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" . . . of course, I'd grow my own produce if I could—quality control and all that," Rodney's saying. "But who has the time?" He's been saying a lot since he brought John here—talking pretty much nonstop, actually, trying to fill the quiet and cover his weird and unanticipated bout of nerves.
He sees John shoot a look at the withered pot of what used to be mint over by the sink. "Yes, yes, fine," Rodney sniffs, waving his hand dismissively at it, "and I acknowledge that botany might not be my strongest suit, so perhaps it's for the best after all."
He can admit, at least to himself, that he was hoping to impress John by inviting him to Sateda, not that he could say exactly what impressed might look like on John Sheppard. But Rodney tried to let himself see the place through someone else's eyes as he showed John around, and he still found it beautiful and homey—the dark wood and exposed brick of the dining room; the overcast light of a gray afternoon filtering in through the windows, making pale geometric patterns on the polished floor; the gleaming, stainless steel efficiency of the kitchen.
But now that he's gotten John here—and it wasn't easy, because Rodney's discovered that it's a real challenge to get John to leave his house in the middle of nowhere ("But there's nothing to do," Rodney had said, and the only answer he'd gotten out of John was a shrug and an assertion that he "kinda liked it")—he's not quite sure what to do with him. They're sitting in the kitchen—still and empty because it's a Monday and Sateda's closed until tomorrow. Or, at least Rodney's sitting. John's been unsettled, pacing and prowling and stalking and other verbs that are at odds with what Rodney's witnessed so far of John's apparently infinite repertoire of leans and/or slouches.
He's not quite sure what to do with himself, either, and eventually, it seems likely that he's going to run out of things to talk about (he's already exhausted the subject of plants, dear god), so he falls back on what he does best—fires up his favorite oven and gives it a fond pat, halves a little squash and dots it with butter and sets it on a tray to roast. He peels a couple of shallots and slices them nearly paper thin, the thunk of his knife blade against the cutting board rhythmic and familiar.
The heat from the oven is warming up the kitchen, and the whole room is starting to smell like pumpkin; it's cozy, and John finally drifts closer, abandoning his perimeter check to watch what Rodney's doing.
Rodney spends a lot of time at Sateda alone. It's when he comes up with some of his wildest culinary inspirations, early mornings with a cup of coffee, flipping idly through some of his hoarded, dog-eared back issues of Gourmet and letting his mind wander. He'd never tell Ronon, but it's almost meditative, and, sad to say, probably good for his blood pressure.
Which isn't to imply that he doesn't thrive on the always hectic, sometimes frantic atmosphere of the dinner rush—that's his natural habitat, and it's in the middle of all the clanging, steaming, yelling (mostly Rodney), muttering (Radek fretting about the state of his chicken livers), and unfettered maniacal glee (Cadman constructing god-knows-what out of pastry and chocolate in her corner) that Rodney achieves genius, night after night.
But even he recognizes the virtue of slowing down and shutting up and letting things happen (at least every now and again), so he takes out a pan and puts it over a low flame and tries not to feel too smug when John settles himself even closer, leaning against the counter, and starts talking.
Rodney caramelizes the shallots slowly, and John tells him about his bees—how they're all tucked in for the winter, living off their own honey stores. How it's been a pretty mild season, in spite of the big, wet storm that blew through last week, and John hopes the hives have stayed healthy. Rodney pulls the squash out of the oven, and John explains that he won't disturb the hives to check on them until the spring melt really gets going and the first small, woodsy flowers are in bloom. Rodney uses a fork to mash some of the squash and fold in sea salt and pepper and a splash of cream, and John tells him about the maintenance he does on his spare supers in winter: mending them, what a pain it is to treat them against moth infestation (but so much better than dealing with moths), where he stacks and stores them until he needs them again the next year. Rodney scoops up a spoonful of his mixture, arranges some shallots on top, and turns around to press it to John's lips, and at the same time that he says, "I'm thinking something like a ravioli filling, only less horribly clichéd," John makes a low sound like a groan, and just like that, Rodney's the one swallowing hard.
John uses the kitchen towel slung around Rodney's neck to reel him in, sure and easy, to make a warm, intense bubble of space that's just the two of them, and Rodney drops the spoon with a noisy clatter and just has time to think that this is so much better than impressed, that he'd barely let himself hope for this, before John's kissing him. He tastes salty and sweet—oh, Rodney could find all sorts of inspiration right here—and he slides his palms up Rodney's neck to cup his jaw and hold him steady, and Rodney's pretty sure the closest anyone's ever come to being kissed in this kitchen before now was when Radek fixed Cadman's blowtorch.
They kiss, and John makes that little groan again, and Rodney means this, the squash, the restaurant, everything when he pulls back and asks, "So, you liked it?"