Smart, by Cate
One last smooch from the boys as a fond farewell:
"Shit, oh, shit," Rodney mutters, the words keeping pace with the pounding of his feet as he runs through the parking lot. It stands to reason that the only parking space he'd be able to find would be a mile from the terminal; stands to reason that when he's already cutting it this goddman fine, there'd be this sort of unexpected delay. He's out of breath and sweating, and he's going to look half-crazy by the time he gets inside – hair askew, pit stains on his shirt, a day's worth of stubble darkening his jaw. "Shit," he says with increased venom when he glances at his watch. There's nothing for it – he fumbles with the strap on his bag, throws it over his head, concedes to wear it like he's a bike messenger or a student or any general class of ne'er do well. Anything's tolerable when he's under a deadline.
There are, of course, old people on the escalator, and families with kids in a stroller, cluttering the bridge from the parking lot to terminal one. There are people who don't understand what it is to be in a desperate fucking hurry, and god, the sound of jet after jet taking off is going be his end, give him a coronary right here in on another fucking escalator, because he needs to be there round about now and who decided everything should be on so many different fucking floors at O'Hare anyway?
There are hundreds more people inside – crowds of them, all in his way, and Rodney feels the makings of a world-class meltdown simmering in his gut, avoidable only if someone stops putting old people in his way, when –
"Hey."
Rodney skids to a halt beside baggage carousel three. John's smiling at him, hanging out beside his suitcase as if there's nothing remotely noteworthy about his decision to be here today, to look that good in a rumpled pair of jeans, to stare at Rodney as if he's the best thing he's seen in three long weeks.
"Oh, shit," Rodney says again, and his heart is beating so powerfully in his chest that he feels actual pain. "Oh shit, shit, shit, I missed you, you utter fucking moron!" And he's no real recollection of covering the distance between he and John but he's plastered up against John's body, holding him tight enough to make breathing kind of difficult, but he figures it's okay, since that's how John's holding him back.
"Think we're kinda lame?" John asks eventually, his breath warm against Rodney's ear.
Rodney shivers. "Lame?" he asks back. His nose is pressed against John's neck.
"Yeah," John murmurs.
"Like I care," Rodney scoffs.
John kisses his hair at that, right above his ear; it's the best either of them can do when neither seems to plan to let go. "Right," he says.
"I'm the smart one," Rodney reminds him.
John's lips find his temple. "So I hear," he murmurs, and Rodney can hear his smile.
"Shit, oh, shit," Rodney mutters, the words keeping pace with the pounding of his feet as he runs through the parking lot. It stands to reason that the only parking space he'd be able to find would be a mile from the terminal; stands to reason that when he's already cutting it this goddman fine, there'd be this sort of unexpected delay. He's out of breath and sweating, and he's going to look half-crazy by the time he gets inside – hair askew, pit stains on his shirt, a day's worth of stubble darkening his jaw. "Shit," he says with increased venom when he glances at his watch. There's nothing for it – he fumbles with the strap on his bag, throws it over his head, concedes to wear it like he's a bike messenger or a student or any general class of ne'er do well. Anything's tolerable when he's under a deadline.
There are, of course, old people on the escalator, and families with kids in a stroller, cluttering the bridge from the parking lot to terminal one. There are people who don't understand what it is to be in a desperate fucking hurry, and god, the sound of jet after jet taking off is going be his end, give him a coronary right here in on another fucking escalator, because he needs to be there round about now and who decided everything should be on so many different fucking floors at O'Hare anyway?
There are hundreds more people inside – crowds of them, all in his way, and Rodney feels the makings of a world-class meltdown simmering in his gut, avoidable only if someone stops putting old people in his way, when –
"Hey."
Rodney skids to a halt beside baggage carousel three. John's smiling at him, hanging out beside his suitcase as if there's nothing remotely noteworthy about his decision to be here today, to look that good in a rumpled pair of jeans, to stare at Rodney as if he's the best thing he's seen in three long weeks.
"Oh, shit," Rodney says again, and his heart is beating so powerfully in his chest that he feels actual pain. "Oh shit, shit, shit, I missed you, you utter fucking moron!" And he's no real recollection of covering the distance between he and John but he's plastered up against John's body, holding him tight enough to make breathing kind of difficult, but he figures it's okay, since that's how John's holding him back.
"Think we're kinda lame?" John asks eventually, his breath warm against Rodney's ear.
Rodney shivers. "Lame?" he asks back. His nose is pressed against John's neck.
"Yeah," John murmurs.
"Like I care," Rodney scoffs.
John kisses his hair at that, right above his ear; it's the best either of them can do when neither seems to plan to let go. "Right," he says.
"I'm the smart one," Rodney reminds him.
John's lips find his temple. "So I hear," he murmurs, and Rodney can hear his smile.