Author: Sweetwater Gal
Teaser: It's a hot day and Adam's looking to blame something for his uncomfortableness.
Rating: R is for the rather obvious insinuation.
Pairings: Adam/Joan... yes, I'm quite capable of writing for this ship! Go me!
Disclaimer: Not mines. All property of Hall and the lucky people of CBS.
Author's Note: Yes, I realize I have yet to finish my other fanfic... but y'know how ficlet bunnies will not leave you alone? This is one of those little pests that won't leave until I've completed it. It's a one-shot. Don't ask me how I've gotten inspired by it but just be glad I've used it in the Joan/Adam contexts.
The Popsicle
Blame the weatherman.
Blame the goddamn freakin' weatherman.
The weatherman and his stupid "right on the money" report concerning the sudden unusual heat wave that had settled over their Arcadian community. Unusual in that it isn't even summer session and yet people were already cranking up the air conditioning. On the good natured advice of the weatherman. Blame him.
At least that's what Adam Rove kept telling himself to do. It's all the weatherman's fault for predicting that the unexplainable rise in degrees will continue on for days. And that because of having to endure such unbearable heat had resulted in-- well, questionably innocent behavior from certain individuals...
Ah, hell! Who was he kidding?! He couldn't blame the teller of environmental forecast, much less the intolerable condition itself.
If anything, he blamed the popsicle.
Not just any popsicle. A strawberry popsicle. A long... bright red... icy cold... juicy sweet popsicle. Sweet and fruit flavored enough to be considered... lickable. Cold and icy tough to stand erect for a fair amount of time. Shimmering red enough to leave a seductive imprint on the lips that wrap themselves around the cool treat. And long enough to...
Ah, hell! Who was this sixteen year old with hormones kidding?! Despite, on some level, being fairly different than the other males in his class, Adam Rove still considered himself a teenager... with hormones. Those stupid hormones. Things in which he never trusted from the get go. Especially since society and all its pop cultured campaigns painted them with such a horrid and bleak -- add in disturbing -- image. Hormones and soulmates. Thank you, WB.
All in all, this time he wasn't going to blame his own biological defects.
Nope. It's not the fault of the hormones... Nor the fault of the popsicle... Nor will it do him any good to blame the weatherman.
Jane.
Jane, otherwise known as Joan, Girardi.
It was all Jane's fault.
Jane... and her mouth... and that damn agonizing way she's handling that... popsicle. That freakin' lucky popsicle.
Oh, God... he needed to get out of here.
"Hey, Adam? Where-- hey! Where... Grace, where's he going?"
"Rove was squirming... in his chair... while watching you finish that popsicle. Girardi, don't make me spell out the answer."
The End