Stargate AU: The Alexandrian Tablet (1/15)

[giogio]

Pairings: John/Rodney, Rodney/Daniel, Rodney/Lorne (I can't believe I almost forgot that one!), Teyla/Ronon, misc others (mention of whom would be spoilery)
Rating: R-ish
Words: 60K-ish
Genre: AU, Contemporary, No Stargate program
Author's Note: There are 15 chapters and about 60K words to this story, which will be posted at a rate of one chapter per week. Longtime followers of this journal may recognize bits and pieces of this. I was toying with the plot of this story years ago, but could never make it work, until I read the parts I'd written in 2002ish last fall and realized, "Huh. This was always supposed to be a Stargate AU!" Beta'd by the wonderful cathexys. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 1

It was a perfect summer day for Southern California. Temperatures in the high 70s and rising, sky as blue as the ocean hadn't been in about fifty years--which probably didn't bode well for ozone levels in the LA basin--flecked here and there with cirrus clouds; all in all, it seemed to Rodney, that the weather was mocking him, determined to counteract his foul mood. The weather, Rodney thought sullenly, was in for quite a shock when it discovered that he was mule-headed and stubborn enough in his current misanthropy to wait out a California summer. This was especially true since he was sure his current misanthropy was completely justified and had a number of distinct causes.

For one thing, there was the annoyance caused by Daniel crawling out of the woodwork years after their final and explosive breakup, and messing with the smooth running of his department. Rodney was almost entirely sure that Daniel was being a vindictive bitch, but since he'd never actually bothered to mention his lack of heterosexuality to anyone at the university, he had found himself at a bit of a loss to explain to the rest of the faculty just why it would have been in everybody's best interest to ignore Daniel altogether, and now, regrettably, it was a little too late to do anything about it.

Somewhat relatedly, as a personal affront, the department chair had decided to drop dead a few months previously, landing Rodney with the title of Acting Department Chair, emphasis on the "acting," even though Rodney was perfectly aware that he was the most brilliant Classicist/Egyptologist North America had produced in fifty years, which made the "acting" all the more insulting.

It was mostly because of this precarious state of affairs and the fact that, with benefit of hindsight, Rodney had to admit that his decision to accept a tenure-track position at St. Augustine's had perhaps been influenced a little too much by the deep pockets of an institution with the wealth of the Vatican behind it, that Rodney had decided to keep his mouth shut about the lack of heterosexuality when the specter of Daniel Jackson had first reared its remarkably well-proportioned head.

It went without saying that nobody, absolutely nobody, had bothered to tell Rodney beforehand what a logistical and political nightmare the running of a university department really was, the same way nobody had mentioned that being bestowed with an administrative title, temporary or not, would curtail his freedom to throw himself into research significantly. For instance, department chairs apparently were not supposed to disappear to interesting digs in Egypt for a few weeks at a time; instead they were expected to attend one boring conference after another and eat cheap steak while listening to senile pencil-pushers explaining the finer points of turning higher education into a profitable business. Rodney hated cheap steak almost as much as he hated bureaucracy.

Returning from a week of vacation followed by just such a conference, Rodney kept his eyes fixed on the ground, ignoring the summer session students around him, and made his way across campus to one of the lesser-used back entrances of Naville Hall where he managed to sneak up a narrow staircase without encountering any students or faculty. He briefly pressed his ear to the fire door on the third floor to check the hallway was clear, then dashed across to the department's administrative offices.

"Oh, it's you," Julia, the department's administrator, a heavyset woman of about fifty-five resplendent in a tweed suit that had been out of fashion before Rodney was born, greeted him when he opened the door. "How was Chicago?"

"Tolerable only because I managed to spend an afternoon at the Oriental Institute," Rodney snapped.

Julia cleared her throat in a manner that left absolutely no doubt in Rodney's mind about how she felt about his kind in general and him personally in particular, and said, "Professor Hammond always enjoyed that conference very much. He spent weeks every spring preparing for it."

Rodney chose to ignore the jab and instead asked, "Any messages while I was gone?"

"Oh yes," Julia said, picking up a stack of notes. "Mr. Jackson called another thirteen times."

"What does that make it now?" Rodney asked, sighing.

"Fifty-seven calls in total," Julia said.

"And you told him I was incommunicado on a dig in Egypt for the entire summer?"

"I did," Julia said, "and his response--just a second, let me find the note in question," she shuffled through the paper slips for a moment before adjusting her glasses to read, "his response to that was, and I quote, 'No, he's not, he doesn't have a current visa.'"

"But we've already admitted him to the program, why on earth does he keep on calling?" Rodney groaned.

"Yes, strange that," Julia agreed, glancing at him quizzically over the top of her reading glasses.

"Any other messages?" Rodney asked to change the subject.

"A John Sheppard has called several times since Monday. He needs to speak to you urgently and insisted on giving me his number every time. I think I've had it memorized since Tuesday," Julia said. "And then, yesterday, Dr. Emmagen from the anthropology department at State called to ask why you weren't answering your phone. You've lost it again, haven't you?"

Rodney could feel his ears reddening. "Not lost as such, no. There was a small mishap at the hotel in Chicago when I tried to take a call while shaving."

"And?"

"And," Rodney admitted, "my phone is currently in a Ziploc bag in my suitcase, waterlogged and refusing to work. Do you suppose Nokia will exchange it?"

"Not after the other two, no. I'll put in a requisition for a new one, shall I?"

"Thank you." When Julia didn't step aside to let Rodney into his office, he added, "Anything else?"

"Just this," Julia said, handing over an official-looking letter. "I've decided to take early retirement."

Rodney felt torn between relief and utter panic. "But you've been here twenty years at least!"

"Twenty-three to be precise," Julia replied. "But I've been considering retirement for several months now."

Ever since that old lecher Hammond was felled by a massive heart attack and I was appointed Acting Department Chair, Rodney wanted to say, but some primordial survival instinct kicked in and overrode his mouth. He forced a mask of sincerity on his face and said, "I'm sorry to hear that; this department won't be the same without you. How soon will I have to find a replacement?"

Julia smiled. "I'm not one for lingering," she said. "I tried to call you as soon as the paperwork had been processed, but got only voicemail. Tomorrow is my last day."

"Tomorrow?" Rodney almost screeched. He knew that Julia considered him an unworthy successor to Hammond, but this was tantamount to treason against the department. "I have to find a new assistant by Monday with the start of the fall semester only a few weeks away?"

"Yes," Julia said. "Would you like me to request a replacement from the temporary pool to tide you over until you can interview for the position?"

"Of course, why haven't you done so already?" Rodney asked.

"I wouldn't want to overstep my boundaries," Julia said. "Professor Hammond was always very particular about staffing. He liked to review the job postings and take an active part in the selection of suitable candidates. Naturally I assumed you would continue doing so."

"I see," Rodney said. "Anything else I should know?"

Julia was starting to look like she was enjoying herself immensely when she replied, "Yes. Dr. Cadman has been placed on strict bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. I'm afraid you'll have to find a replacement instructor for her classes sooner than you had planned."

Rodney grimaced and took the message slips she was holding out toward him. "Thank you. I'll be in my office unless Mr. Jackson calls again."

"And what should I tell Mr. Jackson?" Julia asked.

Rodney thought for a moment, then grinned and said, "Tell him I was detained by the Egyptians for entering the country without a valid visa."

He spent the next twenty minutes or so judiciously sorting almost two weeks' worth of mail into either his to be dealt with pile or the recycling bin. After that he started flicking through the messages Julia had taken down. In addition to Daniel's, John's, and Teyla's calls, he'd also been the lucky recipient of a call from both the dean's and the provost's office, the former to inquire just what exactly he intended to do about Laura Cadman's most recent jaunt into pregnancy-induced disability leave, and the latter to remind him that his budget for next fiscal year was overdue.

He sighed and picked up the phone at exactly the wrong moment, because instead of a dial tone he was greeted by a female voice asking, "Rodney?"

"Teyla," he returned the greeting.

"Why in God's name are you not answering your telephone?" Teyla asked.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I am fine, a little fatigued from the flight back from Chicago, but otherwise fine, thanks for asking."

Teyla ignored him wholesale. "What is wrong with your phone?"

"I accidentally dropped it in the toilet."

"That is regrettable."

"Yes," Rodney agreed. "More importantly, what's so important you braved Julia's withering scorn?" He paused, then added suspiciously, "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"Of course not," Teyla replied. "You're starting to sound like my mother."

Rodney doubted it, though of course he couldn't be one hundred percent sure, as Teyla's mother didn't actually speak English, and he'd never had much interest in any languages that hadn't been dead for a few centuries. After all, speaking living languages would make it that much more likely he'd be expected to engage in conversation with boring, tedious people, and given the option, he much preferred mummies to live bodies-at least they were genuinely interested. "I'm not sure the world would survive your spawn, and there are parts of it I quite like. Very, very far away from here mostly, but still."

"You did not enjoy the conference?"

"If I had known that becoming an Egyptologist would expose me to such blithering idiots, I'd have gone into the sciences after all, and damn the CIA and its stupid mandates," Rodney replied.

Teyla laughed. "You can't fool me; I've known you too long. You live for showing up at symposia and rubbing your peers' noses in your genius."

Rodney snorted. "You're not feeling my pain at all, are you?"

"Not really, no. Your earnings are excellent and you are teaching little. Having to attend a conference from time to time seems only fair," Teyla replied. "Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?"

Rodney ignored the question. "So why were you trying to call me?"

"Because, Rodney, best-friend duty is calling your name and not to be taken lightly," Teyla explained.

"John?"

"The very same," she agreed. "The triad imploded spectacularly and he has fled West Virginia with not much more than the clothes on his back."

Rodney winced. "Ouch. Not much I can do about that."

On the contrary," Teyla said, "there's much you can do. For starters, Ronon has requested that someone remove the moping ball of misery attempting to leave a permanent indentation in our couch cushion."

"He still hasn't forgiven John for the incident at your wedding?" Rodney asked.

Teyla laughed. "I think it had more to do with the way John lunged when I suggested that what he really needed in order to feel better was a good, long, hard f--"

"Yes, yes, I get the picture," Rodney interrupted hurriedly. "How charming of you to volunteer me."

"Actually, I volunteered Ronon."

Rodney dropped the new issue of KMT he'd been contemplating and grabbed his keys. "And he lunged?" he asked. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? I'm heading over to your place." He dropped the receiver before Teyla had a chance to respond.

His attempt to hightail it out of the office was thwarted by Julia a few seconds later, when she strategically placed herself between Rodney and the door of the office suite. Rodney sighed, made a mental note to speak to the campus fire marshal about the wisdom of having only one exit, and impatiently asked, "What now?"

"You can't possibly leave," Julia replied, straightening. "There are matters that need your attention."

"Such as?" Rodney inquired, avoiding her eyes. He had won one or two battles of wills with Julia, but never while maintaining eye contact; there were rumors that Julia had, in her time, outstared professors and sphinxes without discrimination.

Julia held out an accordion folder filled to bursting. "You need to review the budget, sign off on the paperwork for Professor Cadman's maternity replacement, and review the resumes of potential administrators the temp pool has faxed over. They'll need a shortlist by tomorrow morning at the latest."

Rodney took the folder, opened it, and glanced at the first set of documents: the request for Laura's cover. He flipped through the papers to the last page without bothering to read and signed. Then he handed the folder back to Julia. "Please review the resumes and draw up a shortlist using your best judgment. You know more than I do about what kind of skills are required for this position, anyway," he said.

"And the budget?"

"E-mail it to me. I'll review it at home tonight," Rodney said. "If you'll excuse me, I have a personal emergency. Can I leave now?"

Julia didn't reply but moved out of his way just enough so Rodney could squeeze past her. A few minutes later he had managed to sneak back down the back stairs and set off toward the staff parking lot.

Twenty minutes after that, he pulled, tires screeching, into Teyla and Ronon's driveway. The house looked deserted and John didn't answer the door when he rang the bell. Cursing John, he made his way around the side of the house and let himself into the backyard, fully expecting to be licked to death by Teyla's monstrosity of a canine, but the attack of dog didn't materialize. There wasn't even barking from inside the house.

Worried now, he walked across the patio to the kitchen door and tried the handle; it was, as always, unlocked. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. No, he changed his mind, not completely quiet; devoid of dogs and loud humans, it was true, but just on the edge of hearing, he could make out a low hum. He made his way into the living room where he found John stretched out on the couch, fifty pounds of eerily quiet dog on top of him like a living blanket, and the TV on mute.

"Hey," he said quietly.

Dumpy raised her head minutely from John's chest and whined but didn't budge, while John kept his eyes firmly fixed on the soundless TV, ignoring Rodney.

Rodney sighed and sat down on the floor, leaning back against the couch. "So Teyla tells me you turned down a tumble in the sheets with Ronon," he began. "How could you? Only chance you're ever going to get to turn the straight boy and you refuse. You're a disgrace to your brethren." That at least earned him a reaction in that John whapped him across the head.

"Good, you haven't lost your hearing, I was starting to worry about that," Rodney continued, rubbing the back of his head. "Did I forget your birthday or something?"

"What?" John asked. His voice was hoarse; from prolonged silences, Rodney hoped.

"You're not talking to me, Dumpy is not talking to me--"

"Dumpling!" John growled. "She's called Dumpling. Don't call her dumpy, there's not an ounce of fat on her, is there?" He was talking to the dog now. "Who's a good girl? You are, yes you are!" Dumpy started licking John's petting fingers in a show of solidarity, or rather, Rodney changed his mind looking at the coffee table, in an attempt to remove the last remnants of two bags of BBQ-flavored potato chips John seemed to have inhaled recently.

"It's a stupid name for a dog," Rodney muttered. "If Teyla ever decides to have children, we have a moral obligation to ensure that Ronon gets to pick the name of the kid; even if it means gagging her the minute they wheel her into the delivery room."

John snorted, but continued talking to the dog. "Did you hear what the bad man just said about you, Dumpling? You should maul him a bit, hm?" He reached for a bag of beef jerky on the coffee table and started feeding bits to the dog eagerly lapping at his fingers.

"Teyla's going to kill you for feeding her people-food, you know," Rodney tried to rekindle their, admittedly somewhat one-sided, conversation.

"And this would be bad how?" John asked.

"Oh Jesus!" Rodney said, getting up from the floor. "Moping is one thing, but you've just crossed the border into drama-queen territory."

"Says the man who's been too chicken to get into a relationship since the great break-up symphony in three movements of '96," John replied icily.

Rodney summoned whatever reserves of tact he had, and asked, "You want to tell me what happened?" He'd had quite enough of Daniel for the day.

"Where to begin?" John asked. "I suppose a good start would be the part where the psychotic bastard--"

"Huh?" Rodney interrupted.

"You know, I'm not going to mention his name ever again unless it is on judgment day in front of a panel of jilted housewives deciding who's getting sent down to the newly invented eight circle of hell--"

"Michael? You mean Michael?" John twitched so hard, Dumpy almost rolled of his chest. "Yeah, okay. Psychotic bastard. Gotcha." Rodney said hurriedly. "What did he do?"

"He took the keys to my truck and said, 'I'm just driving over to the store to get some beer for the game this evening.'"

"Seems a fairly reasonable thing to say."

"Oh, it was, right up to the point where kick-off time rolled around and my truck, my almost brand-new truck, was still gone." John muttered.

"Ah. Not so good." Rodney said. "So what did you do?"

"Reported the truck stolen, of course."

"You did what?"

John tore himself away from the beef jerky just long enough to give Rodney a blistering look, before continuing, "What do you think I did? Started calling everybody I could think of who might have seen the psychotic bastard and then, after the game was over, started calling the hospitals and the cops to see whether he'd managed to roll it off the highway."

Rodney sighed. "I take it he didn't."

"Nope. He drove it to fucking Florida; Palm Beach to be precise."

"He did?" Rodney asked.

"Oh yes, the movers that showed up a week later told me," John replied. "This was of course long after Nancy had had a nervous breakdown."

"Huh?"

"Nancy, his soon-to-be-ex-wife and my former girlfriend."

"But--"

"No, see, this gets better," John interrupted. "Seems that about six months ago or so, he acquired some bit on the side. I couldn't tell you whether that was a male or a female bit though, it's all a bit vague."

"So he left you and Nancy?" Rodney asked.

"Oh, he did better than that. He cleared out all the bank accounts he could get his mitts on, took Nancy's jewelry and my almost brand-new truck, which he sold pretending to be me, for cash I might add, and puff, gone with the fucking wind."

"Oh dear." Rodney wasn't quite sure what else to say.

John ignored him. "So Nancy, dear old Nancy, out of her mind with grief and righteous anger, starts blaming me for--I'm not exactly sure for what. Presumably for turning her husband into a big old screaming queen, or something."

Yeah, well, that would be a little bit more believable if she hadn't been screwing the both of you for years, if you ask me," Rodney pointed out.

John looked at him and rolled his eyes. "And when exactly did you hear me say that women were rational?" he asked.

"Hey, unlike me, you were in a relationship with one."

"Apt use of the past tense there, you're very perceptive," John said. "Because, in the couple of weeks or so it took me to figure out just exactly how badly the psychotic bastard had managed to fuck us both over, Nancy found religion."

"She did what?"

John shrugged. "It's true. Fucked if I know what religion, but she's sworn off the flesh unless it's attached to Nubian young sailor types."

"Pardon?"

John sighed. "I got home from trying to sort out some god-awful mess with the bank manager, and Nancy's strutting around in some weird gold-embroidered robe, leading a couple of muscly guys in sailor's caps who call her 'Mistress' around on leashes, and telling me she's going to follow a strict regimen of navy cock and bathing in the blood of virgins."

"You're joking."

"Yeah, fine, she didn't say anything about virgin blood," John admitted. "She seemed pretty damn serious about the navy cock, though."

"Posttraumatic stress, maybe?" Rodney asked.

John glared. "You've got to be kidding."

"Okay, let me get this straight," Rodney began.

"Interesting choice of words there," John shot back.

"The psychotic bastard walks out on your relationship without explanation or warning, and as soon as he does, Nancy discovers sailors and dumps you, too."

"That pretty much sums it up," John agreed. "Not that I'm sure I could have continued as a standard het twosome."

Rodney thought briefly about all the girls that had thrown themselves John's way in college, a handful of them successfully, but resisted the urge to bring it up. Instead, he said, "But I still don't quite see how you ended up here."

"I dunno, Rodney," John replied, sitting up and looking straight at him. "Maybe it had something to do with the utter joy of listening to my former girlfriend carrying on with the sailors in our bedroom; or maybe it was just because she changed the fucking locks while I was at work."

Rodney winced. "Oh, dear."

"You're starting to sound just like Teyla's mother, you know that?" John spat out and trudged off in the direction of the bathroom, while Dumpy whined piteously and started licking Rodney's ear.

John hadn't returned twenty minutes later when the front door opened and Ronon walked in wearing a three-piece Armani suit that had probably cost more than Rodney took home in a month (and he took home an awful lot, considering), and juggling his laptop, a briefcase, and a pile of legal papers. He paused for a moment, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the living room, and remarked laconically, "It moved."

"Yes," Rodney replied. "You can pay me later. Um."

"Yes?" Ronon prompted, putting down his papers on the table by the door and petting Dumpy who was waiting patiently.

"Er. Were you in court today?" Rodney asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"In a rush this morning?" Rodney asked more-or-less innocently, trying not to stare.

"I guess," Ronon replied. "Wha--son of a bitch!" His hand flew to his ear, fingers fastening around the stud. "No wonder the judge was giving me the evil eye all afternoon," he groaned. "I was about to take it out this morning and then Shep--where is Sheppard, anyway?"

Rodney shrugged. "Either experiencing some profound gastrointestinal problems or having a good, long sulk in the bathroom, you pick."

"I see," Ronon said, sitting down. "And where the hell have you been?"

"Chicago?"

"How convenient. I wonder whether Sheppard planned it that way."

"Planned what?" The man in question asked, walking into the room.

"Your grand entrance for while I was away at a conference," Rodney explained.

John looked at Ronon and narrowed his eyes. "I always knew I was right to speak up when Reverend Halling asked whether anyone there knew of any reason why you and Teyla shouldn't be joined in holy matrimony."

Rodney snorted. "You mean apart from him being a lawyer?"

"Careful now," Ronon said, "or I might sue you both for slander."

John glared. "You wouldn't dare."

"Why not? You've always said I sold my soul when I took the bar."

Rodney got up from the floor. "Children, children. Please."

Ronon looked at him suspiciously. "Has anyone mentioned to you that you're starting to sound just like Teyla's mother?" he asked.

"That's what I was saying earlier," John agreed, switching sides likes the rat he was and folding his arms. "Do you think it's contagious?"

"Not sure," Ronon replied before Rodney could get a word in, "but I think we should take preventative measures, just in case."

"So that's how it is," Rodney said. "I rush over here, hours after getting off a plane, to lend a helping hand, console John and prevent him from lunging at Teyla again, and this is how you repay--"

"Wait, when did I lunge at Teyla?" John interrupted.

"That's what she told me," Rodney explained. "Said she thought you needed to get laid and she offered you Ronon and then you lunged."

John and Ronon both started laughing in unison. Dumpy, apparently feeling left out, chose that moment to start barking.

"Oh, man, you've got it wrong again," Ronon said breathlessly when he got a grip on himself. "He lunged at me. Almost tore my shirt off, too."

Rodney looked at John incredulously.

John shrugged. "What?"

"Do you have a married-guy kink or something?"

John smiled through clenched teeth. "Only when their wives offer them up on a silver platter." He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, closely followed by Dumpy, though Rodney suspected that that had something to do with the odor of beef jerky he was trailing.

"Sorry, Ronon," Rodney said. "I'll just..." he motioned vaguely at the door and followed John up the stairs.

The door to the guest room was shut. Rodney knocked quietly, not holding out much hope that John would answer. "John?"

"Get lost," came the muffled response.

Dumpy barked to emphasize the point.

"I can't," Rodney replied. "I promised Teyla I'd take you back to my place."

"I'll just move into a hotel," John grumbled. "I think I saw a Motel 6 just off the freeway. It looked a bit on the run-down side, with all the hookers and the drug dealers--"

"John, for fuck's sake--"

"No, no," John continued, "I wouldn't want to inconvenience you or Teyla."

Rodney took a deep breath to keep himself from screaming and then said levelly, "Shut up and pack, John. You're coming with me."

"Bite me."

Behind the door, Dumpy was growling.

Rodney quietly put his hand on the door handle, silently counted to three, and then pushed the handle down as fast and hard as he could. There was a satisfying moment of resistance and then John shouted and burst out in a barrage of curses.

"First rule of sulking behind closed doors is to keep your face out of the path of the handle while talking through the keyhole," Rodney said, pushing open the door. "Get packing."

Dumpy squeezed past Rodney and bounded out of the room. John rubbed his nose with one hand and gave Rodney the finger with the other, before turning and picking up a suitcase. "I'm packed."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." John actually managed to look hurt. "You love me. So much, in fact, that you're going to stop by the liquor store on the way to your house and buy us some first-rate malt, so you can console me drunkenly in a couple of hours."

"I am?"

"Yes," John nodded, "and when I say first-rate, I'm talking about Glen Moray and not Johnnie Walker. You're paying."

"And the consoling?"

"The usual: nod sympathetically while I'm ranting and raving; hold my head while I'm puking, that sort of thing," John explained.

Rodney nodded, "I can do that."

"And, if in your drunken attempts at consoling your mouth should accidentally find itself on my--" John stopped suddenly, looking at Rodney strangely.

Rodney cleared his throat. "Let's stick with the ranting, raving, and puking, okay?"

"Yeah, okay, fine," John agreed. "We'll do the grief and irrational anger phases first."

"And how long are those going to last, you suppose?" Rodney asked only half joking while he started pushing John in the direction of the stairs.

"Probably right up until you take me out this weekend to go foraging for rebound sex," John replied. "Do they have baths in California? Please tell me they have baths in California."

"Sure," Rodney said, pulling John down the stairs.

"Oh, good, 'cause I think I got too old to pull in bars right about the time I turned for--thirty," John said, then added morosely, "I wasted the best years of my life on the psychotic bastard."

Rodney glanced at John while herding him through the hallway. They were almost the same age, a couple of months apart. John probably had a few strands of gray creeping into his dark hair and some laughter lines around his eyes, but he was still as trim as he'd been when Rodney had arrived at Brown to start his first PhD twenty years earlier and somehow wound up sharing a room with the daredevil freshman with the knack for math. John still moved with the same fluid ease that had made all the Jersey girls lust after him when he'd followed Rodney to Princeton for graduate school--Rodney's second PhD and John's masters. John didn't look over-the-hill. A little older, sure, but not unattractive.

Rodney sighed and opened the front door. "Tell me on the way to the liquor store."