the fingers of one hand and starts hooking and looping the string.
"What the hell is that?" Rodney asks, which is a relief because it means John doesn't have to.
"A hat for Torren," says Ronon, implacably tying away.
"And if something happens, you're going to be able to drop that and get your gu-- n," Rodney finishes the word weakly as Ronon, having drawn in an eyeblink, twirls his blaster and puts it back in the holster, somehow totally unhindered by all the yarn twisted around his fingers.
"Looks like that's going to be a really nice hat," John says brightly. "I'll leave you guys to it."
Outside, Teyla stands guard. "The information from the Ancestors' database seems to hold true still," she says. "There is no sign any humans have ever settled in the area, and there appear to be no dangerous predators nearby."
John consults his gut. Even though he's paranoid about this mission, braced for something big to happen... nothing really feels hincky here. "Okay. Then we'll patrol the perimeter. Looks like a nice place for a walk."
The grass underfoot is a bright yellow-green, and the strands crush under John and Teyla's boots with a weird lobster-like smell. There's nothing around for miles. The weather is bright and warm with a cooling breeze. John relaxes.
Of course that's when Teyla gasps, "Oh!" and he tenses up tight all over again.
Teyla's already beaming, though, kneeling to pluck a pink flower from a patch of them growing near the foot of a tree. "This flower grew on Athos!" Teyla says, thoroughly delighted, which shouldn't be as rare as it is. "My people will be so happy to find another source for it."
"Is it useful?" John asks.
"The scent is highly prized," says Teyla, "and a tea from the petals calms the blood. Or as Dr. Keller would say, it greatly lowers blood pressure."
"Nice."
"Also," Teyla's expression turns mischievous, "it can answer questions related to matters of the heart."
"O.... kay?" John sets aside his cynicism. Anything that makes Teyla look so happy is worth hearing more about. "How?"
She composes her face, mock serious, and plucks one of the flowers: deep pink, with a white center. "Caxso, have I met my life's love?" she asks, and then she exposes her wrist and taps the flower over it. White pollen sheds from the center pad. On her skin, the pollen dust turns orange. "Orange means yes."
"Huh!" John says. "What means no?"
"It will stay white. Will you try?" Teyla plucks another flower. "Traditionally the next question is, Caxso, have I lost my life's love?"
"That seems kind of downbeat." John gives her his left wrist anyway. "Caxso, have I lost my life's love?" he repeats, and she taps the pollen onto his wrist. It stays white. It must react to galvanic skin response, or maybe subtle changes in temperature or even moisture.
"Caxso, will I win my life's love?" Teyla asks another flower, and gets orange.
For the next round, John dutifully asks, "Caxco, will I wed my life's love?" and gets orange.
"There are more," says Teyla, "but the game is better played with at least three people, or the meaning of the questions begins to repeat very soon."
"We have a tradition with flowers that's a little like that," John tells her. "Ours you can do alone, though."
"Please, show me," Teyla says, giving him the caxso.
"Is it okay to take the petals off?"
"Yes, of course. We remove them to make the tea."
"Right." John holds the caxso blossom out for her. "Take a petal." She does, and he explains, "That petal stands for: he loves me. Take another. That one stands for: he loves me not. Take another, and you're back to, he loves me. You keep plucking til you're outta petals, and that gives you your answer."
"The caxso is very suited for this game," says Teyla, plucking methodically. "A blossom may have seven petals, or eight, or nine, so the answer can change depending on the flower." She displays the empty stem. "He loves me."
"No surprise there," says John.
"Will you try?" she asks with a broad and playful smile, putting another caxso in his hand.
"Teyla," Rodney's voice interrupts on their comms, "give me a hand in here? Literally? The last crystal I need is in a panel that's stuck mostly shut, and neither of us can get a hand into it. Yours would probably fit."
"Of course, Rodney," Teyla looks to John and at his nod, sets a pace back to the rock as John follows.
Ronon swaps places with Teyla, coming out and continuing to work with his macrame.
John still has the caxso flower, so why not: he tugs off a petal.
Then another. And another. He tries not to spoil it for himself by counting petals, but he can't help seeing how many are left and automatically noting that the answer's going to be He loves me.
Another butterfly coasts by, and lights on the pollen-dusted center of John's caxso flower. No big deal. Not poisonous. Not hurting anything. But it's up close and personal and despite the pretty blue wings, it's a bug with that creepy insect face and... are those mandibles?
John shakes the flower a little frantically, and then harder when the butterfly clings; he should just throw the flower away and the butterfly with it, but damn it, this flower's going to give him the answer he wants. It would be nice if just once, he could pretend things are going to work out for him, just for as long as it takes to pluck the petals off one lousy flower.
"Uh... Colonel?" Rodney frowns at him in consternation, emerging from the outpost just in time to see John flailing with the flower.
"--Hey," John says, suavely clasping his hands behind his back to tuck the flower out of sight. "All wrapped up in there?"
"Yes. And you, are you done with your St. Vitus dance? Was the prospect of a sunny day with nothing to shoot so dull you decided to indulge in a little jig to spice it up?" Rodney's mouth crooks from sarcasm to concern. "Though I suppose it may not be a joking matter. Maybe you're reacting to something in the atmosphere. It's probably hay, straw, grass and weed fever season here."
And damned if he doesn't press the back of his fingers to John's forehead as if it's the most normal gesture in the world. Just stone cold putting his hand on John's brow like a friend checks the temperature of another friend.
From the amused arch of Ronon's brows and the heat rising in his face, John's probably getting a little red.
Thank goodness for Rodney's ironclad obliviousness. "I really think you might be having a reaction to something," he says, and shifts to put his hand to John's cheek. "You look a little feverish. Are your airways clear? Any wheezing, or itching in your throat?"
"I'm fine," John says too loudly.
Not that decibels make any difference to Rodney, who turns to Teyla as she comes out of the rock and says, "Does Sheppard look flushed to you? Maybe he needs antihistamines. Or something stronger. I'll get an Epi-pen ready just in case."
Teyla takes in John's awkward embarrassment, the ill-concealed flower and Rodney's fussing, and slowly smiles, obviously adding it all up instantly. "I think he will be fine in a few moments, Rodney," she says. "He may simply need some air."
"Unless he's reacting to something in the air!" Rodney snaps.
"Rodney! I'm fine," says John. "There was just a bug in my face that I was swatting."
"Oh, for-- why didn't you say so?" Rodney bitches. "Would it kill you to speak up?"
"If we are all well now, I would like to gather some caxso before we return to the gate," says Teyla, and leads them back to the wooded area where she found the flowers.
Ronon gives her the folding trowel from his pack and Rodney holds out a specimen bag; Teyla carefully digs up a caxso plant with its roots and deposits it in the bag.
She doesn't look at John as she picks a few more flowers, but he can feel her amusement directed at him anyway. Sure enough, she says to Rodney, "John and I compared our cultures' games with flowers. He showed me how to take off petals to represent 'He loves me' and 'He loves me not.' Does your nation share this custom, or have a different one?"
"My nation always has different, and superior, customs," Rodney says. "Here," he snaps his fingers and Teyla gives him a flower.
"Il m'aime; he loves me," Rodney says, removing the first petal with a flourish. "Un peu, a little." Petal. "Beaucoup, a lot." Petal. "Passionnément, passionately." Petal. "Madly, à la folie, and pas du tout, not at all. Il m'aime, un peu, beaucoup."
"He loves you a great deal," Teyla says. John can't even risk it to give her a dirty look; he keeps his eyes on the horizon.
"So the flower would have it," Rodney says, discarding the stem.
John finds the voice to say, "That's French, not Canadian," mostly in hopes of goading Rodney into speaking more French; it's terrifically sexy but Rodney practically never does it, claiming it makes his sinuses hurt.
"It could be French-Canadian," Rodney defends.
"It could be, but it's not, is it? C'mon, where'd you pick it up?"
"Fine," Rodney says, "it's French, my roommate Arnaud thought it would be a cute way to make a pass at me and then he was appalled I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He made me memorize it before he'd even take off his-- um. Anyway." Rodney injects patently fake bonhomie into his voice. "Ronon! Do you know any flower customs?"
"We didn't kill flowers where I grew up," Ronon says. "Elders always said it was selfish."
"Oh," Rodney answers, looking impossibly even more uncomfortable.
Ronon lets him hang for a long few seconds before adding, "Then I moved to another province. They killed flowers there and braided the stems. I learned how to do that. Courtship plaits and wedding plaits... the flowers dried in braids and couldn't be untangled."
"That's a beautiful tradition," says Teyla.
"I'd rather fingerweave yarn," says Ronon. "Kills less flowers."
"I attempted it myself with the instructions you gave me," Teyla says, "and the simpler method came easily, but I was unsuccessful with the more complicated technique."
"It's not as hard as it seems," Ronon says, fishing out his yarn to show her.
John drops back a little, slowing his stride til he and Rodney are a few feet from Teyla and Ronon and their animated, la-la-la-pay-no-attention-to-the-silly-Earthlings discussion of string; John lets Rodney walk a little ahead, so that at least technically, John's on their six.
"Arnaud?" John ventures, before he loses his nerve.
Rodney tips up his chin and folds his arms across his chest. "Yes, my roommate during undergrad. International students were often assigned together. Not that it's any business of yours."
"Right. Not my business."
"No," says Rodney, but he doesn't look best pleased about it.
"So how would a fella get into that line of business?" John asks lightly, though his throat's tight, tension riding his back.
Usually Rodney seems so transparent, but maybe it's just that he doesn't usually bother to guard his face. He glances at John, maybe in surprise, but right now, John can't read him.
Rodney says, "I suppose it would depend whether it'd be a sideline, or whether you'd be willing to invest. In that business."
John's never going to have a better opportunity to put his meaning across without struggling for the words, so he buckles up and goes for it.
"You already got your answer on that from the flower," he says.
"The--" Wide-eyed, Rodney misses a step, nearly stumbling, and John instinctively scoops him up by the elbow. Rodney straightens; it puts them virtually arm-in-arm, standing together in a verdant meadow on a beautiful sunny day, a crisp breeze ruffling their clothes. If it weren't for that persistent weird smell like lobster underfoot, the romance of it all would be overwhelming.
It still is kind of staggering, really.
He recognizes that the moment couldn't be more perfect for a kiss, but John's still a little shocked that he managed to get out a genuine expression of feeling, however oblique; he can't seem to get himself back in gear. Luckily Rodney's recovered, and he sticks his chin up and sets his jaw, and then he's leaning in, and his mouth on John's is warm and hesitant.
After a few long moments, Rodney backs off just a little. John lets his lips part on a breath and tilts back into contact. His heart pounds as Rodney's kiss grows more confident, filling John with heat, teeth ghosting across his lower lip as Rodney slowly pulls away.
"We should--" John motions forward. "By now Teyla and Ronon've probably finished that hat, and socks to match."
"...And yet, you're not moving," says Rodney smugly.
John flips him off and starts walking, nudging Rodney along. They keep trading glances and looking away, grinning like fools.
Teyla looks mightily amused as they rejoin her and Ronon, who's focused on his fingerweaving. The hat really does almost look done.
"Ronon and I were taking note of the qualities of PZT-381 that might uniquely suit the caxso flowers," says Teyla. "I am not sure they would grow on New Athos. My people might like to establish a caxso garden here. They will grow without tending if they are sown in a tilled bit of earth."
"If you'd like to bring a jumper, I'll arrange it," says John, and looking at Rodney, he adds, "I'm willing to come back here any time."
A pregnant pause, and then Rodney startles. "Wait, was that another code, like mentioning the flowers? Could you signal these things, please? A passphrase, scratch your nose or something?" He adds more diffidently, "I, I'm willing to come back any time too."
John grins. "Teyla, on the way back, you should show Rodney the Athosian flower game." He can't wait to hear Rodney freak out over the wedding question.
He has a feeling the flower's answer is going to be yes.
http://cesare.dreamwidth.org/92290.html |
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Author: Cesare (
almostnever)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word count: 2745
Ratings/Warnings: SFW. This story should be safe for people with triggers.
Summary: The team, an offworld mission, and games with flowers. Originally posted here in response to a chibi by
chkc.
*
According to the database and the advance sensors, PZT-381 is an uninhabited world, heavily forested, sunny and mild. The only point of interest is an Ancient outpost that probably contains a ten thousand year old zoological database.
The whole thing sounds so boring and simple that John's positive disaster will strike the moment his foot's through the gate. He comes through on high alert, ready for anything.
A butterfly glides by.
"Does that look poisonous to you?" John asks Ronon.
Ronon gives him a dubious look, like he's wondering if Earth people eat nothing but lead paint with mercury sauce for breakfast, lunch and snacks. John gets that look kind of a lot.
"Never mind," says John.
"This way," Rodney commands, nose to the screen of his scanner, and they fall in around him and start marching.
The outpost is less than a mile from the gate, though they almost miss it because it's part of the landscape, carved within a large rock outcropping among the trees. A door opens revealing the distinctive crystalline look of Ancient decoration, rendered in gray stone.
It only has two closet-sized rooms. John and Ronon sweep them and find nothing more dangerous than a little dust.
They let Rodney get to work and soon he's plugging in cables and switching around crystals, keeping up a running commentary under his breath-- seems like the job's too boring for Rodney even to bother complaining about. He only conjures up an absent, "You can stop crowding the claustrophobic scientist any second now," waving them off.
"I'll stay," says Ronon.
"Great, right, of course, the biggest person should definitely stay."
"Glad we agree," Ronon says. "Scoot over."
Rodney squints at him, piqued, but moves right away and settles comfortably enough into working on the console. Ronon brings out something that looks like a wad of string, but when he smooths it out, John recognizes it as something a lot like a swath of tight, intricate knitting made from fuzzy yarn. Ronon winds some of the yarn around the fingers of one hand and starts hooking and looping the string.
"What the hell is that?" Rodney asks, which is a relief because it means John doesn't have to.
"A hat for Torren," says Ronon, implacably tying away.
"And if something happens, you're going to be able to drop that and get your gu-- n," Rodney finishes the word weakly as Ronon, having drawn in an eyeblink, twirls his blaster and puts it back in the holster, somehow totally unhindered by all the yarn twisted around his fingers.
"Looks like that's going to be a really nice hat," John says brightly. "I'll leave you guys to it."
Outside, Teyla stands guard. "The information from the Ancestors' database seems to hold true still," she says. "There is no sign any humans have ever settled in the area, and there appear to be no dangerous predators nearby."
John consults his gut. Even though he's paranoid about this mission, braced for something big to happen... nothing really feels hincky here. "Okay. Then we'll patrol the perimeter. Looks like a nice place for a walk."
The grass underfoot is a bright yellow-green, and the strands crush under John and Teyla's boots with a weird lobster-like smell. There's nothing around for miles. The weather is bright and warm with a cooling breeze. John relaxes.
Of course that's when Teyla gasps, "Oh!" and he tenses up tight all over again.
Teyla's already beaming, though, kneeling to pluck a pink flower from a patch of them growing near the foot of a tree. "This flower grew on Athos!" Teyla says, thoroughly delighted, which shouldn't be as rare as it is. "My people will be so happy to find another source for it."
"Is it useful?" John asks.
"The scent is highly prized," says Teyla, "and a tea from the petals calms the blood. Or as Dr. Keller would say, it greatly lowers blood pressure."
"Nice."
"Also," Teyla's expression turns mischievous, "it can answer questions related to matters of the heart."
"O.... kay?" John sets aside his cynicism. Anything that makes Teyla look so happy is worth hearing more about. "How?"
She composes her face, mock serious, and plucks one of the flowers: deep pink, with a white center. "Caxso, have I met my life's love?" she asks, and then she exposes her wrist and taps the flower over it. White pollen sheds from the center pad. On her skin, the pollen dust turns orange. "Orange means yes."
"Huh!" John says. "What means no?"
"It will stay white. Will you try?" Teyla plucks another flower. "Traditionally the next question is, Caxso, have I lost my life's love?"
"That seems kind of downbeat." John gives her his left wrist anyway. "Caxso, have I lost my life's love?" he repeats, and she taps the pollen onto his wrist. It stays white. It must react to galvanic skin response, or maybe subtle changes in temperature or even moisture.
"Caxso, will I win my life's love?" Teyla asks another flower, and gets orange.
For the next round, John dutifully asks, "Caxco, will I wed my life's love?" and gets orange.
"There are more," says Teyla, "but the game is better played with at least three people, or the meaning of the questions begins to repeat very soon."
"We have a tradition with flowers that's a little like that," John tells her. "Ours you can do alone, though."
"Please, show me," Teyla says, giving him the caxso.
"Is it okay to take the petals off?"
"Yes, of course. We remove them to make the tea."
"Right." John holds the caxso blossom out for her. "Take a petal." She does, and he explains, "That petal stands for: he loves me. Take another. That one stands for: he loves me not. Take another, and you're back to, he loves me. You keep plucking til you're outta petals, and that gives you your answer."
"The caxso is very suited for this game," says Teyla, plucking methodically. "A blossom may have seven petals, or eight, or nine, so the answer can change depending on the flower." She displays the empty stem. "He loves me."
"No surprise there," says John.
"Will you try?" she asks with a broad and playful smile, putting another caxso in his hand.
"Teyla," Rodney's voice interrupts on their comms, "give me a hand in here? Literally? The last crystal I need is in a panel that's stuck mostly shut, and neither of us can get a hand into it. Yours would probably fit."
"Of course, Rodney," Teyla looks to John and at his nod, sets a pace back to the rock as John follows.
Ronon swaps places with Teyla, coming out and continuing to work with his macrame.
John still has the caxso flower, so why not: he tugs off a petal.
Then another. And another. He tries not to spoil it for himself by counting petals, but he can't help seeing how many are left and automatically noting that the answer's going to be He loves me.
Another butterfly coasts by, and lights on the pollen-dusted center of John's caxso flower. No big deal. Not poisonous. Not hurting anything. But it's up close and personal and despite the pretty blue wings, it's a bug with that creepy insect face and... are those mandibles?
John shakes the flower a little frantically, and then harder when the butterfly clings; he should just throw the flower away and the butterfly with it, but damn it, this flower's going to give him the answer he wants. It would be nice if just once, he could pretend things are going to work out for him, just for as long as it takes to pluck the petals off one lousy flower.
"Uh... Colonel?" Rodney frowns at him in consternation, emerging from the outpost just in time to see John flailing with the flower.
"--Hey," John says, suavely clasping his hands behind his back to tuck the flower out of sight. "All wrapped up in there?"
"Yes. And you, are you done with your St. Vitus dance? Was the prospect of a sunny day with nothing to shoot so dull you decided to indulge in a little jig to spice it up?" Rodney's mouth crooks from sarcasm to concern. "Though I suppose it may not be a joking matter. Maybe you're reacting to something in the atmosphere. It's probably hay, straw, grass and weed fever season here."
And damned if he doesn't press the back of his fingers to John's forehead as if it's the most normal gesture in the world. Just stone cold putting his hand on John's brow like a friend checks the temperature of another friend.
From the amused arch of Ronon's brows and the heat rising in his face, John's probably getting a little red.
Thank goodness for Rodney's ironclad obliviousness. "I really think you might be having a reaction to something," he says, and shifts to put his hand to John's cheek. "You look a little feverish. Are your airways clear? Any wheezing, or itching in your throat?"
"I'm fine," John says too loudly.
Not that decibels make any difference to Rodney, who turns to Teyla as she comes out of the rock and says, "Does Sheppard look flushed to you? Maybe he needs antihistamines. Or something stronger. I'll get an Epi-pen ready just in case."
Teyla takes in John's awkward embarrassment, the ill-concealed flower and Rodney's fussing, and slowly smiles, obviously adding it all up instantly. "I think he will be fine in a few moments, Rodney," she says. "He may simply need some air."
"Unless he's reacting to something in the air!" Rodney snaps.
"Rodney! I'm fine," says John. "There was just a bug in my face that I was swatting."
"Oh, for-- why didn't you say so?" Rodney bitches. "Would it kill you to speak up?"
"If we are all well now, I would like to gather some caxso before we return to the gate," says Teyla, and leads them back to the wooded area where she found the flowers.
Ronon gives her the folding trowel from his pack and Rodney holds out a specimen bag; Teyla carefully digs up a caxso plant with its roots and deposits it in the bag.
She doesn't look at John as she picks a few more flowers, but he can feel her amusement directed at him anyway. Sure enough, she says to Rodney, "John and I compared our cultures' games with flowers. He showed me how to take off petals to represent 'He loves me' and 'He loves me not.' Does your nation share this custom, or have a different one?"
"My nation always has different, and superior, customs," Rodney says. "Here," he snaps his fingers and Teyla gives him a flower.
"Il m'aime; he loves me," Rodney says, removing the first petal with a flourish. "Un peu, a little." Petal. "Beaucoup, a lot." Petal. "Passionnément, passionately." Petal. "Madly, à la folie, and pas du tout, not at all. Il m'aime, un peu, beaucoup."
"He loves you a great deal," Teyla says. John can't even risk it to give her a dirty look; he keeps his eyes on the horizon.
"So the flower would have it," Rodney says, discarding the stem.
John finds the voice to say, "That's French, not Canadian," mostly in hopes of goading Rodney into speaking more French; it's terrifically sexy but Rodney practically never does it, claiming it makes his sinuses hurt.
"It could be French-Canadian," Rodney defends.
"It could be, but it's not, is it? C'mon, where'd you pick it up?"
"Fine," Rodney says, "it's French, my roommate Arnaud thought it would be a cute way to make a pass at me and then he was appalled I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He made me memorize it before he'd even take off his-- um. Anyway." Rodney injects patently fake bonhomie into his voice. "Ronon! Do you know any flower customs?"
"We didn't kill flowers where I grew up," Ronon says. "Elders always said it was selfish."
"Oh," Rodney answers, looking impossibly even more uncomfortable.
Ronon lets him hang for a long few seconds before adding, "Then I moved to another province. They killed flowers there and braided the stems. I learned how to do that. Courtship plaits and wedding plaits... the flowers dried in braids and couldn't be untangled."
"That's a beautiful tradition," says Teyla.
"I'd rather fingerweave yarn," says Ronon. "Kills less flowers."
"I attempted it myself with the instructions you gave me," Teyla says, "and the simpler method came easily, but I was unsuccessful with the more complicated technique."
"It's not as hard as it seems," Ronon says, fishing out his yarn to show her.
John drops back a little, slowing his stride til he and Rodney are a few feet from Teyla and Ronon and their animated, la-la-la-pay-no-attention-to-the-silly-Earthlings discussion of string; John lets Rodney walk a little ahead, so that at least technically, John's on their six.
"Arnaud?" John ventures, before he loses his nerve.
Rodney tips up his chin and folds his arms across his chest. "Yes, my roommate during undergrad. International students were often assigned together. Not that it's any business of yours."
"Right. Not my business."
"No," says Rodney, but he doesn't look best pleased about it.
"So how would a fella get into that line of business?" John asks lightly, though his throat's tight, tension riding his back.
Usually Rodney seems so transparent, but maybe it's just that he doesn't usually bother to guard his face. He glances at John, maybe in surprise, but right now, John can't read him.
Rodney says, "I suppose it would depend whether it'd be a sideline, or whether you'd be willing to invest. In that business."
John's never going to have a better opportunity to put his meaning across without struggling for the words, so he buckles up and goes for it.
"You already got your answer on that from the flower," he says.
"The--" Wide-eyed, Rodney misses a step, nearly stumbling, and John instinctively scoops him up by the elbow. Rodney straightens; it puts them virtually arm-in-arm, standing together in a verdant meadow on a beautiful sunny day, a crisp breeze ruffling their clothes. If it weren't for that persistent weird smell like lobster underfoot, the romance of it all would be overwhelming.
It still is kind of staggering, really.
He recognizes that the moment couldn't be more perfect for a kiss, but John's still a little shocked that he managed to get out a genuine expression of feeling, however oblique; he can't seem to get himself back in gear. Luckily Rodney's recovered, and he sticks his chin up and sets his jaw, and then he's leaning in, and his mouth on John's is warm and hesitant.
After a few long moments, Rodney backs off just a little. John lets his lips part on a breath and tilts back into contact. His heart pounds as Rodney's kiss grows more confident, filling John with heat, teeth ghosting across his lower lip as Rodney slowly pulls away.
"We should--" John motions forward. "By now Teyla and Ronon've probably finished that hat, and socks to match."
"...And yet, you're not moving," says Rodney smugly.
John flips him off and starts walking, nudging Rodney along. They keep trading glances and looking away, grinning like fools.
Teyla looks mightily amused as they rejoin her and Ronon, who's focused on his fingerweaving. The hat really does almost look done.
"Ronon and I were taking note of the qualities of PZT-381 that might uniquely suit the caxso flowers," says Teyla. "I am not sure they would grow on New Athos. My people might like to establish a caxso garden here. They will grow without tending if they are sown in a tilled bit of earth."
"If you'd like to bring a jumper, I'll arrange it," says John, and looking at Rodney, he adds, "I'm willing to come back here any time."
A pregnant pause, and then Rodney startles. "Wait, was that another code, like mentioning the flowers? Could you signal these things, please? A passphrase, scratch your nose or something?" He adds more diffidently, "I, I'm willing to come back any time too."
John grins. "Teyla, on the way back, you should show Rodney the Athosian flower game." He can't wait to hear Rodney freak out over the wedding question.
He has a feeling the flower's answer is going to be yes.
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