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[identity profile] berlinghoff79.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] sgaconstruction
Sunlight barrels through the wide-slat wooden blinds, glancing off the polished glass-like surface of John's desk, and brings the dark, rich wood grain to life. Sleek and modern, with it's own twin inset writing surfaces, it's an updated version of the old English partners desk. And even though Rodney had a study of his own, John had known on sight the double desk was the one he wanted.

The morning mail and October's bills stare up at him, paperwork cloaked by the insidious mask of shimmering light. He squints at them, resigning himself to the task. It's one of those rare late-autumn days when the bright rays and the crisp air sharpens everything with a crystal clarity. Though the view of the garden and a bit of navel gazing seem better uses of his time, John sits down and opens his laptop.

Their decision to have separate studies had not been a difficult one. Rodney talks to himself when working, and he tends to spread out. A lot. Sometimes into other rooms if necessary. But there'd been no discussion when it had come to deciding which room would be John's. The choice had been non-negotiable and John had stood firm. From the moment he'd peeked inside the cozy room off the foyer, even in all its musty and dust-covered splendor, this room had called to him. A sanctuary, a place he could go and shut off the world.

Rodney sits on the floor by the bookcases, click-clacking his way through the CD cases. He stops suddenly, then continues one long exasperated sigh later.

"Thought you had important work to do?" John asks, eagerly awaiting Rodney's latest gem of time frittering strategy. Even without the oh-my-god impetus to save the day, or the galaxy, at a moment's notice, Rodney considers all his work important. Only now, he can go at his own pace, which is anywhere from yes, yes, after lunch to putting things off into next week.

Rodney turns around after closing the multi-disc changer. "I do." Soft strains of piano jazz begin to warm the cool air. "I just… these are a mess by the way," he says, pointing to the CDs, an eyebrow cocked in admonition. "You forget your alphabet or something?"

John eases his chair further around to face Rodney. Rodney has pretty much given up on changing John's tastes in music – which run the gamut from Bach to Marilyn Manson, acoustic to techno – and has finally settled for refining those tastes instead.

"You had Getz in with the S's."

Over the years, Rodney has gone to great pains to try to duplicate his father's jazz collection and, in typical McKay fashion, he's very anal about keeping the discs just so. Looking at Rodney now, John tries to work up a little contrition. Maybe if he pokes his lip out… that always works, but he smiles fondly and shrugs instead. "Yeah, that's where I keep 'em." He stopped questioning long ago why Rodney didn't just put the discs in his own study.

Rodney's eyes narrow. "What, S for Stan? Saxophone?" His smirk is a well-honed shade of wicked.

"S for sex." It takes a moment for that look to dissolve, but it does and Rodney returns John's grin.

He turns back to finish the bills, the music a nice accompaniment. Jazz isn't something John knows a lot about or ever really listened to. But he usually likes what Rodney likes and he'll smile and grit his teeth whenever Rodney feels the need to enlighten him with esoteric facts about an artist or a particular selection. Rodney's niece, on the other hand, loves it and will sit with her uncle for hours just listening. It's strangely touching, Rodney passing down to Madison the same lore and minutiae his father had taught him. The he's patient with her, and the wide-eyed devotion when he thinks John isn't watching.

"You think it's cool enough for a fire?" John asks, apropos of nothing really.

"More than one reason to build a fire." The reply is cryptic and makes John look up. Rodney stops rearranging the discs; his eyes show a little extra sparkle in the sun.

The truth of it is, John just wants the scent of woodsmoke in the house – that, and to sit and watch the flames dance in their reflection off the hardwood floor. So, with much unsolicited help and suggestions from the peanut gallery, which he ignores, John sets to arranging the kindling and newspaper inside the soot-encrusted mouth of the stone fireplace. He then heads outside, hoping there's enough wood stored on the porch to last the day.

When he comes back in with an armload of wood, he almost collides with Rodney in the hallway. Laptop in one hand, mug of coffee in the other, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm and two pencils clenched between his teeth, Rodney manages a quick "sorry" before scuttling past.

Setting the logs down on the hearth, John immediately recognizes the new disc that's playing. Yeah, subtlety never has been Rodney's strong suit, switching to Getz just to rub it in for the misfiling. Out of the corner of his eye, John watches Rodney settle his things on the thick rug and sit down. Then again… he smiles to himself, poking at the fire to make sure there's good airflow.

Satisfied for now, John toes off his boots and stretches out on the floor. Propped up on his elbows, feet crossed at the ankles, the material of his rumpled shirt (there's not even an iron in the house – that's what dry cleaners are for) pulls where it's buttoned, revealing three ovals of skin and a partially bared hip. "And there's a reason you can't work in your own study." The words come out lazy and warm like the way he feels.

"It's better in here," Rodney replies, not looking up.

The fire crackles, sending a rush of sparks up the chimney as the wood shifts. "Better?"

Rodney does look up then. "It's easier to work in here," he says simply, and then his face folds into this affectionately besotted expression when he notices the flash of hip. The look catches something in John's throat so he has to swallow hard around it.

He sits up and crosses his legs as a new song starts in the background. "What's so special about this room? You always have to bring half your stuff—"

Rodney leans in and kisses him. It's a kiss that's probably only intended to be a quick peck, but John's not having any of that. He opens up a little to nibble, making it a kiss that has Rodney setting his notebook aside and John scooting closer. A kiss that burns its way down John's spine as Rodney puts a hand to his cheek.

It's a kiss that has John chasing Rodney's lips when he breaks away to whisper, "Because your study has one thing mine doesn't."

John steals beneath Rodney's tee shirt, searching for warm skin. "A CD player?"

The lopsided smirk is nearly audible this time. "You," Rodney breathes, then adds for good measure, "Idiot."

It all comes together now, the music, the extra sparkle in Rodney's eyes. And while those usually nimble fingers are busy fumbling with the tiny shell buttons on John's shirt, John edges the coffee table out of the way, more than happy to be part of today's procrastination plan.



Click me :D


Author: [livejournal.com profile] neevebrody, Title: Time Passes
Artist: [livejournal.com profile] berlinghoff79
Author's Notes: Thanks to mischief5 and lavvyan for beta duties and thanks to berlinghoff79 for such a fantastic idea and allowing me to be a part of it.
Artist's Notes:

Where to next?

The Kitchen
The Living Room
2nd Floor
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