(no subject)

[nny]

I don't know if I can deal with living in this flat for ten months. The students upstairs are so loud.

*bursts into tears*

I'll be fine. Honest. Just got out of the habit of working, and teenage boys suck and are loud and obnoxious, and I am surrounded by students during Freshers' Week.

I wanna go home.

Comments

[kerri]

Am currently listening to the loud music of the people who live up above me, so I feel your pain :/ *hugs* I hope things get better soon.

[ladycat777.livejournal.com]

*hugs you close and waits till you calm down a little*

It'll get better, love, really. The boys will calm down as they get more involved in school, you know they will, and it'll be okay. And it's only for ten months, too. Not even a year!

Want a snippet? I might manage that...

[villainny.livejournal.com]

I always want your writing.

[ladycat777.livejournal.com]

Got something you want in mind? I am open to your suggestion!

[villainny.livejournal.com]

*grins filthily*

I mean.

Um.

XD

Something domestic. With apple pie. :D

[darthrami.livejournal.com]

*SQUISHES*

[gaffsie.livejournal.com]

I feel your pain. One of my neighbors has made a habit of playing music until 1 AM every night. If I dislike techno beats in the daytime, it's nothing compared to how I loathe them at night.

[monanotlisa.livejournal.com]

Oh, baby. I am so sorry. Loud neighbours who don't let you sleep are HELL. God knows I know. & :-/

*hugs*

[torakowalski.livejournal.com]

Grr, stupid neighbours. *kicks them for you*

[ladycat777.livejournal.com]

Rodney stops in the middle of the doorway.

John, who is too busy juggling twelve different bags with flimsy plastic handles to notice, oophs right into him, losing at least three of the bags at the same time. He hopes like hell none of them were the milk. "McKay!" he growls. "Wanna move?"

No, Rodney doesn't. He stands completely still, warm, with his chest fully extended -- John's got a hand on his back to steady himself and he can feel the pressure -- not moving at all. Not even breathing.

"McKay. Rodney?" He refuses to let worry creep into his voice. "Earth to the man blocking my path and letting the milk get warm. Who was it that told me we can't let that happen, because someone has a trace of lactose intolerance?"

Okay, so it's him, but he doesn't think the milk staying a few degrees colder, longer, will help.

"McKay, if you don't move your ass, I'm gonna move it for you," he adds with a low growl that Rodney knows. It's sunk into his body the same way the proper posture to fire a gun finally has.

Despite that being one of John's most effective tricks, Rodney continues just standing there.

"Rodney," he says again, and this time the worry is there, twisting sulkily through the letters. He gets his hand higher on Rodney's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. If this is another relapse, if something's wrong... Christ, why hasn't he called an ambulance? Just because Rodney's been okay for weeks doesn't mean he is, doesn't mean that John can let his guard down and let Rodney be hurt or... Softly, he tries, "You okay, buddy?"

Finally Rodney moves, inhaling huge and steady. Then he says, "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

Well. More like moans.

That's when John shoves him, hard, stalking around Rodney's spluttering, flailing form towards the kitchen. Son of a bitch, John thinks, vicious. Getting him all worried just so he could figure out something, or whatever goes on in that hamster wheel of a brain, always working no matter what, no matter how he might be injured, or scaring John, or --

"Whoa."

John doesn't have much of a sense of smell. He claims it's in self-defense of certain barracks, but honestly, he's never had much of one. Which is why he doesn't notice the pie sitting innocently on the counter until he nearly squashes it with the eggs.

Rodney comes up beside him, half-leaning over John so he can get even closer to the dark, sugar-glazed crust and inhales deeply. This time, John's treated to feeling the moan, as well as hearing it, and works hard not to shiver. "I thought only I had a key to this place."

"Actually, that's not true. The SGC has one, I made a copy in case I needed them to get important from my apartment and fax it to me, not that I keep much here beyond my journals, but when I was in Antartica, I could've needed it. And anyway, you know I hired a cleaning service. They have a key."

All of this is said in a low, dreamy tone of voice. Given just how good that pie smells, buttery-flaked crust, and sweet-tart fruit -- John guesses apples -- carmalized with brown sugar until they're at that perfect balance of sweet and not...

(con't)

[ladycat777.livejournal.com]

"Mmm. Yeah, you've said," he rasps. John doesn't realize he's leaning back until Rodney's arm slings around his waist. He doesn't bother objecting, not now. Personal space is something they've both abandoned weeks ago. "So, pie."

"Mysteriously appearing pie."

"Think we should check for poisons? Or... " it's hard to think, with the smell of perfect fall evenings two feet in front of him, Rodney warm and solidly firm -- not sick, not in trouble, he's okay, he's with me -- behind and around him. "Or tracers or something."

"Or," Rodney says, amusement just as tartly amused -- sweet -- as the apples will be, John's sure of it, "Teyla finally convinced someone that I should have this." At John's confused twist he adds, "Before I left, Teyla kept asking me about what foods I liked as a kid."

"Ah," John says. Actually, that makes a lot of sense. The new motherly side of Teyla is fascinated with foods that evoke a sense of comfort and is determined to provide one for Torren. Since she can't cook worth a damn, she's turned into some sort of food-based anthropologist and quizzes everyone relentless on recipes. "Teyla. Who's still in the Pegasus galaxy."

Rodney sniffs. "She can't worry about me?"

"She can't magically make pie appear, Rodney." But his hands still tighten around Rodney's forearms. Rodney still doesn't get just how frantically worried they were, and why it's so delicately awkward now. He's safe, he's fine. He's fine.

Rodney humms a little laugh into John's neck and leans in further. "No, but I've heard about certain Air Force officers who've used the transporter beams for their own nefarious puposes..."

And right on cue, there's a flash of light and the familiar almost-gong sound, a piece of paper suddenly left neatly on the counter.

"See?" Rodney says, already recognizing Sam's signature before John gets a good look at it. "Told you. We should have pie now."

"We should put our groceries away first," John chides, absently. "Unless you want salmonella?"

"We didn't buy chicken, and the meat is frozen. Pie!" He doesn't move to get plates, though, still spiderwebbed around John.

Neat letters written in blue pen on a white page say Teyla thought you might like this. Don't hurry back, guys. John knows what else Sam isn't saying, and lets his eyes slip shut. The apartment is warm, the clock above ticking as loudly as a metronome, sunlight streaming golden and pure over both of them. There are groceries to put away, and sofas to sit in and pie to consume.

But right then, all John can think is home, in a way he's never meant before. "Yeah, buddy," he says. "In a minute."

[beeej.livejournal.com]

Yummmmmm! :D

[beeej.livejournal.com]

Aw, I'm sorry you're having a rough time. Been there, done that, have the memory etched onto my brain. Here's hoping things will get better, and the next few months fly by. :)

[forest-rose.livejournal.com]

*cuddles you tight* xxx