There was just nothing sadder than a depressed cat. Okay, there was - two depressed cats and one tense and lonely man. So, on flying weekends, Rodney's house was the least fun place in the whole universe to be.
Ronon did his best impression of a throw rug, only he did it in front of the door, on his back with his paws stretched to the four points of the compass and his ample belly visible. However, Rodney was not allowed to pet said belly under threat of decapitation if he moved too slowly.
Teyla sat in the front window and meowed piteously. Constantly. If a tall, dark-haired man walked by, she stood on her hind legs and batted her paws against the glass, then sank back into her dejected posture as soon as the passerby was gone.
Rodney? Rodney moped. He told himself that it wasn't moping. That it was concentration. Yes, concentration. He concentrated on his work by sitting on one of the kitchen stools, doodling on a paper napkin and half-heartedly correcting Kavanagh's latest travesty of a report. Most times, he didn't even write slurs against Kavanagh's parentage in the margins.
Later, he sat on the leather recliner in the study, watched crappy movies and ate Cheetos out of the bag. The fact that he frequently watched Back to the Future had nothing to do with John and everything to do with ridiculing the stupidly inane excuses for science that Marty and Doc perpetrated on the youth of America. No wonder the country was going to hell in a handbasket.
During the movies, Ronon slumped on the floor of the study, morose and uncommunicative - not even interested in licking himself. Teyla kept watch.
Sunday afternoon, the whole attitude of the house changed. Rodney did a load of laundry, making sure to include his bathrobe, which had everything to do with April-freshness and nothing at all to do with the Cheeto stains. Teyla started pacing the back of the couch with her tail straight up in the air. Ronon spent an inordinate amount of time grooming his long, dark fur.
As the sun set, Rodney put the clothes in the dryer and went upstairs to put on his faded jeans and the grey pullover that John once said made his eyes look very blue. He came back downstairs and put the TV on AMC. Sometimes he spread Kavanagh's reports onto the desk and scribbled on them with his favorite red pen.
Suddenly, in the twilight, Teyla stretched up onto her back legs and meowed loudly as John tapped on the window to play with her. Ronon tried to push her out of the way and got a swat on the nose for his efforts. Rodney waited until he heard John's key in the door before getting up and walking slowly to the foyer. John was crouched down, petting both cats, his duffle bag forgotten on the hardwood floor.
As soon as he saw Rodney, he slowly got to his feet and closed the distance between them, catching Rodney around the waist in a tight hug, burying his face in Rodney's neck and breathing him in.
"Miss me?" he whispered, his breath puffing against Rodney's ear.
"A little," Rodney admitted.