scribblinlenore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scribblinlenore) wrote2007-04-19 04:16 pm
scribblinlenore) wrote2007-04-19 04:16 pm
Entry tags:
Bric-a-Brac Kid FIC: The Relationship Between Acorn And Tree
Title: The Relationship Between Acorn And Tree
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Bric-a-Brac Kid 'verse. A companion piece to Bric-a-Brac Childbearing, The Alien Priestess Is Always The First To Know, Pregnancy-Related Weirdness, This Is Not A Death Wish, Dr. Spock Mentioned Nothing About This, Customary, April 12, 2007, 10:12 a.m. and The Loudness of Gestures.
John, Rodney and Molly six months later.
Note: This is the last story in the arc I had planned, although I leave the door open to write more later on, if I get in the mood. Thanks to everyone who's been reading!
The Relationship Between Acorn And Tree
By Lenore
By the six-month mark, John has worked out a system for holding Molly while he does paperwork, mostly just a matter of settling her into the crook of his arm and typing one-handed, but he likes the way "system" sounds. Molly chews contentedly on the teething ring Radek made, in the shape of a glucose molecule. "Is soft, non-toxic, too large to be swallowed and educational," he assured them when he presented it to Molly. They've been inseparable ever since, Molly and the plastic glucose, a fact which Rodney insists shows a precocious interest in organic chemistry, but John is secretly convinced simply means that she recognizes the thing as somehow related to sugar. She might look like him, but she takes after Rodney in many other (sometimes alarming) ways.
He finishes up the last of the monthly staff evaluations and starts in on the requisition forms, and Molly goes suddenly squirmy, what John calls her unhappy eel dance, turning her head this way and that, doing her best to break free of the prison of his arms. He bounces his knee, hoping to distract her. Usually she loves a good game of giddy up, but this time, no dice. She keeps on flailing, and lets out a hiccupy sob and then another, a warm up for the truly fierce howling that soon follows.
John checks his watch. Two hours and twenty-three minutes away from Rodney. A new record.
He gets up and shifts Molly onto his shoulder and rubs her back as they head down the hall. The shrieks only get louder, and there are sympathetic looks from people as they pass, along with a few optimists in the bunch who belt out a cheerful, "Good morning, Miss Molly."
Parenthood isn't all that different from flight school, John often thinks, the pre-dawn, post-midnight length of the days, sleeping and eating and life all crammed into the spare minutes. Even with two of them taking care of Molly, there's never any time, and John doesn't know how anyone manages on their own, doesn't know how they'd manage if Elizabeth hadn't found quarters big enough for all three of them, a nursery for Molly, a bedroom each for John and Rodney, in case the military ever gets too interested in the details of their domestic arrangements.
(Not that they're likely to fool anyone, John realizes. His room has a pronounced air of nobody lives here, Johnny Cash glowering out at nothing, most of John's clothes migrated to Rodney's dresser, his copy of War and Peace sitting on Rodney's bedside table.)
Sometimes, Rodney will say, with a sort of faraway longing, "When we start going on missions again" and John will answer with a lump in his throat, "Yeah," and eventually one of them will come to their senses and sigh, "Maybe when she's older."
For now, Molly has a rather limited tolerance for separation. Last night, Teyla offered to take her for the evening, and John hurriedly packed up Molly's gear, and the moment the doors closed, Rodney was all over him.
"Off, off, get your clothes off now. I want you to fuck me, and you know how long these little visits with Teyla last."
Properly motivated, John could undress in about .2 seconds flat, but once they were in bed, he insisted on taking his time. He hadn't had the chance to really enjoy Rodney's body, not properly, since they'd started having sex again, weary hand jobs before falling asleep pretty much all they had the energy for.
Rodney was his usual patient self about waiting, body bucking up against John's, fingers digging into his arms, pushing him to, "do it, do me, do me now."
"All right, all right already," John said, all exasperated sighs as he dug around in the nightstand drawer for the lube.
"Do you not understand the meaning of 'hurry'? Come on!" Rodney nearly kicked him in his insistence, and John was only human, and God, the look in Rodney's eyes when John slid into him, all cunning heat and melted, sticky greed.
Too long to have waited for this, and John fucked Rodney hard and fast and without the least shred of restraint, and Rodney, never one to be outdone, used John's ears for handles to pull him into one messy-desperate kiss after the next. Even the way Rodney came was bossy, heels digging pitilessly into John's back, pulling him in, as if demanding that John come too, now, now, do it now. Bossy in bed, John had come to realize in the course of this relationship, was bulletproof hot, and so was the noise Rodney made, a mix of satisfaction and I told you so, when John came inside him.
"Mmmm," Rodney murmured after John rolled off him. "We should do that more--"
He broke off at the sound of a familiar wail, distant but coming closer. Rodney scrambled beneath the sheet with a hissed "shit!" and John made a mad grab for his pants.
The doorbell chimed, and Teyla's voice came from the other side, muffled and slightly embarrassed, "I am sorry to interrupt, but it appears that Molly has grown tired of my company already."
Later, after they'd gotten Molly quieted down and off to bed, Rodney said, "You know, I'd take comfort in the idea that we'll be able to have a normal sex life again when she goes off to kindergarten, but you do realize, Atlantis doesn't even have a school."
John and Molly turn the corner, head down the corridor that leads to the lab, and Rodney comes charging out to meet them, hands on his hips. "You and your daughter are conspiring against me yet again, aren't you? It's your mission in life to see that I get absolutely no work done. Don't deny it."
"Have you ever noticed that she's my daughter when she's crying and your daughter when she's learned something new?" John observes dryly.
Rodney lifts his chin. "Clearly, she gets her intellectual curiosity from me, and I'll have you know that I was very stoic as a child."
"Uh-huh," John says, in his most non-committal, I am Switzerland way.
Molly reaches out for Rodney with grabby hands,like father like daughter, and John can only imagine how this particular trait is going to play out when she's a boy-crazy teenager. He quickly decides not to think about that for another, oh, fifteen years.
Rodney takes the baby with a put-upon sigh and tells her in a tone that tries and fails for sternness, "I suppose if you're here I may as well hold you, but it's just because you're here, and only for a few minutes."
Molly balls her fist in his shirt and lets out an outraged half-bawl half-whimper that John always interprets to mean, "You've betrayed me in the worst possible way, and I don't know how I'll ever get over it or be able to forgive you." Rodney's expression crumples instantly, his resolve about as sturdy as a cheap tin roof in a hailstorm.
"Hey, hey, we talked about this, remember?" He lowers his voice confidentially, cuddling Molly closer, hand cupping the back of her head. "You don't have to worry, okay? I'm not going anywhere. Not ever. Not even when you start rolling your eyes at everything I say, and walking three feet ahead of me in public, and telling your friends that you're actually adopted. I swear." He rocks her and kisses her wispy hair. "So, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Please?"
Molly snuffles dramatically and tightens her hold on Rodney's shirt, closes her eyes and...falls fast asleep. From the end of the world to unconsciousness in .2 seconds flat--yet another thing she has in common with Rodney.
Rodney croons quietly and tunelessly to her, "2 is Helium, and 10 is Neon, Argon is 18 and Krypton 36, 54 is Xenon, 86 is Radon, and those are the noble gases."
John can never quite decide between smiling a big, dopey smile of aww, how cute at this made up song of Rodney's or rolling his eyes, so he does both, just to cover the bases.
Rodney happens to glance up, and catches him at it, and demands, "What?"
John shakes his head innocently. "Nothing."
"It's just so she'll stay asleep and I can get some work done," Rodney insists, a tad defensively. "That's her favorite song, you know."
John nods earnestly. "I know."
He's still smiling.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Bric-a-Brac Kid 'verse. A companion piece to Bric-a-Brac Childbearing, The Alien Priestess Is Always The First To Know, Pregnancy-Related Weirdness, This Is Not A Death Wish, Dr. Spock Mentioned Nothing About This, Customary, April 12, 2007, 10:12 a.m. and The Loudness of Gestures.
John, Rodney and Molly six months later.
Note: This is the last story in the arc I had planned, although I leave the door open to write more later on, if I get in the mood. Thanks to everyone who's been reading!
The Relationship Between Acorn And Tree
By Lenore
By the six-month mark, John has worked out a system for holding Molly while he does paperwork, mostly just a matter of settling her into the crook of his arm and typing one-handed, but he likes the way "system" sounds. Molly chews contentedly on the teething ring Radek made, in the shape of a glucose molecule. "Is soft, non-toxic, too large to be swallowed and educational," he assured them when he presented it to Molly. They've been inseparable ever since, Molly and the plastic glucose, a fact which Rodney insists shows a precocious interest in organic chemistry, but John is secretly convinced simply means that she recognizes the thing as somehow related to sugar. She might look like him, but she takes after Rodney in many other (sometimes alarming) ways.
He finishes up the last of the monthly staff evaluations and starts in on the requisition forms, and Molly goes suddenly squirmy, what John calls her unhappy eel dance, turning her head this way and that, doing her best to break free of the prison of his arms. He bounces his knee, hoping to distract her. Usually she loves a good game of giddy up, but this time, no dice. She keeps on flailing, and lets out a hiccupy sob and then another, a warm up for the truly fierce howling that soon follows.
John checks his watch. Two hours and twenty-three minutes away from Rodney. A new record.
He gets up and shifts Molly onto his shoulder and rubs her back as they head down the hall. The shrieks only get louder, and there are sympathetic looks from people as they pass, along with a few optimists in the bunch who belt out a cheerful, "Good morning, Miss Molly."
Parenthood isn't all that different from flight school, John often thinks, the pre-dawn, post-midnight length of the days, sleeping and eating and life all crammed into the spare minutes. Even with two of them taking care of Molly, there's never any time, and John doesn't know how anyone manages on their own, doesn't know how they'd manage if Elizabeth hadn't found quarters big enough for all three of them, a nursery for Molly, a bedroom each for John and Rodney, in case the military ever gets too interested in the details of their domestic arrangements.
(Not that they're likely to fool anyone, John realizes. His room has a pronounced air of nobody lives here, Johnny Cash glowering out at nothing, most of John's clothes migrated to Rodney's dresser, his copy of War and Peace sitting on Rodney's bedside table.)
Sometimes, Rodney will say, with a sort of faraway longing, "When we start going on missions again" and John will answer with a lump in his throat, "Yeah," and eventually one of them will come to their senses and sigh, "Maybe when she's older."
For now, Molly has a rather limited tolerance for separation. Last night, Teyla offered to take her for the evening, and John hurriedly packed up Molly's gear, and the moment the doors closed, Rodney was all over him.
"Off, off, get your clothes off now. I want you to fuck me, and you know how long these little visits with Teyla last."
Properly motivated, John could undress in about .2 seconds flat, but once they were in bed, he insisted on taking his time. He hadn't had the chance to really enjoy Rodney's body, not properly, since they'd started having sex again, weary hand jobs before falling asleep pretty much all they had the energy for.
Rodney was his usual patient self about waiting, body bucking up against John's, fingers digging into his arms, pushing him to, "do it, do me, do me now."
"All right, all right already," John said, all exasperated sighs as he dug around in the nightstand drawer for the lube.
"Do you not understand the meaning of 'hurry'? Come on!" Rodney nearly kicked him in his insistence, and John was only human, and God, the look in Rodney's eyes when John slid into him, all cunning heat and melted, sticky greed.
Too long to have waited for this, and John fucked Rodney hard and fast and without the least shred of restraint, and Rodney, never one to be outdone, used John's ears for handles to pull him into one messy-desperate kiss after the next. Even the way Rodney came was bossy, heels digging pitilessly into John's back, pulling him in, as if demanding that John come too, now, now, do it now. Bossy in bed, John had come to realize in the course of this relationship, was bulletproof hot, and so was the noise Rodney made, a mix of satisfaction and I told you so, when John came inside him.
"Mmmm," Rodney murmured after John rolled off him. "We should do that more--"
He broke off at the sound of a familiar wail, distant but coming closer. Rodney scrambled beneath the sheet with a hissed "shit!" and John made a mad grab for his pants.
The doorbell chimed, and Teyla's voice came from the other side, muffled and slightly embarrassed, "I am sorry to interrupt, but it appears that Molly has grown tired of my company already."
Later, after they'd gotten Molly quieted down and off to bed, Rodney said, "You know, I'd take comfort in the idea that we'll be able to have a normal sex life again when she goes off to kindergarten, but you do realize, Atlantis doesn't even have a school."
John and Molly turn the corner, head down the corridor that leads to the lab, and Rodney comes charging out to meet them, hands on his hips. "You and your daughter are conspiring against me yet again, aren't you? It's your mission in life to see that I get absolutely no work done. Don't deny it."
"Have you ever noticed that she's my daughter when she's crying and your daughter when she's learned something new?" John observes dryly.
Rodney lifts his chin. "Clearly, she gets her intellectual curiosity from me, and I'll have you know that I was very stoic as a child."
"Uh-huh," John says, in his most non-committal, I am Switzerland way.
Molly reaches out for Rodney with grabby hands,like father like daughter, and John can only imagine how this particular trait is going to play out when she's a boy-crazy teenager. He quickly decides not to think about that for another, oh, fifteen years.
Rodney takes the baby with a put-upon sigh and tells her in a tone that tries and fails for sternness, "I suppose if you're here I may as well hold you, but it's just because you're here, and only for a few minutes."
Molly balls her fist in his shirt and lets out an outraged half-bawl half-whimper that John always interprets to mean, "You've betrayed me in the worst possible way, and I don't know how I'll ever get over it or be able to forgive you." Rodney's expression crumples instantly, his resolve about as sturdy as a cheap tin roof in a hailstorm.
"Hey, hey, we talked about this, remember?" He lowers his voice confidentially, cuddling Molly closer, hand cupping the back of her head. "You don't have to worry, okay? I'm not going anywhere. Not ever. Not even when you start rolling your eyes at everything I say, and walking three feet ahead of me in public, and telling your friends that you're actually adopted. I swear." He rocks her and kisses her wispy hair. "So, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Please?"
Molly snuffles dramatically and tightens her hold on Rodney's shirt, closes her eyes and...falls fast asleep. From the end of the world to unconsciousness in .2 seconds flat--yet another thing she has in common with Rodney.
Rodney croons quietly and tunelessly to her, "2 is Helium, and 10 is Neon, Argon is 18 and Krypton 36, 54 is Xenon, 86 is Radon, and those are the noble gases."
John can never quite decide between smiling a big, dopey smile of aww, how cute at this made up song of Rodney's or rolling his eyes, so he does both, just to cover the bases.
Rodney happens to glance up, and catches him at it, and demands, "What?"
John shakes his head innocently. "Nothing."
"It's just so she'll stay asleep and I can get some work done," Rodney insists, a tad defensively. "That's her favorite song, you know."
John nods earnestly. "I know."
He's still smiling.
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