Work Text:
The next few days run together for Rodney as he spends way too much time working on his assignments. He does manage to get out into his new backyard on occasion, if only to let off steam by yelling at a squirrel. Without the routine imposed on him by the SGC lab, he often works for twenty-four hours straight, one day blending into the next, catching sleep as he can. He allows his stomach to tell him when it's time to head to the kitchen and forage for food (that he did manage to procure from Piggly Wiggly, and yes, there was a tractor!). Outside, the setting sun is just barely starting to dim the daylight when he hears a familiar noise and goes to the door to investigate.
Poking his head out, he sees John wrangling up a couple of stray pieces of garbage, dumping them into a can. As John replaces a lid, a stray piece of paper still in his hand, Rodney smiles. "Again with the can bangling?" He chuckles, then adds, "Wait? Is it Tuesday already? And why are you here so late?"
John quirks an eyebrow, aiming for his unruly hair. "What?" he asks. "So first you yell at me for coming too early, and now I'm here too late?" causing a blush to suffuse Rodney's face. "By the way - 'bangling?'"
"It's a legitimate word," Rodney's quick to shoot back. Or at least Rodney thinks it is. Without much human-to-human interaction for the last few days he's not sure of much, but he knows he's glad to see John. Especially since it's John. Raking his eyes over John's body, Rodney wonders how he can do a full day's manual labor, and still look so good.
John laughs. "I'm pretty sure it's not, McKay. Then again, I was always more focused on math than English."
A smile crinkles Rodney's eyes and he's not sure, but it seems like John's staring at his laugh lines. "Thank god for that!" Rodney opens the door fully and leans against the doorjamb, coffee stained t-shirt pulling against his chest slightly. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He's pretty sure that even with the slight hitch in his voice at the sight of John in his coveralls and work boots, he emphasizes pleasure enough for John to know that, yes, he's happy to see him.
"Oh!" John walks back a few steps and bends over, giving Rodney quite the view. He comes back holding two large bins with triangle-shaped symbols on them. "Recycling containers." John lifts the green one up. "Paper products," he says, lowering it and lifting the blue one, "cans and glass." He offers them to Rodney, "And, no, it's not Tuesday. It's Monday. Monday's recycling day. See?" John points toward the street, "Different truck. Doesn't smell." The ‘as much’ seems to be implicit.
Rodney looks over and sees a green truck with "Sheppard Hauling" spelled out in white on the side. He vaguely recalls the garbage truck being blue, though the searing impression of John in coveralls had just about wiped out the memory of everything else from their previous encounter. "Wait," Rodney wonders aloud. "So you do recycling and garbage on different days? How inefficient is that?" John just stares at him, still holding the containers. "I mean, what is it with small towns? You have fewer resources, so you should try to be more economical with them. Work smarter, not harder."
"Look," John erupts, pushing the containers towards Rodney, "D'ya want the damn things or not?"
"Yes, please," Rodney replies sheepishly, taking them, brushing ever so gently against the rough skin of John's hands in the process. "But you do know that recycling is basically a scam, right?" John's eyebrows seem to have taken up permanent residence near his hairline, so Rodney continues. "I mean, what with the inefficiencies with the recycling process. First you," Rodney realizes his hands are full, so he hands the containers back to John, who stares at them incredulously as thoughts of What the hell? clearly cross his face, before dropping them. "First," Rodney resumes, ticking items off on his fingers, "you have to pay for monstrosities like that," pointing at the recycling truck. "And trucks like that… Well, they're usually massively inefficient when it comes to gas mileage. Then you have the actual process of recycling itself. With the exception of maybe aluminum," which Rodney pronounces al-you-min-e-yum, causing John to squint quizzically and Rodney to point to himself and say, "Canadian," before continuing his rant. "So - with the exception of aluminum - paper, glass, plastic and bottles really are just cheaper in the long run, to produce new and haul off and dump the old ones in some backwater. Like here." At this point, Rodney notices that the stray paper John is still clutching and occasionally peering at seems to be in Rodney's own handwriting. "What's that?"
"Oh, yeah," John starts back to reality and uncrumples it to show to Rodney. "It's something that I found near the, uh," he jerks a chin over his shoulder, "trash cans."
"Yes," Rodney replies, "I threw it out. It wasn't working, and kept me up way too late last night, so I pitched it." He reaches to take the paper from John, but John steps over the recycling bins and leans on the outside of the door jam, near enough to share body heat. Rodney closes his eyes for a split second and takes a long whiff; even though he had spent it around garbage, the smell of a hard day only seems to make John more attractive.
"Look at this," pointing to one of the formulas, snapping Rodney back to the moment.
"Yes? What?"
"So…" John says, somewhat uncomfortably. "I think in this equation," he leans into Rodney, invades Rodney's space a little more, shoulder now touching Rodney's chest, "well, I think you meant 'q' here, but you put 'p'."
"What?" Rodney belted out louder than he probably should have, grabbing the paper from John's hands. "That can't be…can it?" He looks up at John and smiles. "Only I would have a garba-" John glares at Rodney, stopping him mid-word, "Sanitation Engineer with an advanced math degree!" John beams uncontrollably at Rodney. "Let me put this in the house." Rodney heads inside, then remembers his manners. "You wanna come in?"
He's happily surprised to find that John has already made his way into the living room, and is looking around at the sparse furnishings. John thrusts his hands into the back pockets of his uniform, taking the room in silently. "Is that the T1 line you got?" he asks, gesturing with a nod.
"Umm, yeah," Rodney offers back. "Wait," Rodney puzzles, "how'd you know I got a T1 line?"
"Small Town, USA," John replies. "I know pretty much everything that goes on around Citrus Hill."
"About that," Rodney retorts, and John expects another diatribe of inefficiencies of small towns, but Rodney derails him with, "How in the hell did this place come to be called 'Citrus Hill'"?
"Well, 'round about 100 years ago, all this used to be a citrus grove," John begins, rocking back and forth on his heels with the familiarity of a story he's obviously told hundreds of times. "Well, we had oranges, and lemons, and grapefruit and tangelos." John sniffs, as if he can almost smell the sweet orange blossoms of his youth. "Then, as the population of Gainesville overflowed its capacity, more little towns started popping up here and there. 'Bout 25 years ago, what was left of the grove was plowed under to make room for the new shops out near Interstate 75."
"The Piggly Wiggly?" Rodney guesses.
John nods. "Yep, one and the same. There's a stray orange or lemon tree in people's back yards, but mostly the citrus is gone."
"Thank god for that!" Rodney exclaims, for the second time that night, then notices the puzzled look on John's face. "Ooh. I'm deathly allergic to all things citrus," which garners an understanding nod from John. "At first when the governm- I mean my company - exiled me out here, I thought they were trying to kill me."
They share a quiet laugh at the absurdity of that before Rodney continues. "So, like I was saying, I really should talk to your mayor or your town leadership. You've got some room to become more efficient, and I have a few ideas that might help."
"That reminds me," John adds, then starts fishing around the inside of his coveralls. "I've got it here somewhere…" He continues to root around pockets, then unzips his uniform past his naval. Rodney stifles a whimper at the forest of hair peeking around the edges of the tight white sleeveless undershirt that is revealed and the slight swath of skin and dark hair that beckons from between the bottom of the untucked t-shirt and the barely-visible jeans that John is wearing. John wriggles his hand into the still-constricted back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small book, no bigger than a Readers Digest, and hands it to Rodney.
"What's this?" Rodney asks, somewhat bewildered, turning it over in his hands.
"It's our local phone book," John points to the cover. "I mean just for Citrus Hill." John slides up next to Rodney to where they can each feel the warmth generated between them. With one hand resting on Rodney's shoulder, John opens the Lilliputian book with his other, turning pages in a display of dexterity that Rodney suddenly really wants to explore further. "Here're the personal and business sections by name." He turns a few pages. "And here's the listing by phone number. Pretty easy 'cause we only have one prefix here." He turns to the first entry in the numerical listing, which ends with '0000'. "See? Sheppard Hauling. We were pretty lucky to get that one, though we get an awful lot of wrong numbers."
"I knew this town was tiny," Rodney starts, "But this? Wow."
"Like I said," he chuckles, "welcome to Small Town USA!" John turns to a single blue page in the front of the phone book. "Here you go," he points. "City listings for Citrus Hill, so you can call every single person in charge if you want."
"But it's not even half a page." John smiles at Rodney, who is still staring. He didn't want to accept the reality of his newly adopted town's tiny size, but here's the proof. "Half a page!"
"Yeah, but," John brings Rodney's attention to the rest of the page, "the county is on the bottom half, and on the other side," John turns the sheet, "is a bunch of listings for the state."
Rodney reads over the phone book pamphlet for a minute, and then asks, "Why are you delivering this to me, anyway?"
"'S just how we do things here in the South. Service with a smile." John's green eyes crinkle slightly as a big grin spreads across his face, causing Rodney to blush, the tips of his ears flushing red.
"Well now…" He drums his fingers along the edge of the book. "Now that I have this," Rodney gestures with the book, "maybe I can find something decent to eat."
"Not much of a cook?" John queries, stepping back just outside Rodney's personal space, making him miss the shared warmth immediately. "You produce enough garbage; makes it look like you're cooking up a storm." John laughs, "That, and you go through a lot of coffee."
Rodney sighs at the caffeinated reference. "Okay, yeah. I've lived on frozen pizzas and burritos long enough. I need to find something decent to eat and hopefully find a coffee roasters or at least a Starbucks in this town." He looks up at John, puppy-dog eyes pleading his case.
"Well, I can help you with the food, but the closest Starbucks is in Gainesville proper, 'bout 20 miles. You know, there's a Seven-El-"
"Don’t!" Rodney demands imperiously. "Don't even suggest that I should get coffee from that… that… hole of a convenience store." He sighs before answering the question on John's face. "Cletus already tried to send me there once."
John laughs heartily, hand on his midsection. "Cletus?" he manages to finally get out.
"Well," Rodney starts peevishly, "I didn't really get his name. The guy who," he gestures towards the networking equipment, "…who installed the T1 line. Toothpick chomping. Plumber-butt hanging out for the world to see whenever he bent over." Rodney rolled his eyes, "Which was a lot."
"Ooh, Billy Ray from SBC?"
"Yeah, that's him. Billy Ray. Billy Joe Jim Bob. Something like that." Rodney looks at John curiously. "How is it that people down here wind up with so damn many names, anyway?" He points to the patch on John's jumpsuit. "And how is it you managed to escape this madness? Unless…" Rodney invades John's personal space to trace the name stitched in blue over his heart. His voice trails off for a second as he looks up into John's intensely green eyes. "Unless your name's really something like 'John Francis Beauregard Jessup’ and you just couldn't fit it all on that cute little nametag of yours." Rodney crinkles up his nose, not sure if he's crossed a line.
"Nope," John says equably. "Just John," he sighs, shaking his head and smiling at the alluringly flustered and well-meaning man next to him. "And Billy Ray? Named after his father and his grandfather. William. Raymond." John emphasizes each name, pointing as if the words were visible in midair. "It's a tradition," he adds, a hint of Southern pride coloring his voice.
"Remember," Rodney says, pointing to himself, "Canadian."
A goofy grin plasters across John's face. "Hey look! You're recycling already. I'm proud of you, McKay."
"Bah!"
As the sunlight just barely starts to fade, John looks out the front window out to his truck. "So, you need anything else?" he asks, seemingly reluctant to part company. Rodney hopes that’s what it was, because he is enjoying John’s companionship a lot, and wanted the feeling to be mutual
As if in response, Rodney's stomach gurgles a long, troubling plea for food, causing him to blush. "Yeah," he responds, rubbing his stomach. "That."
"Oh yeah, food." John leans back against a desk, eyebrows furrowed, thinking of what local establishment he can show off to Rodney. (Or use as a stage to present the newcomer to the natives.) "You like Chinese food?" Rodney's stomach gurgles back an affirmative, causing Rodney to blush, then nod, while John laughs. "Good. I'll take you to Skeeters."
Rodney looks to grab his wallet, but turns at the name. "Wait. Skeeters? For Chinese?"
"Oh, yeah," John responds, rubbing his stomach appreciatively through his still unzipped jumpsuit. "Best moo shu pork this side of the Everglades." John's eyes glass over a bit thinking about the food. "And they have all-day breakfast, so you can get biscuits and gravy or grits any time, day or night."
"Seriously?" Rodney questions weakly, the conundrum of mixed-nationality platters coming out of the same kitchen confusing him. "Chinese biscuits and gravy?"
Shaking his head, "Nope. Awesome Chinese food, and even better Southern food." This settles Rodney somewhat, so John adds, "Biscuits the size of your head." Even distracted while picturing his own head in flaky, buttery carbohydrate form, Rodney still sees John’s smile. It gives him hope on the dexterous finger front.
One more announcement from his stomach makes the decision. "That's it," Rodney declares, "Food." He grabs for his wallet and begins a path to the door, but is stopped short by John grabbing his arm, combined with his quick, “Heyheyhey!”. Staring at him, Rodney asks, "What?"
"I just did a nine hour day out in the sun." John gestures up and down, to indicate his not-so-fresh feeling, even sniffing at an armpit to emphasize his point (prompting Rodney to lean in and sniff, quickly deciding that John smells just fine!). "You mind if I clean up a little?" John asks, playing with the zipper on his jumpsuit absently.
Rodney tries to ignore John's fingers playing with the dangling zipper (and the tanned, furry flesh underneath) and replies, somewhat flustered, "Umm…yeah." He points towards the hallway, though his eyes never leave John's muscled figure, "Bathroom's through there. Third door on-"
"On the left. Yeah, I know."
Rodney crinkles his nose and looks at John sharply. "How would you know that?"
"Because," John replies, nonchalantly, "this is one of my rentals."
"You? You're my…landlord?"
"No, not your landlord, technically. Your company's." He smiles at Rodney, a man of many secrets. "How'd you think I knew to come by last week for the garbage?"
"I'd just assumed…" Rodney's voice trails off, looking at John in a new light. "Actually, I guess I didn't think about it." Confusion and worry fight for prominence on Rodney's face.
John puts his hand on Rodney's chest. "Now don't go getting weird on me, just 'cause I own the place." Both men flush lightly at the touch, and John continues as he removes his hand, "Okay. Give me one minute." John winks and heads back to the bathroom.
Rodney contemplates the oddity - that no matter how tiny he'd thought the town was, it had just gotten even smaller. He stresses about it for a couple of minutes until he realizes that, if John's his landlord, he'll have an excuse to ask him for his phone number. That'll be a nice icebreaker. As John runs the water in the bathroom and whistles while he cleans up, Rodney hums as he sits down to check his email. He’s just about worked up the nerve to ask John for his number, when John comes up behind him, wraps a hand around his shoulder and squeezes lightly. "Ready."
Rodney turns and looks up, emboldened by the touch to ask for John's number, but the sight makes him forget even the simplest of facts, like his name or how to breathe (which he stops doing for several seconds). John smiles a goofy grin at Rodney, who is taken aback by the transformation. While the hair is basically the same rats nest of dark hair, John is now standing in front of Rodney in his tight white tank, a nice pair of Levi jeans that rest on his hips (creating a nice gap that Rodney wants - no needs - to rub) and his work boots. "Wow" is about the only thing that Rodney can muster in his dazed state.
"I clean up pretty good, yeah?" John winks at Rodney, apparently happy to see the fluster he's created. "You ready to go?" John fidgets with his coveralls in one hand and plays with his keys in the other.
Rodney finally takes his eyes off of John, focusing on the keys he's jangling. "Why do you need those?" he asks as he gets up from the chair, not quite sure he wants to know the answer.
"Well, I just figured," John starts, green eyes focusing on his "Garbage Men Do It In Your Neighborhood" keychain (he'd really wanted one that said 'Sanitation Engineer', but the online store didn't have that option), "I just figured I'd drive."
"In your garbage truck?" Rodney isn't quite apoplectic, but he's at least as confused as hell.
John beams, "Recycling truck. And why not? I know these roads like the back of my hand." He twirls his keychain on his pointer finger and continues, "It gets pretty dark out here, and that thing," he jerks his head outside to indicate his truck, "has halogens. That little car in the garage?" he adds with a shake of his head, "Not so much."
Wondering just what he was getting himself into, Rodney agrees, though the turbulence in his head is protesting. "I can't believe I'm about to go on a date in a recycling truck." He knows there's a look of panic on his face, since he's freaking out about what he just blurted out, and to whom. "I, uhh…" His gaze drops to the floor, watching his own feet shuffle lightly, "I didn't mean to just assume," he starts, then raises his head and meets John's eyes, "that this was a date."
"Never said it was," John starts, then closes the distance between them, warm hand once again finding its way to Rodney's shoulder, "Then again - never said it wasn't."
The pair head out of the house, a grin as big as the Okefenokee splayed across John's face and a dazed but happy look on Rodney's. John follows Rodney up to the passenger side as they approach the truck. "Hold on there," he stops Rodney, then leans up, opens the door, and gestures for Rodney to climb up into the cab. Once he settles Rodney in his seat, John crosses to the driver's side and hops into the cab like he's done hundreds of times before. After tossing his coveralls behind his seat, he meets Rodney's eyes and they share a this is kind of weird, but cool laugh as John turns the engine over. The sound is suddenly drowned out by the country twang of a guitar and John Cash singing poetically, Because you're mine, I walk the line. John reaches over and turns the volume down on the CD player, "Gotta love Johnny Cash," he croons over the hum of the engine. "Ready?"
Before he can open his mouth, Rodney's stomach again gurgles a complaint that it still hasn't been attended to. "I'm sorry," he replies sheepishly at the sound. "I've been on such a haphazard schedule since I've been here. I haven't been eating regularly. Hell, I'm surprised I'm even awake during daylight hours," he gazes out through the bug-stained windshield, "though we don't have much daylight left," he finishes.
John cocks his head as he considers. "Skeeters is 'bout fifteen miles down the road, but I think I know a Southern treat that'll tide you," he takes one hand off the steering wheel to point to Rodney's stomach, "and you, over until we get there." He pulls the lumbering truck out onto the road and heads to a spot near the graveyard.
In the few days Rodney's been in Citrus Hill, he'd mostly stayed glued to the house. And when he's gone out, the only real sights he's seen have been the graveyard and tractor landmarks, and, of course, the Piggly Wiggly. As John guides them to their first stop, Rodney focuses on the ancient oak trees dripping with ribbons of Spanish moss, as if they were portals that might take the pair back a few hundred years. Just past the cemetery, John stops at an ancient gas station that must have been abandoned years ago. Rodney eyes a rusted sign that declares in faded paint Regular 38.9 / Unleaded, 45.9 and though gas hasn't been pumped here in decades, there's a small gathering of people huddled around an old oil drum hoisted over hot coals. John gets out, indicating 'just one minute', and greets the group with a smile of long familiarity. Most of the conversation is muffled, but Rodney can make out words here and there. He hears 'new friend Rodney' while John points at the cab. Everyone except the old man stirring the dark liquid in the oil drum turns and waves, or tips an imaginary hat, which Rodney responds to by waving back. He strains to hear more.
"…just a few…"
"…need to look at that water heater…"
"…no, Skeeters…"
Rodney watches as a ladleful of...something is fished out the barrel, dumped into a plastic baggie, which is then put in a brown paper bag and handed over to John. He passes some money to the stirrer, waves his goodbyes and heads back to the cab. As he gets back in the truck, he yells back, "Tell Laura I'll be back in the office Wednesday if she needs anything!" and then sets the bag on the seat between them.
"Well that looks…" Rodney searches for the word. Familial. Warm. But he settles on, "intimate." He's starting to appreciate the closeness and comfort that he's being introduced to here in the South.
"That," John points to the ancient stirrer of the pot, "is Billy Ray's dad, Pastor Warren." He pulls the truck away from the gathering and back onto the main road and starts heading to their next stop. "The rest of the people are just townsfolk out passin' the evenin'."
Rodney fingers the bag, marveling at the aroma that's escaping it and filling the cab. "What's this?"
"A Southern delicacy." John works a hand into the baggie, retrieving a steaming nugget that he places in Rodney's hand, fingers lingering slightly longer than they need to. "Boiled peanuts." He laughs quietly at some private joke, "Or, as you're gonna learn it's pronounced down here, 'bawwled’ peanuts".
"Bawwled?"
"Yessir," John starts, dragging out his words with a thick Southern drawl just for Rodney's amusement. "Things are more cordial right 'chere in the South." (The word 'South', of course, pronounced with two syllables, as any proper Southern gentleperson would.) He averts his eyes from the road to meet Rodney's eyes momentarily, "And we lahke ta take thangs slow."
As John nods and winks to him, Rodney can feel a catch in his throat, as he imagines things that he and John could do that would take hours. Days. Years.
The truck passes over roads that were probably paved during the Hoover administration and Rodney tumbles the peanut in his fingers. "Go ahead," John encourages, "try it."
Like anyone not born in the South, Rodney opens the cooled peanut, spilling salted water on his pants. He looks at the wet spot, then at John (who has the biggest grin on his face), and then back to his pants. Shrugging, he pops the inner bits into his mouth and chews. It's not a taste he expects, and his eyes close as he savors the textures and flavors of the salty legume. "Wow!" he declares, "these are good!"
"Yeah, but that's not how you eat 'em." As the truck slows to a halt at the town's only stoplight, John fishes in the bag, pulling up a triple-chambered nut. He turns to Rodney, eyes suggestive, "It's kinda like a crawdad. Bite the head, suck the juice, and then tongue out the good parts." Explanation done, John proceeds to demonstrate - putting the pointy end of the peanut into his mouth and biting lightly, then noisily sucking out the flavorful juice. He finishes by parting the two halves of the peanut, fishing out each morsel with his talented, darting tongue.
Rodney isn't sure how long he's been staring at John, mouth agape, but he finally comes back to reality when John winks and hands him a peanut, truck once again getting underway towards dinner. Rodney fingers the treat with one hand, while trying to subtly adjust the tent in his pants with the other.
John teases him with an intimate laugh. "That good, huh?"
The rest of the drive is unremarkable, excepting the sideways glances and almost bashful smiles the two men share. As they near the downtown area, oak trees and moss give way to businesses and sidewalks full of people. Apparently they aren't the only ones with the desire to head out early in the week.
The truck rumbles down Main Street and right up to the corner that houses Skeeters, though John doesn't pull into the parking lot. Rodney's noticed that every dozen feet or so, someone calls out to John and he waves back, acknowledging the person by name. At the SGC, Rodney had worked with so many people that he never bothered to learn anyone's name. Especially since they all had nametags; that had been Rodney's crutch forever. He points to the parking lot as John waves to an elderly couple across the street and asks, "Are we gonna park?"
"This monstrosity?" he asks, using Rodney's own decorative description from earlier in the evening. "No way. We'd take up half the lot." John drives a couple more blocks, waves to an elderly black gentleman catching his breath on a bench, and pulls up behind a building no larger than a singlewide trailer with the bright signage, "New Home of Citrus Hill Town Hall". He brings the truck to a halt, silencing the engine with a turn of the key. "Here we are!"
"Oh goodie," Rodney starts with a light air of sarcasm. "Now I know where to come and camp out when I want to talk to the city." He unbuckles and starts to climb out of the cab, until he notices how high up he is. With John already easily out of the cab and heading to his side, he wonders how he can get out gracefully enough as to not have his dinner date laugh at him uncontrollably.
Extending his arm, John says, "I get in and outta this thing plenty. But it's kind of a beast to get out of if you're not used to it." He takes Rodney's hand and motions with his head as if to encourage him, 'jump!'
Indeed, Rodney does close his eyes and pushes himself off, focusing on the rough, warm hand that envelopes his own and hoping for the best. He lands, almost gracefully, silently thanking his knees for not buckling but at the same time cursing them for the loud pop on impact. "There. Wasn't so bad." He slants a sideways glance at John, who's still sporting the biggest grin. "So? Dinner?"
"Yep!" As they make their way to the sidewalk, a woman carrying a small child on the street says hello to John. "Hey, Miss Bernice. How's the little one?" He reaches out and puts the toddler on his hip, fussing at him lovingly. "What did you do to your knee, JoeJoe?" he asks, nuzzling the youngster.
"He fell down at the playground," the mother answers as the little one becomes bashful, hiding his face in John's embrace.
"You're still gonna be able to help me with the garbage tomorrow, aren't you?" John asks, prompting a nod from the child. "Good!" John looks at Rodney, who's smiling at the child. "JoeJoe, this is my new friend, Rodney. Can you say hi?"
Rodney makes an impish face at the youngster while giving him an overemphatic wave, eliciting a "Hiiii…" and another coy detour to John's arm.
Bernice reaches out, "Come on, little one. What's say we let these boys get on with their evenin' while we go pick out a library book for bedtime? Huhm?" JoeJoe responds with a delighted squeal only a two year old could get away with.
John and Rodney slowly make their way down the block towards Skeeters, passing locals who all greet the pair warmly, with most calling John by name. As they pass an elderly couple watching the night pass from a park bench, the gentleman calls, "Evenin' Mister Mayor", with John responding, "Evenin' Mister Pemberton. Missus Pemberton." As they amble down the road, streetlights flickering on overhead, Rodney ponders just how odd it is that John shares a name with a popular singer. He's about to comment on it when John takes his elbow to guide him to the left. "Here we are."
Skeeters is in the middle of an old row of buildings, made entirely of bricks colored by the red clay the area is famous for. Big picture windows are plastered with drawings made by the town's youngsters instead of advertising the food or wares of the businesses along the street. Skeeters is big and bright, its light and conversation spilling out and washing over the two men. John leads the way through the doorway, an air conditioner chugging in the transom offering a cool breeze. As on the street, John's presence brings smiles, nods, and greetings, and Rodney actually feels as if he is being welcomed into the community simply for showing up with him.
"Miss Melanie," John nods to the elderly waitress who greets them at the door, then calls out "Hey, Skeeter," to the large man approaching them, reaching out his hand warmly. The two shake, and John cocks his head towards his companion. "This is Rodney."
"Nice to meet you, Sir," Rodney says cordially, offering his hand.
"Sir, hell. Call me Skeeter; everybody does." Rodney feels like his hand is in a vice, in danger of being shaken right off his arm. "So, this the egghead scientist you been goin' on about?" he asks, head cocked in Rodney's direction.
A nervous laugh and darting eyes belie John's usual cool exterior. "Yeah," he puts an arm around Rodney's shoulder, "this is Doctor Rodney McKay."
Skeeter grabs two menus from Miss Melanie and leads the men towards the back of the restaurant. "I reckon you'll want a booth instead of your usual spot at the bar?" he asks John.
"Yeah," John says, dropping his arm and following Skeeter. "Booth'll be fine." He settles in on one side while Rodney scoots into the vinyl-covered seat across from him. A rude noise blarts from Rodney's side of the booth and he freezes, the look of "THAT WASN'T ME!" splattered across his face making Skeeter and John laugh. John fidgets in his own seat, blue jeans causing the same obnoxious sound. Skeeter's mom, Miss Melanie, rolls her eyes and calls over to the booth, "Now, boys, y'all behave!"
"Yes, ma'am," John and Skeeter promise in unison, as if they have been scolded this way their entire lives.
Rodney starts scouring the menu, Chinese on the left hand side, Southern on the right, ignoring the caricature of the Chinese man in pointed hat and bad teeth for now. Skeeter asks, "Your usual, John?"
"Yeah." Then, amends, "No, wait," pointing to Rodney. "Major citrus allergy. Just bring me a sweet tea," then adds, just to be safe, "no lemon."
"And you?" he asks Rodney.
"I'll just have a Coke." Rodney replies, still studying the menu.
"Okay," Skeeter replies. "What kind?"
Rodney looks up at a waiting Skeeter. "I'm sorry?"
"What kinda coke? Regular? Cherry? Mister Pibb?"
Rodney's forehead furrows in confusion and John moves to take control of the situation. He points to Rodney and stage whispers, "Canadian."
"Ooh," Skeeter realizes. "So, Co'Cola." He and John share a laugh, though Rodney is still confused.
As Skeeter excuses himself, John reaches out with the quickest of touches to Rodney’s hand, and it has the desired effect of erasing his look of confusion. "See now, here in the South," he begins, "you'll find things are a little different."
"Yeah, but," Rodney blurts. "A Coke?"
"What do you call a soda where you're from?"
Rodney thinks about it for a second and responds, "Soda," as if it's obvious. Then he tilts quizzically, adding, "Or maybe pop."
"Well, down here in the South," (and there was that multisyllabic "south" again), "we just use 'coke'. Like, 'What kind of coke d'ya want?' 'Orange.'
A heavy sigh escapes and Rodney rubs his head lightly. "I will never understand this place," he worries.
"Don't worry about it," John offers, voice smooth as he tries to soothe Rodney's nerves. Then, realizing what Rodney’d ordered, “But, wait – doesn’t Coca-Cola have citric acid in it?”
Rodney responds with the enthusiasm of one who has been confronted with this a thousand times. “Yes, it does. But, contrary to popular belief, citric acid is not the stuff in citrus fruit that people with my allergy are hypersensitive to.”
John diverts Rodney from what is obviously a sore topic. "What looks good for dinner?" he asks as their drinks appear on the table.
Food is always a good subject to distract Rodney, and he calms himself by contemplating just about everything. "I don't know…" he trails off. "It all looks good." Poring over the menu, he adds, "I've had good Chinese, but I have to confess, not much Southern food. How's the chicken fried steak? Never had that before."
"Oh, you gotta get it smothered in gravy. With mashed potatoes." John rubs his stomach, causing a hitch in Rodney's throat again. "I think I'm gonna get breakfast," He adds. "That way you can try their grits." He looks at Rodney, eyes daring, "You have had grits before, right?"
"Grits?" Rodney thinks, "Umm, no. I've had polenta. And Alton Brown-"
"Grits are not polenta, no matter what Chef Nerd says," John declares with authority. "So, it's settled. You get the chicken fried steak, and I'll get breakfast."
Dinner is ordered, delivered, and shared, and it takes John very little coaxing - a couple of flights with his spoonful of grits as the airplane and a plea with puppy-dog eyes - to get Rodney to try the grits. Rodney doesn't want to admit at first, but he does like them. John steers the conversation, though Rodney gladly welcomes it. After all, Rodney has spent the better part of a week on his own, talking to the squirrels. It's nice to have someone that actually talks back.
Once the empty dishes are strewn haphazardly across the table, Rodney wonders about the quality of Skeeter’s coffee. John smiles warmly at him. "It's good." He looks coyly at Rodney and asks, "You save room for dessert?"
The thought of John for dessert had crossed his mind, but even John couldn't totally fulfill Rodney's need for sweets. "Yeah!" He then tries to add nonchalantly, "I could go for dessert."
"I knew you had a sweet tooth," John says easily. Rodney throws a questioning look, and John responds conspiratorially, "I've seen the wrappers, McKay."
"Yeah, well… That's my blood sugar," he blushes.
"'S okay, Rodney. Didn't mean to embarrass you or anything." And there again was the brief reassuring touch of John's hand against his, telling him everything was fine.
Skeeter approaches with check in hand, and either didn't see the intimate moment the two shared, or doesn't care. "You fellas want anything else?"
The check is halfway ripped out of the order tablet when Rodney says, "Coffee?"
"Yeah," John agrees. "Make that two." Smiling at Rodney, John adds, "And can you bring us a Big Biscuit and a lot of honey?"
"Gotta batch comin' out of the oven right now." Skeeter finishes ripping out the tab and puts it on the table, "On the house. Momma?" he calls to Miss Melanie, "can you get the boys some coffee while I fetch them a biscuit?"
"Sure thing, hon," she answers and heads over, pot in hand. "Now, boys," she admonishes, filling the two mugs, "don't you be ruinin' your bedtime. John, you've got the haul in the mornin'. And, you..." she says, turning to Rodney, "Well, I don't rightly know what you do, but looks to me like you could use some sleep."
"Theoretical physicist." Rodney declares. John stage whispers to Miss Melanie behind his hand, "Egghead", sparking laughs all around.
As Miss Melanie disappears into the kitchen, Skeeter shows up with a biscuit and a plastic bear full of honey. As John had promised, the biscuit was nearly as big as Rodney's head. "Thanks, Skeeter," he throws to his friend, then turns back to Rodney, who’s tipping the honey bear over the biscuit. “Wait!” John exclaims. Pulling a previously unnoticed second saucer from under the biscuit, he starts, “Let me show you how it’s done…” trailing off as he takes the bear from Rodney, a bead of honey landing on his finger. He sets the honey container down and thoroughly laps the digit clean, enjoying Rodney’s rapt attention during the process. He resumes, “You can’t just pour the honey on top – it won’t soak through the outer layer. So, ya split it open, like so –” He suits actions to words, putting the top half on the spare plate. And now-" John upends the bear, liberally soaking the top of the biscuit and squeezing a little extra on Rodney's side. "Dig in!"
John stops Rodney again as he goes for his spoon. "No, sir. Now this," John motions at the dessert with his fork for emphasis, "this has to be eaten with a fork." He demonstrates as he explains. "You can cut with it," he swabs at the honey swimming on the plate, "and you can get more honey. And, any good bits you miss…you can scrape up with the tines."
Southern food is one thing, but a flaky biscuit doused in honey is quite another. Both men savor the sweet and flaky pastry, John taking particular enjoyment in watching Rodney eat. "See? I told ya."
"Oh my god, this is so good!" Rodney exclaims, washing down a delectable bite with a swig of coffee. "Thanks for bringing me here tonight," he says as they each take a forkful, leaving just one honey-drenched morsel. They look at each other, then back to the plate. "You take it," Rodney offers.
"No," John demurs, "you take it."
"No you."
"No, Rodney, you take it."
"No, John, I insist."
"No - you."
"No. You."
"Fine," John allows, scooping the honey-soaked remains onto his fork. But instead of eating it, he aims it towards Rodney, his cocked eyebrow showing that he's perfectly willing to make airplane noises again.
"You know you're dripping honey everywhere, don't you?" Rodney asks, moving his hands to avoid the sticky substance, all the while eyeing John and the biscuit alternately.
John doesn't flinch.
"Fine!" Rodney concedes, as if the delectable tidbit is an inconvenience, then leans up and wraps his lips around the forkful, pulling back slowly before chewing it deliberately, to savor the last bit. With John distracted by Rodney's expression, he's able to reach over and grab the check, "But I'm paying for dinner," he adds, words muffled by the thick concoction of biscuit and honey tumbling in his mouth.
"But I'm the one that invited you." John says, voice not quite a whine, but somewhere near the neighborhood and threatening to stop in for a visit.
"Too late!" Rodney quickly adds, clutching the check to his chest. As he scooches out of the booth, there’s a replay of the fart noise from the vinyl, and the men share a chuckle as they make their way to the cash register station.
The streets are mostly deserted, with only a few patches of people visiting. The pair walks slowly back towards the truck, unwilling to hurry the evening’s end. Just as before, it seems that John acknowledges each person they pass by name, or with a courteous nod. A thick Boston accent calls, "Evenin' John," from behind them. The pair turn, and the man catches up to them, looking thunderstruck at seeing Rodney standing alongside John.
"Billy Ray!" John beams at the man, remembering the 'Cletus' joke Rodney and he'd shared earlier. "You remember Rodney?"
"Er, ah. Doctor McKay," Billy Ray continues, Boston accent in full force. "Good to see you again." Billy Ray puts his hand out, but Rodney is stock-still, staring at the younger man. He looks like the telecommunications engineer that installed his T1 line, but the voice is utterly different.
"I'm sorry," Rodney offers, "There's just…"
"No," Billy Ray confesses, his eyes showing his playful nature and a bit of contrition, "I'm sorry. See, er, ah. Sometimes I-"
"Billy Ray, you didn't." John turns to Rodney. "He didn't, did he?"
Rodney's confused again, and is coming to believe that it’s going to happen often during his exile here in the South. "Didn't what?"
Sheepish eyes reveal the truth, "Sometimes I...er, ah…to, ah, mess with new people…"
Rodney finishes for him. "…fake a thick Southern accent?" Rodney tsks, knowing he's been had.
"Billy Ray that's just mean," John tries to say with a straight face, but it comes out sputtering with laughter, and before they know it, all three men are laughing heartily. John turns to Rodney, gesturing at Billy Ray. "Billy Ray was born down here, but his Momma took off when he was six months old. Raised him as a Yankee. Been back home now, what, two years, Billy Ray?" garnering a nod from the engineer.
John throws a possessive arm around Rodney's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Now Billy Ray, you be nice to Doctor McKay." Squeezing him, he adds, "We wanna keep him around these parts."
"Yessir," Billy Ray throws back in his best Southern drawl, causing another outburst of hilarity before the three part company.
Meandering, both in direction and conversation, the pair finally find their way back to the truck, where John once again helps Rodney up into the cab. The ride back to Rodney's is mostly silent; impressions of the evening replaying in their heads, bellies busy digesting, the comforting hum of the tires against the anciently paved roads their only soundtrack.
A couple of miles out, Rodney glances over, sees the moonlight glinting across the stubble on John’s chin, and remembers that he's on a date. Something he hasn't done in quite a while. And on a date with a man; something he hasn't done in even longer. He starts to worry about the protocol for ending the date. What should he do? Should he invite John in, or would that be too forward? Does he shake hands, or does he give John a goodnight kiss? And if he kisses him, should it be a chaste kiss, or a full-throated licking of tonsils affair (like he desperately wants to do. Right here. Right now. Screaming in his mind, John, pull this thing over right now!). And then there's the fact that he's on a date in a recycling truck. No amount of pondering is going to unearth the variable for that equation. None!
As if he can sense the tumult in Rodney's head, John brushes a hand over his knee. Rodney enjoys the warm touch, but goes right back to obsessing until he feels the truck slowing down. John carefully maneuvers into Rodney's driveway and cuts the engine. The absence doesn't quiet the obsessive furious debate in Rodney's head. He finally blurts out, "Well, uh…"
"You forgot to leave a light on," John says, voice uncertain as if he, too, has been searching for something to say. "Gets pretty dark out here. Always leave a light on. But you know," he adds, looking at the detached garage, "I think maybe next week I'll come out and install a motion detector light. That way, if you forget… there'll always be a light on for you."
That last line feels weighted, and Rodney can’t help but wonder if there are multiple meanings in what John's saying.
Rodney turns his attention away from the garage and back to John. "That would be…great." He eyes John, feeling bashful in the moonlight, and tries to come up with something else to say, but John is suddenly almost upon him; his dark eyes studying every contour, each hair, every bit of Rodney that he can take in. John puts a hand on Rodney's chin, leaning in to claim his mouth. They reach for each other; John's hands on Rodney's neck, Rodney grabbing John's shoulder, then letting his hand slip down to grip a strong bicep, moaning slightly as John flexes into his hand. They consume each other with lip-bruising fervor. Tongues entwine, then Rodney licks the stubble on John's upper lip. John hisses at the warm touch and counters with a nip on Rodney's lower lip. He pulls Rodney closer, as if he would devour him whole with the kiss. John leans back onto the driver's seat, giving access to Rodney's advances. But Rodney, distracted by John’s lips and the sharp line of shadows under his jaw, loses his balance. The hand he flings out to catch himself lands squarely on the truck's horn. The jolt of noise startles the pair; John sits up sharply, which, combined with Rodney's attempt to stop leaning on the horn by unlocking his elbow, results in Rodney smacking the windshield with his forehead.
After Rodney's protracted, "Owwwwwwwwww…" the pair share a rueful laugh at being caught up in the moment like two high school kids. They share abashed grins, and John leans up to place a kiss on Rodney's forehead, as if to chase away the pain. His forehead makes its way to Rodney's, supplanting the kiss, as he stares down into Rodney's eyes. "I had a good time tonight, Rodney," John confesses, green eyes studying the man as he squeezes the back of Rodney's neck gently.
"Me, too." Rodney replies. Almost automatically, he adds, "You wanna come in?"
"Can't," John sighs and pulls back slowly, loath to break their bond. "Remember. I've got the haul in the mornin'." The pair separate, not wanting to part, but knowing they must, and Rodney settles back in his own seat. "See you tomorrow, though?" John adds, perking up the mood in the truck. "For tomorrow brings possibility."
"Hey, now," Rodney laughs. "I thought you weren't an English major. Or a poet."
"Oh, hell, no!" John retorts. "I think I read it on a box of Cheerios."
"Tomorrow?" Rodney says, adding a sigh to the emotions filling the cab.
"Tomorrow," John confirms. For tomorrow always brings possibility.