Chapter Text
On Monday, Rodney opened the door of his studio, took one look at the leggy blonde standing there, and said, "No."
On Tuesday, Rodney opened the door of his studio, took one look at the distinguished-looking older gentleman, and said, "No."
On Wednesday, Rodney opened the door of his studio, took one look at the huge guy with the weird facial tattoo, and said, "No."
On Thursday, Rodney opened the door of his studio, looked at the tall guy with the dreads and said, "Maybe." Once the guy was stripped down and lying on the couch, Rodney took a good look at him and said, "No," all the while hoping that the guy wouldn't beat him to death.
Rodney called the agency. "Okay," he said quietly. "You seem to have 'tall' down, but I specifically asked for 'youngish,' 'male,' 'lean,' and 'with sharp features'. You have so far sent me a woman, two giants and a guy who looks forty-five." All the quiet disappeared from his voice. "What the hell is wrong with you people? Get it right on Monday, or I'm finding a new agency." He slammed the phone down.
Still angry, he walked over to the set of presses he'd designed out of clear Plexiglas. They allowed him to check the progress on the various papers he was making. And, of course he made his own paper. He was making a version of Vatman paper for his current project, but he'd screwed around with the size just a little. Traditionally, it should have been 44 inches by 17 inches, but the odd number made him unhappy and the scale was weird for his usual work. So, 44 X 22 would have to do the trick, and if a bunch of dead guys in the Netherlands wanted to come over and discuss it, they could just bring it.
The sheets were one day away from being dry, and Rodney would have taken it as a sign, if he believed in that crap, which he didn't. He walked back over to his easel and grabbed a charcoal. The paper already hung there was not one of his. Even Arches professional grade commercial watercolor paper was vastly inferior to his, but was fine for making preliminary sketches.
His hand flew over the paper, creating the lines of an abstract. Rodney's drawing was often described as "technical" or "precise" by critics who liked him and "mechanical" by those who didn't. The balanced lines made him content. The lines were precise. They were comforting; they cleared his mind and helped him concentrate.
He lifted the charcoal from the paper and looked at the drawing. Hmmm…very Frank Lloyd Wright, he thought, looking at the strong lines and recessed panels and majestic spires he'd drawn. In paint, it would look like stained glass. He took a few minutes to shade it, using delicate crosshatching and an occasional smudged shadow to give it depth.
He was of two minds about it. Part of him wanted to crumple it up and throw it at the overflowing trash can, and part of him wanted to keep it, maybe paint it some day- once he was through with this bizarre obsession with figure drawing. He was looking for a specific person. He wanted a person – a man – with sharp features. A person whose face and body would throw the light. A man who had the clean lines of the sketch he'd just finished.
His watch showed him that it was well past noon – he'd gotten caught up drawing again – lost time to the pull of the charcoal. It happened a lot. He walked over to the small kitchen almost hidden in the corner of the studio and made himself a sandwich, still looking at the sketch on the easel, his brow furrowed in thought.
***
When the doorbell rang Monday morning, Rodney was up to his elbow-length latex gloves in oil paint. Oil paint that he was making by hand. Of course he made his own paint – he considered the process to be akin to a combination of the sophisticated science of polymer chemistry and intuition. Not surprisingly, he was better at the chemistry part.
Rodney mostly worked in watercolor – he was well known for coaxing deep colors from a medium more well-known for delicate washes and intricate detail. He had his own recipes for watercolor. However, the "stained glass" effect on the previous day's sketch would require the slickness and luminosity of oil. He was going to have to counteract the medium's tendency for colors to blend together, as he needed sharp divisions between panels – maybe extra drying time, but that would make the bitch last for weeks. He was considering mixing media, but had not quite determined the best way to go.
The doorbell rang again, and Rodney pulled his hands out of the vat and stripped the gloves off, hurrying across the studio.
He opened the door and said, "Yes!"
The man standing there was perfect. Young-ish, male, tall, lean and with sharp features.
Rodney grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the studio, kicking the door shut behind him. He had a sudden thought. "Oh, please tell me you're from the agency. Please don't tell me you're my new neighbor or from the building commission or you just hit my car in the parking lot."
The guy leaned back against the door in an easy slouch. "I'm from the agency," he said. He reached forward and touched the side of Rodney's face. While Rodney gaped at him, he held up two fingers with a smear of blue on them. "You had paint on your face."
Rodney lifted up the hem of his shirt and wiped the blue from the man's fingers and then, as an afterthought, he used the tails to scrub at his own face.
"You are exactly what I need," Rodney said. "Take off your clothes."
"Okay," the guy said slowly. "I'm John Sheppard."
Rodney grabbed his hand, shook it, then used the grip to pull John further into his studio. "Rodney McKay. Clothes off, on the couch – there's a screen over there if you have delicate sensibilities."
John started to walk slowly across the studio. "Wasting light, wasting light, wasting light," Rodney called after him, practically running to the easel to set up a huge pad of watercolor paper. "Hurry up," he yelled.
"What, no robe?" John stuck his head around the screen.
"What?" Rodney yelped. "Oh, god – you've only done classroom, haven't you? I was kidding about the delicate sensibilities. Move."
John came around the screen looking nervous and went to stand next to the couch.
Rodney came around, grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed, but John stiffened and unconsciously resisted. "Did they teach you nothing? Even for classroom?"
"Uh," John said. "I'm kinda new – I only did classroom once."
"Jesus. Okay, do what I say and I promise we'll talk about it later. See that?" He pointed at the skylight over the couch. "That is us losing the good light. Please just lie down and let me move you around and then let me get behind the damned easel. It's nothing personal, I swear."
John relaxed fractionally under his hands and Rodney pushed him gently onto the couch. He pushed John down on his side and into a relatively relaxed pose, arranging his arms and legs the way he wanted.
Rodney moved behind the easel. "Look," he called to John. "These first few pieces will be studies. I need to see how the light works with you, to try and find the right place. So you don't have to hold the pose exactly – you can blink and move enough to take the pressure off your muscles."
He grabbed a stick of charcoal and started drawing. He ran few the first studies quickly, ripping pages off the pad and letting them fall to the floor. John had good angles – from his spiky hair to the sharp line of his slightly off-center nose to the expanse of his neck and shoulders. He had long arms and big hands, but slim fingers. His chest was nice but not muscle-bound – kind of hairy - and his hips and belly were slim and taut.
Rodney drew the hollows of his hips, the outline of his cock, lying quiescent against his thigh. John's legs were long and lean, but a little short for the length of his torso. Only an artist's eye would pick it up. He even had nice feet – slim with long toes.
Rodney tore off another sheet, adding to the pile, then looked up to the skylight.
"About a half-hour more," he said, then moved quickly to the couch. "On your front," he instructed. "Left arm hanging down to the floor, right curled under your head. Three-quarter profile toward me, feet crossed." He helped, pulling John's left arm into place, laying the back of his hand onto the floor, his fingers lying in a relaxed curl. He looked at John's feet. "Left over right," he instructed. "Good."
He got back to the easel and managed another four studies before the light crapped out. He walked over to the bathroom and pulled his blue robe off the hook on the door.
"We're done for now," he told John, draping the robe over his back and moving behind the easel to give him some privacy. He gathered all of the discarded studies and took them to a table with bright lights over it.
John came up behind him and cleared his throat. "Uh," he said. "When you said 'done for now' did you mean done for the day?"
"No," Rodney snapped. "We'll get the good light again in the late afternoon. You can get dressed if you want or take a nap or whatever. You're on a day rate, so you might as well get paid to catch up on your sleep."
"Uh, okay," John said, and drifted off back to the studio.
Rodney laid the studies out on the table, crushing the worst of them into paper balls and tossing them over his shoulder at the trash can. He pulled out two of the best and spent a little time shading them, just to see what he'd get.
He sighed. The lines were wrong, wrong, wrong. He'd drawn John like a building or an abstract, all hard lines and angles, no softness to him at all. And Rodney had touched him – he knew John was made of curves – curves of muscle and sinew, and even his sharp features and spiky hair were saved from starkness by gentle slopes.
Rodney swept the last two off the table in a fit of pique. He looked around the easel and spied John, stretched out on the couch with his feet crossed, still wearing Rodney's robe and reading an art textbook.
"I'll be in the back," Rodney said. "Just yell if you need anything – there's food and stuff in the kitchen. Help yourself."
John nodded and Rodney moved to the back of the studio space. He checked on his handmade paper. It was ready, so he opened the presses and started peeling out the heavy sheets. They were thick and soft – the perfect mix of linen, cotton and recycled pulp. They were unbent, with deckle edges and, just a few specks of tan and blue in the creamy white of the paper. He stacked them between layers of felt and placed another piece of Plexi on top, as much to protect them as to keep them flat.
He moved back to the paint area and snapped on a fresh pair of gloves. He checked the blue oil. It was still not quite what he was looking for, so he slowly added cobalt pigment, looking for the clear blue he wanted for the stained glass project. Rodney realized that somewhere along the way, he'd committed to the damn thing, and he was going to have to find a way to see it through. He used his hands to make sure the oil was saturated with the color, using one finger to rub the paint against the wrist of the opposite glove to hold up to the bright white lights over the vats and lost himself in the play of color and light.
Behind him, John cleared his throat. "That's pretty," he said.
"Hmmmm," Rodney said, turning his hands over and scraping the paint back into the vat. "It is, isn't it? It may be perfect."
"You're not painting me in blue are you?" John asked.
"No," Rodney said, like it was obvious. "This is oil. I'm doing you in watercolor, assuming I ever get the damned sketches right."
John straightened up from his casual slouch and tucked his hands under his arms. "Am I doing it wrong?" he asked.
Rodney stripped off the gloves, carefully dropping them into the trash can. He turned to John, who looked worried. "No," he said. "It's not you, it's me."
John grinned at him. "Are we breaking up?"
Rodney gave him a half-smile. "Yes. I think you should get naked with other people."
John gave the half-smile back. "What about you?" he said. "Do you want to get naked with other people?"
Rodney's smile turned wry. "I haven't been naked with other people in so long, I've probably forgotten all the good knots."
John gaped at him for a second, then laughed out loud.
Rodney smiled at him, then noticed when his stomach grumbled. He looked at his watch. "Huh, It's noon," he said. "Food now."
He brushed past John, who turned and followed, keeping a distance of about three feet between them. Rodney completely ignored it and walked to the kitchen, throwing open a cabinet.
"Okay," he said. "Frozen pizza or PB&J?"
"Depends," John said, settling into his customary lean against the half-wall. "What kind of jelly?"
"Duh, grape." Rodney barely glanced up at him. "And sourdough bread."
"Hit me," John said, and Rodney started setting things onto the counter.
He slid a knife across to John. "Well? Get to work."
John opened the peanut butter. "Is this part of my day rate?"
Rodney pursed his lips. "I think anything except outright prostitution and slapping you around is included in your day rate."
"Good to know," John said. "Gimme a spoon. You've got milk, right?"
They used paper towels instead of plates, mostly because Rodney didn't have plates. John picked up the second half of his sandwich and ambled into the area behind the easel.
"No food on the sketches," Rodney called, and he got a sharp look for his trouble. When he had the kitchen back in order, he joined John, bringing two apples with him. "Here," he said. "I hear these are good for you."
John took one and crunched into it. For the first time, Rodney noticed his teeth – his few smiles since entering the studio had been rather tight-lipped. John's teeth were very white and very straight. He caught Rodney looking at him.
"Wha?" he said through his mouthful of apple.
"Nothing," Rodney said. "You just have nice teeth."
"Uh, thanks?"
"You don't show them much," Rodney observed. "Are you still nervous?"
John smiled, again without showing his teeth. "A little," he said. "I'm not really used to the whole modeling thing."
"So why are you doing it?"
"It pays well," John said, "and it's better than outright prostitution or getting slapped around."
"Okay," Rodney said slowly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"No, seriously," John said with a wry twist to his lips. "I got fired from my last job, and I was approached by a model's agent on the street. Once I checked them out and found out it wasn't a front for prostitution, I signed up."
"Recently, then?" Rodney asked. "Since this is only your second job."
"Yes." John's face went blank, and Rodney figured that part of the conversation was over.
John finished his apple and wrapped the core in the paper towel he was still carrying. Rodney held out a hand and took it and his own to the kitchen trash. When he came back, John was looking at the sketch for the stained glass project.
"What do you see?" Rodney asked, even though he rarely cared what other people thought.
"It's like a window," John said, pointing to the lines of a panel. "But not a regular window. It seems like it should be looking out over a city or the ocean, or both." John let his fingers run over one of the spires without actually touching the paper. "See, here – this part would be the center, with all this other stuff breaking off from it."
Rodney blinked. Where he had seen something completely abstract, John had managed to make it real, probably because he didn't understand abstract art. But his instincts were dead on in placing it into the actual, rather than in the theoretical where Rodney had. "I've…uh…I've been thinking of it as stained glass."
"Yeah," John said, his voice dreamy. "A stained glass window looking out – blue and red and yellow and orange. No green, though."
"Yeah," Rodney said. "No green – it's too natural; this should be much more alien."
They looked at the sketch for a few minutes in silence, and John seemed to shake off his reflective mood, stepping back from the wall where the study was tacked.
"Thank you," Rodney said quietly.
"For what?"
Rodney snorted quietly. "For showing me something I didn't see. That almost never happens."
"Well, then," John said. "I guess you're welcome." He looked at the skylight. "Is it time yet?"
"Probably not," Rodney said. "But go over and let me see you in this light."
John walked over to the couch and started to shed the robe, letting the sleeves slide down his arms as he untied the belt.
Rodney glanced up. "Stop!"
John froze. "Okay," he drawled.
"Leave the robe like it is and sit down. On the edge of the couch. Just casual, your elbows on your knees, legs spread, head up, eyes down."
John arranged himself as he was told, clasping his hands loosely between his knees.
"Good, good," Rodney said. "Chin down about twelve degrees, eyes still downcast. Perfect. Stay right there."
John was throwing unbelievable shadows in the harsh light. It cut across his body in golden streams, one falling perfectly to diagonally bisect his face, and he was lit from beneath with the hard light bouncing up from the white-painted floor. Rodney got behind the easel and started sketching as fast as he could – the light would last only minutes, and he wanted, no needed to get as much out of it as he could.
Four minutes in, he grabbed a smaller pad of paper and crossed to kneel down about three feet from John. He did two more fast sketches, then got to his feet and moved closer.
"Look up," he said. "No, no – chin down, eyes up, looking through your lashes. Good."
He got one more sketch done before the sun moved and ruined that beautiful, sharp light. He flung the pad away before clapping John on the shoulders. "That was great," he said, grinning.
John lifted his head and gave Rodney a wide grin, finally showing his teeth. And Rodney realized something. John was beautiful. Not just in a model way, but actually beautiful. The grin lit his whole face, and Rodney suddenly wanted to make him happy all the time, just to see it.
Rodney caught a quick breath and stepped back, hoping his expression didn't give anything away. "Okay," he said, turning to gather up the pad and the sketches he'd thrown all over the floor. "Take a break. We won't get good light again until late afternoon."
John shrugged and pulled the robe back into place, and Rodney turned away to spread the sketches out on the table.
Again, they were sharp almost to the point of being abstract – all lines and no curves. Goddamnit. Rodney sighed deeply, then pulled out the last sketch – the one that was a close-up of John's head and the tops of his shoulders as he looked up through his lashes in a wholly alluring pose. He clipped it onto the easel and went back to the workroom to get a palette of homemade watercolors, a glass of water and a towel. He started on the underpainting, using a light hand so as to not obscure the charcoal lines.
He thinned the paints and mixed them deftly, laying down washes of color – yellow and a light tan that would act as the base of a skin tone, dark blue to put in the appropriate lowlight tones for John's nearly-black hair. He laid slashes of stark white and gold to pick out the hard beams of the sun.
Once he was done with the first layer, he washed and dried his brush before looking around the easel. John was asleep on the couch on his belly, one arm hanging down, the other curled under his head as a pillow. He had shrugged the robe down, probably because of the heat, and it only covered him from his hips to the tops of his thighs. The sun was streaming down on him. At first, Rodney saw lines and shading and shadows. When he stopped looking at John critically, he saw something else – a different kind of beauty.
Rodney walked over and shook him gently. "Don't sleep here," he said. "That glass isn't UV treated – you'll burn."
John made a sleepy sound and let Rodney pull him off the couch. Rodney helped him slip his arms back into his robe and tie it. He then led him over to the small bed located in an alcove – the bed where he sometimes slept when time got away from him and he tired himself out too much to walk home.
John, still mostly asleep, untied the robe and started shrugging out of it again. Rodney caught it before John inadvertently got naked and managed to keep it across lean hips and thighs as John fell into the bed, face-down. Rodney went back to the easel to lay down the next layer of color.
A couple of hours later, Rodney looked up. Over the years, he'd gotten attuned to the hours of good light, and he knew instinctively that it was nearly time for the good afternoon light. He stepped away from the easel and walked close enough to the alcove to call to John, but not close enough to see him.
"John," he called softly. "John. It's time."
"M'kay."
He could hear John rummaging around, then watched as he stepped out, Rodney's robe clutched around him, his eyes sleepy. He had a light flush on his cheeks.
"Okay," Rodney said. "Back on the couch, same position as this morning."
"Can we do the second one first?" John asked, his voice quiet.
"Why?" Rodney checked the pad of paper on the easel to make sure he had enough.
John looked down, still clutching the robe around himself. "Uh…" he said. "Sleep and you know, morning-like and…"
Rodney gave him a half-smile. "John, I've seen a hard-on before. Also, I'm gay – so I've even actually touched one. Get on the couch – we don't have time to protect your modesty. Besides, it'll go away pretty quick. You know, with me looking at you."
John snorted and took off the robe before walking to the couch. He threw himself down on his back and smirked at Rodney. Then he stretched.
"Okay, smartass," Rodney said. "You want to play? Let's play. Back arched, reach over your head, grab the armrest and flex. I want to see all the muscles. And a few…bones."
John smirked again and did what he was told. He even threw his head back to expose his long throat and spread his legs a little.
His cock was as gorgeous as the rest of him. Rodney could understand the smirkiness – it was big enough to be noteworthy, blood-dark and slightly curved up over his belly. Nice. Rodney lost the plot for a minute, wondering what that cock would feel like in his mouth. Just at that moment, the light shifted and Rodney's mind snapped into the zone.
This time he stayed behind the easel, sketching quickly. He'd have to let John out of the pose pretty soon – the stress on his muscles would be too hard to hold. Rodney had been right; John's erection subsided within five or so minutes – lasting a little longer than Rodney expected, but John's arms were starting to shake, and most of his concentration had to be going to holding position. He was stubborn enough that he wasn't going to break, but Rodney did have compassion for his models – it actually made him feel bad to hurt them even a little.
"Ease up," he said. John let go of the arm rest and fell back onto the sofa panting. His eyes were closed, his arms crossed over his chest. He had his legs splayed out, one foot on the floor.
"Put your right hand on the top of your thigh and let the fingers hang down," Rodney instructed. "Bend your left knee and put your left hand on it."
John was still catching his breath, but he did as he was told. Rodney liked the flush on his heaving chest and the way he was breathing through his mouth, eyes closed. His hairline was sheened with sweat, a few drops wending their way down the side of his face.
Rodney sketched slower this time, thinking "curves, curves" repeatedly to himself. He tried to catch more than just the line of calf and elbow, of hand and chest and chin. His first instinct was to do his usual slash-and-burn style of sketching, but he forced himself to slow down, to look from John to the studies and back, to really pay attention to what he was committing to paper.
Just as John caught his breath, the light softened – a cloud passing over the afternoon sun. It changed everything, casting John's body in soft gold and red and orange from the reflecting sunset.
"Stand up," Rodney said, hushed. "Back to me. Pretend you're looking out a window – the stained glass one. It's a couple of feet in front of you."
Rodney smothered a small gasp when John leaned forward and grabbed the back of the sofa, bracing himself as if on a railing, looking out at whatever was on the other side of the window. He did another slow sketch – fighting the urge to speed through it. He forced himself to outline the curves of John's bowed back, his ass, his flexing thighs, his shoulders.
The light faded, and Rodney made a few final strokes with his charcoal before letting it drop into the tray. "Beautiful," he said quietly, then cleared his throat. "We're done for the day."
He caught sight of John returning to the screen. A few minutes later, he came out in his street clothes. Rodney stayed behind the easel.
"Same time tomorrow?" John asked.
"Yeah," Rodney said. "Same time." He stared at the easel, unseeing, as John let himself out.
Rodney tacked the sketch of John's back next to the stained glass study and spent a long time looking at the differences in scale. To make it work, to include John's whole body within the soaring architecture, the project would either have to be huge, or incredibly intricate in a relatively small space. Not that intricate was a problem for Rodney – that precision of line could come in handy. But John's body, its curves and angles that he was just figuring out – it deserved more than to be a small figure in a medium sized painting.
He walked to the back of the studio, behind the kitchen and bathroom and the alcove with the bed. Past the workroom and the small room with the washer and dryer and stacks of towels and drop cloths. In the very back, there was a sliding door that always stuck when he opened it, squealing out its displeasure. But inside, under a bare bulb, was where the canvases lived.
Rodney only committed to canvas at the very end of his process, and then only when he worked in oils. The handmade paper was perfect for his watercolors, but the oils needed the smooth surface of canvas covered with thin layers of gesso and sanded down to perfection. Oils had to float just on top of the surface – it was the blessing and the curse of the media.
The storage space also contained long strips of wood – two by twos sturdy enough for what he needed. There was a circular saw and a compound miter bench, metal L plates and screws, a heavy duty staple gun. Rodney, of course, stretched his own canvas.
Way in the back there was a roll of sailcloth. He had gotten a great deal on it, and he'd planned to cut it down to smaller sizes, but he never had. It was one glorious unbroken sheet. He would be able to stretch it to ten feet by eight feet, and that might be big enough to contain the two elements that he wanted, each exceptional in their own way. Reaching for his safety goggles, he got to work.
Some hours later, he stumbled out of the storage room. He'd decided that he was too tired to continue – exhaustion and power tools didn't mix. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, then walked over to the privacy screen and found his bathrobe neatly folded on the chair he kept in there.
He carried it to the bed before stripping down to his boxers. He pulled the robe on and was instantly surrounded with John's smell – soap and sweat and a spicy cologne or aftershave that smelled like ginger and something deeper. He fell into the bed and pulled up the sheets and the thin blanket and fell asleep thinking of the smooth expanse of John's back with the glass wall and the mythical city spread out before him.
~*~
Rodney registered the knock on the door and pulled the sheets over his head. The knock came again, louder. Rodney sat straight up in bed. Shit! John!
He walked quickly to the door, straightening the robe as he went. He opened the door just as John raised his hand to knock again.
"Sorry, sorry," Rodney said. "Overslept."
John walked in, and Rodney shut the door behind him. Rodney stripped off the robe, leaving himself in boxers and nothing else. He thrust the robe at John and turned away. "Get ready," he said, pointing up in the general direction of the skylight.
John took the robe and nodded, then walked quickly to the screen. Well, quickly for him. Rodney walked into the bathroom and got himself a little more pulled together. When he came out, he was a little more awake, having splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. John was sitting on the couch, wearing the robe.
"Just a sec," Rodney said. He stripped off his boxers and grabbed a clean pair from the stack of laundry atop a small dresser. He put on a pair of paint-stained cargo pants and an equally colorful tee shirt, then got behind the easel. He looked up to find John staring at him.
"Quid Pro Quo," he said, smiling at John. "Now you've seen me naked, too. Stay there."
Rodney grabbed a portable easel and carried it over to John, setting it up a couple of feet away. He went back and got the underpainted study and his palette of watercolors, holding three brushes between his teeth. He set everything down on the couch and jogged back for a glass of water, which he put on the floor. John was holding the sheet of paper in his hand.
"This is how you see me?" John asked. "Do I really look that weird?"
"Gimme that," Rodney said, pulling it gently from John's hand. "That's just the first layer – it's how you get depth – highlights, lowlights, that sort of thing. I see you as just as good-looking as you are, don't worry."
John looked up at him, big-eyed, and Rodney rolled his eyes. He clipped the paper to the easel. "Same pose as is on the paper."
John slid the robe down his shoulders, then propped his elbows on his knees and looked up at Rodney through his lashes. "How's that?"
"Perfect." Rodney reached down to wet one of his brushes, and he was off and running. He started with the tone of John's skin. He could see that it was normally pale cream with a slight red flush, but his tan made it a deeper color, with highlights along his cheekbones and on the tip of his nose and across his forehead.
Rodney layered a darker skin tone over the face and neck on the paper, then started trying to capture the unruly cowlicks of John's hair, starting with a dark brown, layered thinly over the blue he'd already put down. He unclipped the painting and carried it back to the table, bringing a pad back with him.
"Okay," he said, looking at John. "Could you sit on the arm of the couch with your feet on the cushions? Back to me, and take the robe down to your waist."
John did as he was asked, his shoulders rounding forward. Rodney stepped out from behind the easel and placed his hand lightly at the center of John's back. "Straighten up for me. Shoulders back."
John stiffened his spine too much, squaring his shoulders. Rodney kept his hand where it was, feeling smooth warm skin under his fingers.
"Easy there, General," he said. "Not quite so stiff." John's shoulders went even tighter. Rodney reached down for the robe and pulled it back up. "Sit down."
John sat onto the sofa cushions, but his shoulders were still too stiff to be comfortable and Rodney had seen the tightness of the muscles in his back. Rodney walked to a spot about two feet from the couch and sank down into a cross-legged posture, hands in his lap, and looked up at John.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Rodney kept his voice low and even.
"No," John said. "Do you want me to just leave? I…I don't think I'll be any good to you today."
"I don't want you to leave," Rodney said, "but you don't have to stay if it will make you uncomfortable. I'm not quite sure what nerve I touched, but I apologize."
"Never mind," John was looking off to the left. "It's fine. Besides, you're paying for me."
"I'm not a complete dick," Rodney said, "though I'm sure that's a little hard to believe. I'm going to go in the back and work on a project. Why don't you decide what you want to do? As to money, I can afford your day rate, so don't sweat it."
"What about the good light?" John looked up at the skylight.
"All gone." Rodney made a gesture like a Las Vegas dealer leaving a game, clapping his hands together lightly before holding them up, palms out. He levered himself back onto his feet, groaning a little as his knees popped. "I'm back there if you need me." He hitched a finger over his shoulder.
He walked over to the bed and sat down to pull on socks and shoes, then moved to the storeroom without even looking back at John. Rodney wasn't dumb; he knew he'd inadvertently said something wrong. He was high-strung – he wasn't one to lie to himself – so he recognized it in others, and he'd recognized it in John.
Rodney put on his safety glasses and moved to the miter saw. He measured and marked the angles he need for the cross-bracing, then carefully cut the ends of the two-by-twos to points at either end. He got the longer pieces across two sawhorses and began cutting the angles that would form the tight corners of the frame. Once he was sure he had all the pieces for the framework, he looked around for a big enough space to lay the whole thing down for assembly.
"I think you'll have to do it out in the studio," John said from the doorway.
Rodney looked up. John was slouched against the door. The slouch wasn't his normal loose-limbed lean, but he looked less stiff than he had on the couch.
"I think you're right," Rodney said. "We'll have to move the sofa and put down some drop cloths to protect it all from the floor." He grabbed several folded cloths from a pile and held them out. John slowly reached out and took them. Rodney picked up several more and followed John into the studio proper.
They slid the couch back against one wall and started layering the drop cloths, Rodney directing John. Once they had a large area covered, Rodney walked back to the workroom and started gathering up the lengths of wood. John took the other end and helped. On their last trip back, John carried a heavy-duty drill and Rodney brought a bag of brackets and screws.
Once everything was laid out neatly, Rodney started putting the two-by-twos down in a rough rectangle. Sifting through the bag, John came up with a large L bracket and the appropriate screws. Rodney put the brackets in place and marked the holes, then came back and drilled pilot holes before screwing the bracket in place, forming a perfect corner. They repeated the motions on the other three corners, and Rodney waited while John figured out how to assemble the cross braces – one notched in the center – into a large X shape. Rodney let him attach that piece, and he used large flat brackets. His work was just as precise as Rodney's, and he even thought to reinforce the center of the X on all sides.
Rodney picked up the completed frame and leaned it against one wall. He waved for John to follow him, and they managed to wrestle the huge roll of sailcloth out and onto their protected area. They got it rolled out and Rodney placed the frame on top of it. There was at least a foot of clearance on each side.
"Heh," Rodney said quietly. "I knew it." He went back to the storeroom and brought back the heavy-duty staple gun.
He knelt down by the frame and motioned for John to join him before handing him the staple gun and a pair of safety goggles. "We're doing this one gallery wrapped," Rodney said. "That means the canvas will cover the edge and be attached at the back. It just looks better." He answered the unspoken question. He picked up the center of the canvas on one side and carefully folded it over the frame, then motioned for John to staple it.
Once the staples were in, Rodney moved to the opposite side and folded from there, putting a little pressure on it. "That's why it's called stretching a canvas. Next we'll do the north and south sides, then work our way around, keeping the correct tension."
John followed him and stapled where Rodney pointed. When they got to the corners, Rodney folded and tucked the canvas and motioned for John to put in the last few staples. Rodney got a utility knife and gently trimmed away the extra canvas before picking it up again and leaning it against a wall, making sure the drop cloth was under it.
"It's really big," John said, uttering his first words since he'd appeared at the storeroom door.
Rodney looked at the canvas and nodded. "It is. I think it's going to be perfect."
"We can go back, if you want." John tilted his head toward the area of sun under the skylight.
"In the afternoon," Rodney said. "I'd like to get the first coat of gesso on this."
John watched as Rodney got out a roller, tray and a five gallon paint bucket. He pried the can open and stirred the contents before pouring the thick white gesso into the tray. John stayed where he was, and Rodney rolled the entire canvas quickly, having poured out the perfect amount.
John continued watching as Rodney washed the tray and roller in the utility sink. When he came back, John had put the lid back on the bucket and was making sure it was tight. They gathered up the extra drop cloths and put them back in the storeroom. John helped Rodney slide the door shut. It moved much easier with two. Back in the studio, they put the couch back into place.
"Frozen pizza?" Rodney asked. When John nodded, he went onto the kitchen and turned the oven on to preheat. Rodney came back out to find John sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking down at his clasped hands. Rodney settled himself on the arm of the sofa and waited.
"I was in the Air Force. I was a pilot," John said quietly. "That's the job I got fired from. Well, discharged."
"Okay," Rodney said.
"I got caught giving another guy a blowjob in the back room of a bar in town, and they threw me out."
"Okay," Rodney said again.
"I managed to get an honorable discharge because my dad is a fucking war hero, and he pulled some strings."
Rodney pursed his lips. "What happened to the other guy?"
"He wasn't as lucky. He got the dishonorable model. At least, that's what I heard." John was still looking down at his hands. "My dad invited me to fuck off, and I did."
"Mine, too," Rodney said. "When I came out, I got the whole 'you're not my son' drama." His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Want to hear the best part? When I started getting famous, they changed their tune. Suddenly, I was the best son ever. So I invited them to fuck off. It was a good day."
"My dad's a General," John finally looked up at Rodney, his eyes shuttered.
"Ah," Rodney said. "I get it. I really am sorry."
"You couldn't have known." John shrugged and looked away. Then he looked back at Rodney and tilted his head. "You're famous?"
Rodney laughed. "I'm D.R. McKay. I won the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal in Painting, the Carnegie Prize, the Schock Prize for Art and the Sobey Art Award. All last year.
"D.R.?" John asked.
"David Rodney – but there's a David McCoy, and I didn't want to be confused with him. He's a landscape painter." Rodney shuddered dramatically. He got up from the couch and rummaged through the stack of papers on a small desk in the corner. He pulled out a magazine, which he handed to John. It was N.Y. Arts' critical review of his most recent showing.
John read for a few minutes. "This guy doesn't like you very much."
Rodney laughed. "No, he doesn't. But the good part is at the bottom where it says I'm world renowned, and 'possibly the finest abstract painter working today.' That part I like."
John frowned. "He says your work is 'mechanical.' That's not true. The stained glass isn't. That one of me isn't." He pointed at the two studies pinned on the wall. "Oh, god – that's what the giant canvas is for, isn't it?"
Rodney smiled. "Yes. You in the foreground and the stained glass in front of you, looking out over the city. Anything smaller wouldn't do you justice."
"The stained glass one doesn't need me," John said. "It's going to be beautiful."
"You're what's going to make it beautiful, John – it's all lines and you're all curves." Rodney's voice dropped low. "I think it's going to be the best piece I've ever done."
He looked up, and John's cheeks were stained with a blush.
"What is it?" Rodney kept his voice soft.
"Beautiful," John said. "No one's ever said that, though I got called 'pretty' a lot in the service. I guess that's why no one was surprised that I turned out to be a cocksucker." He smiled bitterly.
Rodney reached out with one hand and pushed John's shoulder. "Hey," he said. "Some of my favorite people are cocksuckers; including me – and I'm my very favorite person of all."
The oven dinged, so Rodney went to put the pizza in. He came back with two cans of Coke and handed one to John before sitting on the couch next to him.
"Thanks," John said rolling the can between his hands. "I guess as models go, I'm a pretty good cocksucker, huh?"
"Now you're just fishing for compliments." Rodney flashed him a grin. "I've already called you beautiful and perfect and complimented your teeth. I don't give people I'm dating those kind of compliments."
John grinned back, showing the teeth in question. "Well, maybe if you did, McKay, you wouldn't have forgotten the good knots."
"Ha ha," Rodney said, bumping his shoulder against John's. "You're a laugh riot."
~*~
Just before the afternoon light was going to come in, Rodney had John help him turn the couch around. Rodney pointed to the study from earlier.
"See here," he said. "You're bent over too far. I'm going to paint you leaning on a rail, not waiting for someone to come around the corner and nail you."
John looked at the floor and blushed again.
"You sure blush a lot for a naked guy," Rodney observed, and John gave him a dirty look before taking off the robe and putting it on the cushions of the sofa.
Rodney looked at John's back critically. "Okay," he said. "Let's try something a little more relaxed. Hands on the rail, leaning forward, fingers hanging down. Legs spread a little. Raise up on your toes."
"Like I want to fly," John said softly.
"Exactly," Rodney snapped his fingers. "Like you could just lean out and fly." He moved behind the easel and started drawing slowly, sketching the curves, the kinetic energy of John's body, yearning for flight. He tried to capture the way the muscles of John's upper back and arms bunched under the skin as he leaned, the way his head pushed forward, the flex of his thighs and calves from the balls of his feet pushing up from the floor.
But something was wrong; John's body was too tense – he looked like he was going to jump to his death, not fall into the air. Rodney came around the easel. He put his hand on John's back, the same way he'd done earlier.
"Relax for me," Rodney said. "Think about the wind, about the air currents that will pick you up. You're not jumping, you're gliding. Trust the air to catch you."
John's muscles unknotted under his hand, and Rodney couldn't help stroking across the top of John's shoulder, even though it was wrong. He shouldn't touch John like that, transference be damned. They had a business relationship, and it had to stay that way. Just because John had revealed that he was gay didn't give Rodney the right to take advantage of their unequal positions. But, god, he wanted to lean in and kiss the spot between John's shoulder blades; that spot where John's muscles had relaxed under his hand.
Rodney allowed himself one more touch, flattening his hand between John's shoulder blades again as lightly as he could.
Then John pushed back into the touch minutely before leaning forward slightly and taking a deep breath. As John let the air come shuddering out, Rodney let his hand fall away. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and took one step back.
Rodney took one more step back, then turned away and returned to the easel. He tossed the first study away and started over. This time it was right. His charcoal moved deliberately across the page, tracing the lines of John's body. This time the kinetic energy was softer, sweeter – John's posture looked like he was still yearning for the air, but his need to conquer it had turned into a need to work with it, to join it.
Rodney lost himself in the charcoal, in the play of light and the quiet scratches on the paper. Once he had the shape down, he started adding shadows and details, trying not to linger on the crease between John's thigh and ass, on the curve of his hips, the vulnerable nape of his neck. He wasn't fooling himself at all. He finally gave in and moved his charcoal as would have liked to move his hand, over John's shoulders and back, his strong thighs and calves, the curve of his waist, the hollow at the dip of his spine.
"Rodney." John's quiet voice pulled him back. He looked up, blinking. John was standing on the other side of the easel, wearing the robe. "Light's gone," he said. "It's getting dark."
Rodney blinked a few times. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make you hold position so long. I…"
"Rodney," John drawled. "I broke position half an hour ago." He moved to the side of the easel, where he could see Rodney, but not the paper. "Can I see it?"
Rodney looked at the drawing in front of him. If John saw it, he'd know. Everything was right there on the page. But Rodney figured that John had the right to see it, even if was enough to send him running – even if he decided he couldn't work with Rodney any more, couldn't be the focus of that.
"Yeah," Rodney said roughly. He snapped on the light over the easel then stepped back to let John walk around. Knowing that he was being a big chicken, he went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water. He drank all of it before getting one for John and a second for himself.
John was staring at the sketch with both hands in the pockets of the robe and his head tilted to the side. He looked up when Rodney gave him the water, but he stuck the bottle in his pocket and lifted his hand to the drawing, close, but not touching. He traced a finger down his own back on the paper, then stepped away. He pulled the water out of his pocket and opened it, taking a long drink. He tipped his head toward the paper.
"Anyone who calls your work 'mechanical' is a fucking moron," he said.
As John turned away, Rodney said, "Thank you," very quietly.
Rodney was still rooted to the spot when John came back, dressed and holding the bottle of water. "Same time tomorrow?"
Rodney finally shook the mood off and looked at John, whose face was unreadable. "Later," he said. "So we can do afternoon and moonlight. Besides, I need to work on the canvas in the morning."
"Okay." And with that, John left.
Rodney stared at the sketch for a long time before gathering his things and walking home.
~*~
Rodney got to the studio about ten the next morning. When he stayed at the studio for more than one night, he always forgot how superior his real bed was to the crappy one in the corner. The one at home was huge, had pretty much the most expensive mattress known to mankind, and sheets with an obnoxiously high thread count. He'd slept eleven straight hours cocooned in luxury, and grabbed a bagel and coffee on the way over.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that it had been very hard not to take the blue robe home with him – to have John's scent in his bed, even if it was second-hand. He'd resisted, but only barely.
Once he finished his coffee, Rodney went back to the oil paints. Since the blue was perfect, he was ready to try the yellow. It had to have the depth of early sunset, but the brightness of a topaz. As he added pigments a little at a time – the intuition part of the process – Rodney realized that the stained glass painting would have to be mixed media.
He lifted his hands from the yellow oil and stripped off his gloves. Walking back to the giant canvas, he tilted his head to look at it. He'd have to build it from the back out, not the front in – the city would have to go in first, before the stained glass, so that it looked like it was being viewed through the window in a way the sketch couldn't communicate.
So, watercolor for the city – dried and fixed. Then the window in oils. He'd allow the colors to bleed into one another a little, but he'd come back after it dried and place the dividing lines with watercolor. Now, John – that would be the question. Whether he needed to be precise or hazy.
Rodney went to the workroom and pulled down two medium-sized pre-stretched canvases. He was going to have to do some testing. He placed them side by side on the easel and painted in a rough representation of the city before moving them to his drying setup – a long easel and three hair dryers. He started up the dryers, then moved over to the giant canvas to check the gesso.
Finding it dry, he spread the drop cloths again and moved the canvas to the floor. He got a sanding block out of a drawer and began lightly sanding the first layer of gesso. He blew the dust clear ever minute or so to make sure that he wasn't penetrating the layer, just smoothing it uniformly.
The position made his back hurt, so he sat up on his heels to take a breather. He jumped a little when John said, "Rodney," from a few feet away.
"You're really early," Rodney said. "And how'd you get in here?"
John laughed. "Door was unlocked – which isn't all that safe in this neighborhood, by the way. I brought you lunch. I figured you'd forget."
Rodney looked at his watch, surprised to find that it was after 2:00. No wonder his back was killing him. "Thanks," he said, waving John toward the table. He walked over to the drying area and turned the dryers off. Testing the watercolor with his thumb, he found it dry, so he moved back to the kitchen, where John was unloading sandwiches and chips.
"You didn't have to…" Rodney waved a hand over the food.
"I know," John said. "Now eat."
Rodney sat down and unwrapped the sandwich – turkey and roast beef, a little bit of mayo, a lot of mustard, romaine lettuce and two slices of tomato – his favorite. He'd even gotten Rodney's favorite salt and vinegar chips. He gaped at John over the paper.
"I got them at the place a block from here. I figured they'd know what you liked." He opened his own sandwich, which looked like turkey and cheese. "Eat it."
So Rodney did. After a few minutes, he got up and retrieved two Cokes from the fridge, and John mumbled his thanks around a bite of sandwich. Once they were done, Rodney balled up the paper and chip bags and took them to the kitchen garbage. When he came back, John was looking at the canvasses on the drying rack.
"They're tests for the big one," Rodney said. "I'm going to do mixed media – watercolor, then oil, then watercolor."
"If you know that, why do you have to test them?"
Rodney smiled. "You're the problem." He laughed when John looked alarmed. "Dork," Rodney said. "I don't know if you should be watercolor or oil, so I'm putting these test canvases together and I'll try it both ways."
John nodded. "Okay. So, what are you doing to our canvas?"
Rodney smiled bigger. "'Our' canvas?" he teased. "Getting a little proprietary there, Sheppard?"
John looked away, and Rodney reached out and clasped his arm just above the elbow. "It's okay," he said. "I like it. I like it that you feel invested in it."
John nodded. "Well, it's me – at least a little bit."
Rodney used his grip on John's arm to shake him back and forth gently before letting go. "A little bit? It's all you. You're the one who told me what the stained glass was in the first place. If you hadn't looked at it, it probably would never have advanced past the study phase." He turned toward the big canvas. "As to your question, I'm sanding the first layer of gesso before putting on the second, and then I'm going to put the oil on those two canvasses, and then you're going to show up for the afternoon light. But since you're already here, take this." He handed John his sanding block.
Rodney got another block and came back, pulling John down beside him as he knelt. "Okay," he said. "Use a very light hand. You want to smooth the gesso, not scrape it down to the canvas."
John leaned in to look at the canvas. "Why not just put on all the layers and then sand the top one?"
Rodney laughed. "Well, I guess you could do it that way, but the surface wouldn't be as smooth, and this one – ours – deserves the best. So, be careful."
They worked together for about an hour before Rodney called a halt. He checked John's work and found it acceptable before using tack cloth to get rid of all of the dust. "Okay," he said. "It goes back against the wall."
They set it up, and John followed Rodney into the workroom, where he watched him stir the gesso and pour out exactly the right amount. "How do you know just how much to use?"
It's math," Rodney said. "I know how much it takes to cover a square foot of canvas, so I just extrapolate that out to fit any size. Here's the good part," he leaned in conspiratorially. "The second layer is slightly thicker than the first, so I have to add that in, too."
"Math nerd," John said, smiling.
"You bet." Rodney handed the tray to John and selected a roller. "Out," Rodney said. "Let's get this on – I want to get the oil on the test canvasses and then get you naked."
John barely managed to avoid tripping.
The gesso – of course, the accurate amount – went on, and John trailed Rodney through the cleanup. He followed along as Rodney used a palette knife to put a blob of blue and yellow oils into small cups, then opened a small tube of red.
"Commercial," Rodney said with a grimace. "I hate it, but I haven’t gotten around to making my own yet." He thrust two of the cups at John and grabbed a bunch of brushes, carrying them and the cup of the despised commercial red to the drying easel. He set up the cups and dripped a small amount of liquid into each of them to thin the paint. "This is Liquin," he said, with another grimace. "It makes the oil dry faster."
"You think it's cheating, don't you?" John's tone had a laugh in it.
"It is cheating," Rodney grumbled, "but if I don't cheat, it wouldn't dry for a week, and that's just too long for a test." He dipped one of the brushes into the thinned red paint and painted a bold slash down each canvas. He dipped another brush in the blue and repeated the process, followed by the yellow. He used the brushes to form each slash of color into the rough shape of the stained glass window.
"Huh," John said, pointing. "They blend."
Rodney nodded "It's simultaneously the best and worst feature of oils. You can't beat the color and luminosity, but you can't constrain them either." He looked up. "Okay, the light's changing."
"Naked time," John said.
"No, not yet." Rodney waved a hand around. "Street clothes for a while." He snapped lids onto the paint cups and ignored John's incredulous look. "Come help me move the couch."
John complied, and Rodney placed a kitchen chair under the skylight. "Just sit down like you normally would." He was not surprised in the least when John spun the chair around and sat on it backward, with his legs spread wide and his hands crossed on the top, pillowing his chin. "You're predictable, Sheppard," he teased.
"How about this?" John leaned back and unbuttoned his white oxford all the way, then leaned forward again. Rodney was entranced by the lines of the chairback over John's bare chest, all of it framed with the sides of the white shirt. "Now who's predictable, McKay?" John smirked. "Give you straight lines and you go all fugue state on me."
Rodney snapped his mouth shut. "Why don't you just sit over there and look pr…look good." He caught himself, not wanting to use the word "pretty," knowing that it had been used against John before. John's gentle smile and slow blink let him know that the gesture was appreciated. "Okay, can you hold that expression for a second?"
The expression gave way to one of confusion when the camera clicked.
"Sorry," Rodney said. "But I wanted that look. I'll give you any pictures at the end." The camera was an old-school Polaroid. Rodney could have used digital, but that would have involved downloading as well as printing, each step requiring time that would make him lose the light. If he was going to do that, he might as well just use artificial lighting and turn in his artist's card.
"Okay," Rodney said. "Put your chin back on your hands and slump a little – that shouldn't be too difficult for you." John smirked, but did as he was told.
Rodney clipped a sheet of his handmade paper to the easel and sketched quietly. John had been right – the long lines had entranced him, but what was really working was the subtle curves of John's chest and neck and arms and thighs in counterpoint to those lines. He worked on the single sketch until the light faded.
"Take a break," he called out to John. He turned on his easel light and clipped the Polaroid to one side. The expression on John's face in the picture was the one he wanted – it was sexy in a "just rolled out of bed" way, but it was also sweet and earnest, and Rodney hoped he could do it justice.
"Can I watch?" John asked from the other side of the easel.
Rodney hesitated. He'd never let anyone watch him work, and most models never got to see what he made of them at all – even though he hadn't had many models – what with the whole figure-drawing thing being new. Rodney knew he'd waited too long to answer when he heard John sigh.
"Yes," Rodney said quietly. "You can…you can watch."
Rodney held the charcoal still as John brought one of the high stools over and settled himself a couple of feet behind and to the left. Rodney took a deep breath and started to add a shadow to the bottom of the chair. When John stayed quiet and unmoving, he gained a little more confidence and went back to trying to replicate the expression on the photograph. He got the bones of it down, then realized that he had one of John's hands all wrong.
He turned toward John. "Can I borrow your right hand for a minute?"
John held it out. Rodney took the hand and ran his fingers over it, feeling the shape he was trying to draw. Then he noticed that he was leaving charcoal smudges all over it. "Sorry," he said, releasing John's hand.
"It's okay." John sounded a little breathless.
Rodney grabbed a gum eraser and carefully erased the hand he'd drawn before drawing it in correctly, making sure to get every smudge. He went back to the facial expression, and drew in one of John's cheekbones. He turned around to check his work against John, and found him staring off into the middle distance. He got what he wanted and turned back.
He looked around several times to check elements of John's face and hair, and sometimes John was staring off, and sometimes he had his eyes locked on the sketch. Finally, Rodney got the sketch where he wanted it – there was no more tweaking to be done. He signed the corner "D.R. McKay," and dated it, then sprayed the whole thing with fixative.
"Is it finished?" John asked, and Rodney could feel that he'd abandoned the stool and was standing close behind him. He could smell the same scent that was on the robe, and he calculated the probability that he would ever wash that robe again at exactly zero.
"Yeah," Rodney said, fighting the urge to lean back against John's solid warmth. "It's done."
John placed one hand on his shoulder, and Rodney had to suppress a shiver. "Is that how you see me?"
"Yeah," Rodney said. "I don't usually do this sort of work – I've never shown anything but abstracts."
"What about the big one?"
Rodney took in a breath. "That one's going to be the capstone for a mixed-media series – the stained glass and you."
"And what about this one?" John's voice was low.
"This one?" Rodney repeated. "Haven't you figured it out? This one is yours."
The hand on his shoulder squeezed down. "Rodney…I can't let you…" John let out a breath. "After the showing, how much will this one be worth?"
Rodney looked at the sketch critically. "Well, if the collection fails, about eight bucks for the paper and charcoal."
"And if it succeeds?" John's hand slipped off his shoulder and Rodney missed it acutely.
Rodney pursed his lips. "Quarter million."
The hand was back, squeezing down again. "Dollars?"
"No," Rodney retorted. "A quarter million yen. Dumbass."
"Rodney, really…"
"Look, I'm the diva here. Don't make me throw a tantrum to make you take it."
John squeezed his shoulder one last time and let him go. "I just…I just don't have anyone…anyone who I'd..." he cleared his throat. "That's the kind of thing you give to someone…"
"Shut up," Rodney instructed. "Get out there – the moon's up."
"Clothes or no clothes?" John asked, suddenly all business again.
"You can keep your jeans on," Rodney said. "Sit on the floor in front of the couch, knees up, wrap your arms around them."
John took position and instinctively tilted his head up toward the skylight and the newly risen full moon.
Rodney knew exactly how he was going to paint this one, John looking at the full moon, the stained glass behind him in shades of blue, with the glass coming together to form stylized wings. By the time the moon passed the skylight, Rodney had the rough sketch of John's body in place. He would put the abstract elements in place later. He also had the idea for the whole series.
John did not take the sketch when he left.