Forecast

John listens to Rodney say: "Nantucket's in the Gulf Stream, you know. Gulf Stream equals more temperate, which means snow is highly unlikely," and "I bet Nantucket averages, what, an inch of snowfall annually, maybe," and "It's not like meteorology's a real science, anyway."

And John hmmms from his exceptionally comfortable slump on the other end of the couch and blinks as Randy the ("Incompetent! Remember when he swore there would be clear skies for the Perseids?") weather man paces in front of his giant radar map, and he idly wonders how much milk they have left in the fridge.

He pads downstairs clumsily the next morning, coming dangerously close to stubbing his toe on his way into the kitchen, still warm and groggy from bed and sleep. Rodney was gone when he woke up, the way he sometimes is when a big idea comes to him in the middle of the night. No sign of him down here either, though, as John absently smoothes down his cowlicks with one hand and hikes up his pajama bottoms with the other. He rattles around in the cupboards and doles out kibble for the cat and the dog, and he's just about managed to get the coffee pot percolating when the back door swings open, letting in a blast of frigid air and a very bundled-up Rodney, Cash bounding in behind him.

Cash has frost on his whiskers and little ice balls stuck to his paws—John hears them click on the floor as he skids over to his food bowl—and Rodney looks like he put up his own good fight—he has snow all down his left side, like maybe he took a sideways spill into a snowdrift, and jeez, how much did they get, anyway? Rodney rolls his eyes at the once-over John's giving him and says (John thinks), "Okay, yes, it snowed, and yes, I shoveled"—it's a little hard to tell, since now he's bent over trying to wrestle off his boots, and he's muffled by the scarf wound tightly around his nose and mouth.

John waits and tries to peer over him out the window, and when Rodney straightens up again, John tugs him around the counter and pushes him up against it. Rodney's still wearing John's hat and John's gloves and the hideous lime green scarf that came from who knows where, and John sets about unwrapping him—tugs off the hat and unwinds the scarf and lets them fall to the floor, and Rodney's hair is crazy and sweaty, and his face is flushed bright red the way it usually only gets when he's really agitated, and his nose is cold, and his cheeks are hot, and his mouth is hotter and wide open when John leans in and kisses him, and John adds 'against the counter in PJs' to his mental list of favorite places to make out with Rodney.

John says: "So, I guess it snowed," and he's panting a little and unzipping Rodney's orange fleece and pressing even closer, nothing but thin cotton between him and Rodney's cold bulk. Rodney retaliates by sliding his freezing hands up under John's t-shirt, and John gasps "Fuck" fervently and shudders, torn between burrowing closer and twisting to get away. Rodney holds on to him, kisses him again, says, "Can I have some coffee now?" against John's lips, and John shoves his hands down the back of Rodney's pants, says, "Sure," and figures he can predict exactly what kind of day it's going to be.