Notice Anything?

Kiss Your Sassafras


The phone rings just after dawn, although it's still very, very dark, probably due to the thunderstorm that's currently pelting the windows with unholy rain. Rodney blindly grabs for the receiver and puts it to his face, snorting loudly into the mouthpiece when he hears the beep that means the line is active.

"Rodney, Rodney, Rodney," John breathes into the phone, sounding excited and scratchy and warm. "Come to the shop, you've got to come over."

"J'n?" Rodney mumbles, not wanting to rouse above stupor. "Wha?"

Suddenly a sharp CRACK! of thunder shakes the apartment and Rodney sits bolt upright. He's very glad his squeaked "Jesus!" is drowned out by John's whoop.

"Awesome," John crows. "That one was close."

"That was not awesome, that was a heart attack!"

"Rodney."

"Why're you calling me at ass-crack-thirty? The shop is closed today."

"I know," John agrees, "but the rain woke me up and I had some ideas so today is Experimentation Day." Rodney can hear the capitalization even through the crappy little speaker.

"Um."

"Your coffee's almost ready, and I need a taste tester," John says then, and Rodney turns his feet to the floor with only a little groan.




The walk across the street is just as miserable as he expected. By the time he steps inside, his pant legs are uncomfortably soaked where the big yellow rain slicker didn't reach. The front of the shop is dim, blinds drawn against the rain, but behind the saloon doors the kitchen glows with welcoming light.

All the cupboards are open and the smallest mixer (the blue one, of course John has a rainbow of mixers) is churning slowly on the side counter. John is dancing between the mixer and the cupboards, pulling spices and flavorings without even looking at the labels and shimmying his hips along with a gravelly voice singing about getting rhythm. The neckband of his white t-shirt lost all structural integrity long ago and his jeans are so worn they're nearly obscene, but hey, red boxers.

Rodney watches John for a long moment before shrugging out of the raincoat. Just then John turns and spots him.

"Morning," John says and smiles to cover his startle. It doesn't, but Rodney will take the smile anyway.

"Yes, very good, it is morning, it's very early morning, and I just walked through a pounding thunderstorm because you called me so there'd better be..." Rodney trails off as John sets a gratifyingly large mug of coffee on the workbench in the center of the kitchen.

"Coffee?" John asks with an innocent, all-too-knowing smirk on his face.





He's halfway through the mug of John's very-nearly-sentient 'physicist's blend' when John brings over a plate. The three confections look small and sad on its white expanse.

"That's it?" he asks, ignoring John's mulish look. "You woke me up, convinced me to drag myself over here to taste test your experimental chocolate, and all you have is three pieces? You couldn't have waited until you had, oh, I don't know, more before rousting me out of my very comfortable bed?"

"I...thought you'd want to—"

"I'd want to what—watch you work, is that it? Because I don't call you to come watch me think, do I?"

"Christ, will you just try one, McKay?" John pulls the plate back, away from Rodney's longing grab, and he picks up a truffle. He bites a chunk out of it before holding it stiffly in front of Rodney's mouth.

Oh. Now this is something entirely different.

Rodney carefully bites into it, the warmth of John's fingers a surprising touch against his lips next to the cold chocolate. His mouth is flooded with sweet and wow, more sweet, creamy and custardy and a bite of liqueur and coffee. He looks up in time to see John watching him intently, chewing thoughtfully on his own bite.

"Tiramisu truffle," John mumbles.

"You already make those," Rodney says, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the shop. "Why—?"

John pops the last bit into his mouth, his tongue sliding out to curl around the yellow-cream center and pull it inside. "Think I got it right this time."

Rodney agrees with a hum and a nod. He sips at his coffee, amazed again about how black John can get it without scorching it. His gaze bounces from John's elbow to the cupboards to John's collarbone  to the workbench; he's embarrassed about his tirade and unsure what to do with himself now that John is watching him rather than flitting about the kitchen.

"I didn't just call you to watch me," John says finally, picking up the second piece and holding it out. "I was kinda hoping you'd help with the ideas."

Rodney raises his eyebrows in question as he carefully bites off half the piece, letting his lips linger a bit longer on John's fingers than is really necessary. There's a hint of fizz on his tongue, a root beer float inside a chocolate shell. "Mmm, wha's th's one?" he asks around the fast-melting morsel.

John eats the rest with a considering expression on his face before he says, "I'm calling it 'Kiss Your Sassafras.'" He licks his lips, slow and thorough, and Rodney can't take any more.

He pushes up off the stool and grabs John's face between his hands, chasing the taste of sarsaparilla and cream into John's mouth, and oh, God, if they could figure out how to get the taste of John into a truffle they'd make millions.

Rodney is vaguely aware of the clank the plate makes when John drops it onto the workbench, but he cares only so far as it means that John's hands are free to wrap around his hips and bring him closer. He catches a trace of tiramisu, a scent of coffee before the sweet is gone and there's nothing left but John's tongue and teeth and stubble and lips.

John pulls back a little, pulling out of Rodney's easy hold to mumble, "The ganache," and cut his eyes toward the mixer.

Rodney shifts his attention to the line of John's jaw; the little patch of silvery stubble near his chin pulls sharp and satisfying over the flat of his tongue. "It can wait," he mutters.

"Mmm, no, it can't." John shakes his head in negation and starts to pull the rest of himself away, too, in spite of his panting breath. "It's got the—the good vanilla."

Rodney groans and lets John go. "You don't even like—" The good vanilla, the insanely-expensive-because-it's-hand-picked-by-little-old-ladies and shipped-exclusively-to-John-Sheppard-with-kisses vanilla, the stuff that makes him shiver with pleasure, and John knows Rodney can't bring himself to waste it.

Except then John grabs Rodney's wrist, pulling him along to the mixer. He sticks his nose in behind Rodney's ear and growls, "I thought I might like it better if I'm licking it off you."

Just the thought of John covered in ganache makes Rodney's eyes close and his knees give out, but he's caught between John and the counter. So he leans his head back, letting John nuzzle the length of his neck, and tells the ceiling, "I love Experimentation Day."