dulce domum

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Dulce Domum - busaikko - Stargate Atlantis [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: John Sheppard/Jennifer Keller/Rodney McKay
Characters: John Sheppard, Jennifer Keller, Rodney McKay
Additional Tags: Asexuality, Polyamory, Established Relationship, Post-Canon, Earth, POV Female Character
Summary:

Jennifer would be the first to admit that she’d never planned on a life that looked like this, but it worked.

Bookmarker’s Notes:

Where John is asexual–and more or less “married.”


This is a continuing favorite and very much a comfort fic for me. It’s a very domestic fic, and I enjoy the characterization and the way John is very much a part of the relationship, and it’s something the other characters come to realize.

dulce domum

Just past the glistening snout
of an unabashed trout mailbox,
my misnumbered house awaits me.
205 usually comes before 238
but I know the secrets of unlinking
the ceremonious paper links
that comprise a countdown
constellation of overhead cerulean.

Here’s what I can count on:
the odorous scream of decapitation
wafting into my nostrils
from the lawn, glowing
in the glory of shedded split ends.

A mama that looks at me wide-eyed
when I proclaim praise
in the superlative softness
of the toilet paper,
which feels as if it was quilted
for the undercarriage of a queen,
and asks incredulously
“What kind of toilet paper
have you been using?”
as if there were no alternative
to supreme gentleness.

A brother that insists
with taut lips that bloom
into a gap-toothed grin,
that every errand end
in a pilgrimage to a pet store
and giggles in earnest
at all my amatererish jokes.

A sister whose rapid fire syllables
sharpen my listening skills
and fill my embarrassed longing
for the Gushers of gossip-
juice filled and sweet too.

There is a busy dad,
forever Mr. Fix It;
you can play where’s Waldo
if you named a streak
of some sort of machine liquid
and search his being.
The light in his eyes
breaches its bone shell
of hard, cold tiredness
to share a shimmering idea
about an SNL skit
involving amalgamating classics.

Halfway up the driveway
if you cut left into the woods
just right, stepping around
the eager catching milt
of the spider’s beckoning webs,
there is a pond filled with frogs
who talk to each with their tonsils
strumming the beautiful guitars
lodged in their bellies.

The dog never seems to forget
you or resent you for being away;
in fact, the unconditional love
is what makes his slobber so sticky;
the cats purrs sound even more
velvety sincere.

And the food comes from
the face of the stove,
freckled and pockmarked
with stews spilled over;
a bed that never
holds me differently
than it has always done:
close;
in the happy cocoon
of home.

There was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. Under the generalship of Rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch something. In a very few minutes supper was ready, and Mole, as he took the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends’ faces brighten and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose–for he was famished indeed–on the provender so magically provided, thinking what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. As they ate, they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he had to ask them. The Rat said little or nothing, only taking care that each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that Mole had no trouble or anxiety about anything.

They clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the small brothers and sisters at home. When the door had closed on the last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, Mole and Rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At last the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, `Mole, old chap, I’m ready to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that side? Very well, then, I’ll take this. What a ripping little house this is! Everything so handy!’

He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets, and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine.

The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw clearly how plain and simple–how narrow, even–it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one’s existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.