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[identity profile] berlinghoff79.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] sgaconstruction
John loved the basement. A long, narrow stairwell led down to it, the temperature dropping several degrees the further one delved into the earth, with a ceiling so low John had to duck his head. At the end of the stairs was an old wooden door that gave a soft creak when he opened it. Behind it, there was nothing but darkness until John, his fingers crawling along the wall to find the switch, turned on the naked pearl light bulb in the middle of the room. When they had moved into the house, Rodney had insisted on getting a new lamp for the cellar - “Come on, this isn't 'light', this is a lighter shade of gray” - but as John was usually the only one who came down here, he had just forgotten about it and had eventually become used to the soft, dusty rays interspersing the darkness.

The room was packed with boxes, jammed shelves, old furniture, the monstrous oil tank for the heating system and other small and big things, utensils that had accumulated over the course of many years – the two wooden Shakee animal statues from Gahorra they hadn't been able to place into their living room because people kept asking where the peculiar Shakees lived, a box containing Rodney's old laptops (hard disks extracted, of course), a long-forgotten cabinet that held firearms neither of them needed anymore, the oversized painting from the Behai people that showed the Lanteans defeating the Wraith, the broken Jumper control engine Rodney had stolen – “I borrowed it” - to build it into something John had never really gotten behind... Actually, there were so many collectibles in the basement, it was hard to tell how large the room truly was. Sometimes, John wondered if he would find a whole new section behind the big antique wardrobe, or a secret trapdoor beneath the stash of wood.

However, John's favorite part of the room was the ceiling. It was bare concrete covered with dozens of old cobwebbed movie posters, pin-ups, ads from the 1920s and newspaper articles that dated back over seventy years. When they had moved in, the ceiling had already looked like this. The previous owner, an old man whose death was the reason for the mansion being sold, had apparently been a collector of rare posters. His granddaughter, who had sold them the house, had reported that years ago, he'd been in a fight with his wife over his collection, and because she'd threatened to burn it, he'd pasted it to the ceiling where she could never get rid of it.

Sometimes, John would come down pretending to look for something, and spend five or ten minutes rummaging aimlessly through the boxes while not quite admitting to himself that yes, he was only there to stare at the old posters above.


Rodney, on the other hand, steered clear of the basement as much as possible.

“Stop being a squeamish little girl,” John teased him one cold evening when the heaters just wouldn't work and Rodney refused to go down to check out what was wrong.

“I'm not squeamish!” Rodney complained and hit John with a pillow.

“But a girl?”

Rodney just rolled his eyes and got up from the couch to go into the kitchen, as if he would find something very important to do. His brow furrowed in concentration, he started clattering with the pots they'd used for dinner.

“I already did the dishes,” John reminded him gently, leaning against the door frame. “So, you really don't want to go downstairs?”

“Do I want to say hello to Spidey McCrawly and his entire extended family in their natural habitat? Do I want to stumble over all that rubbish down there and break my legs because you still haven't bought a new light bulb? Wait, let me think – no, thank you, I don't.” Rodney shot a final glare at John and turned to leave, only to be gently yanked back by John.

He let himself be pulled close and shuddered when John's hot whisper tickled his right ear. “You know, it would be kinda hot.”

Rodney blinked, pulling back. “What?”

“You and me in the darkness of our basement, dirty and dusty and sweaty--”

“You destroyed your own alliteration, sicko. And when did 'our heaters don't work' turn into 'let's have sex'? Are you thirteen and is horny your default setting or what?”

John pouted and shrugged. “I just wanted to pitch it to you. Sorry, but you're the guy who fixes things in this house. I'd probably break the oil tank and set the house on fire.”

“Right, because you're the tech-idiot now. Do you suffer from Alzheimer's, or how is it you've forgotten everything you learned in Atlantis?”

With a sigh, John started another attempt. “Rodney, it's my fault the system conked out in the first place!”

Rodney squinted at him. “With your negative energy or what?”

“No, yesterday I thought the heaters weren't working properly and went down to press some buttons and change some settings. That's what must've blown the whole thing.” He inclined his head, blinking twice. “Please, Rodney?”

“Don't go all puppy-eyed on me, that won't work,” Rodney huffed and stomped out of the kitchen.

“Rodney!” John caught up with him, grabbing his arm. “No housework for you for the next two weeks?”



“Three and a half.”


At the top of the stairs, Rodney paused, eying the ominous door below. “And a blow-job.”

“And a blow-job,” John said.

Rodney still didn't go.

“So?” John asked.

“Will you... will you come with me?”

Chuckling, John stepped closer and took Rodney's hand. “Squeamish little girl.”

That got him a painful slap on the back of his head and a lot of pouting and complaining, but half an hour later, they were lying in their cozy, warm bedroom, and John fell asleep with Rodney's taste on his tongue.

He loved the basement.

Click me :D

Author: [livejournal.com profile] taiteilija, Title: One Cold Evening
Artist: [livejournal.com profile] mella68
Author's Notes: Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] neevebrody for handholding and the wonderful beta work.

Where to next?

The Living Room
The Garden
John's Study
2nd Floor
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The House Fandom Built

January 2010

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