(no subject)
Four-Wheel Drive (part of the Nantucket au [ Index]), ~550 words
It's maybe the tenth time they've had coffee together at the Espresso Cafe, tucked into a mostly shady corner table on the patio out back. Rodney talks and gestures and blows happily on his giant cup of coffee and eats his plate of home fries and half of John's, and John picks at the label on the ketchup bottle, watches him from behind his sunglasses, Rodney's voice washing over him warm as the late May sun on the back of his neck . . . and all John can think is sex, sex, sex.
John's decided that he's not going to sleep with Rodney, not yet, anyway-not because he doesn't want to, because he really, really does-but because he's a masochist, or because he's just plain scared of screwing up whatever they've got going here. So this is the plan: wait.
It's harder than he thought it would be. All it takes is for Rodney to brush a hand against his arm getting settled at the movies, or for John to lean over his shoulder at the bookstore, or for Rodney to nod off on the couch, head bowing, physics journal and red pen slipping out of his fingers, and John's instantly tense and hot and distracted, completely losing the plot of the movie and knocking over a stack of new hardcovers and wondering if he dares move the pen off of Rodney's lap and having whole conversations in his head where he's telling himself to calm the hell down and please, please attempt to act like a normal person.
On a cool, sunny Tuesday, they drive out to Great Point in the Wagoneer, bumping over the sand at 10 mph-Rodney saying archly that he didn't know John was capable of driving that slowly-and just sit for a while watching the guys fishing for stripers and blues and an oystercatcher foraging at the edge of the surf. John talks about surfing and laughs at the faces Rodney makes and reaches over to pluck open the top button of Rodney's shirt, says, "C'mon McKay, live a little." Rodney grumbles about UV rays but doesn't button it again, and John tells him horror stories about the riptide just to wind him up. And hey, maybe it's this easy after all.
They share beers on his porch that night. John leans against the railing, sun-warm and worn out, watches Rodney rubbing at salt grit on his neck, listens to him mock John's windblown hair. John can't stop staring at the little sunburned vee on Rodney's chest, wants-; he has a death grip on his beer bottle and shoves his free hand in his pocket to keep from doing anything else with it, vaguely hears himself acknowledge whatever Rodney says before he gives a half-wave and stands up to go. And that's it, that's it, John can't remember why he's waited for this, can't remember why on earth he's been moving under this self-imposed speed limit, and he lurches up fast, bottle dropping to the porch with a heavy clink, wipes his palm on his jeans and grabs for Rodney's hand, feels the words rushing out of him all in one breath, "You could, d'you want to stay?" And the look on Rodney's face says oh! and yes and finally.
ETA: And sheafrotherdon follows this to its logical conclusion with her commentfic of unbelievable hotness below, eeeee!
It's maybe the tenth time they've had coffee together at the Espresso Cafe, tucked into a mostly shady corner table on the patio out back. Rodney talks and gestures and blows happily on his giant cup of coffee and eats his plate of home fries and half of John's, and John picks at the label on the ketchup bottle, watches him from behind his sunglasses, Rodney's voice washing over him warm as the late May sun on the back of his neck . . . and all John can think is sex, sex, sex.
John's decided that he's not going to sleep with Rodney, not yet, anyway-not because he doesn't want to, because he really, really does-but because he's a masochist, or because he's just plain scared of screwing up whatever they've got going here. So this is the plan: wait.
It's harder than he thought it would be. All it takes is for Rodney to brush a hand against his arm getting settled at the movies, or for John to lean over his shoulder at the bookstore, or for Rodney to nod off on the couch, head bowing, physics journal and red pen slipping out of his fingers, and John's instantly tense and hot and distracted, completely losing the plot of the movie and knocking over a stack of new hardcovers and wondering if he dares move the pen off of Rodney's lap and having whole conversations in his head where he's telling himself to calm the hell down and please, please attempt to act like a normal person.
On a cool, sunny Tuesday, they drive out to Great Point in the Wagoneer, bumping over the sand at 10 mph-Rodney saying archly that he didn't know John was capable of driving that slowly-and just sit for a while watching the guys fishing for stripers and blues and an oystercatcher foraging at the edge of the surf. John talks about surfing and laughs at the faces Rodney makes and reaches over to pluck open the top button of Rodney's shirt, says, "C'mon McKay, live a little." Rodney grumbles about UV rays but doesn't button it again, and John tells him horror stories about the riptide just to wind him up. And hey, maybe it's this easy after all.
They share beers on his porch that night. John leans against the railing, sun-warm and worn out, watches Rodney rubbing at salt grit on his neck, listens to him mock John's windblown hair. John can't stop staring at the little sunburned vee on Rodney's chest, wants-; he has a death grip on his beer bottle and shoves his free hand in his pocket to keep from doing anything else with it, vaguely hears himself acknowledge whatever Rodney says before he gives a half-wave and stands up to go. And that's it, that's it, John can't remember why he's waited for this, can't remember why on earth he's been moving under this self-imposed speed limit, and he lurches up fast, bottle dropping to the porch with a heavy clink, wipes his palm on his jeans and grabs for Rodney's hand, feels the words rushing out of him all in one breath, "You could, d'you want to stay?" And the look on Rodney's face says oh! and yes and finally.
ETA: And sheafrotherdon follows this to its logical conclusion with her commentfic of unbelievable hotness below, eeeee!