Result: Rode down Commercial Drive from 1st to Broadway in the dark and did not die.
Then chickened out on turning at the station and dismounted to cross at the crosswalk. Took the train back to Renfrew, because it was a bit chilly by then.
But! Rode with traffic for the first time in ten years, ha ha! Go me! \o/
Think it will be a while yet before I'm un-chicken enough to actually turn with traffic instead of using the crosswalk, but we'll see.
Also, my god was today a lovely day. Walked-down-the-street-in-a-t-shirt lovely. Tomorrow's also supposed to be lovely, which would be nice if I decide to ride out to Langara for my Mandatory Infosession - I may not, though, as it'll be nearing eight PM by then. I think I'll work my way up to long bike-rides in the dark.
Also today I: measured windows for curtain rods, went and bought fabric at Dressew, and fiddled with the new sewing machine some more. Now I will cut out a pattern and see if I can assemble the second half of Skirt tomorrow without screwing it up too badly. ;)
Also tomorrow I will bloody work on artword.
Because Dear Self: Rodney McKay=Alison Dubois is not artword. *headdesk*
Sophie is three the first time they're sure about her, and by luck of the draw - Rodney's perpetually bad luck, that is - it's John who's with her when it happens. Rodney gets a call on his cell phone while he's at the precinct, looking at mugshots and getting nothing, nothing but white noise through his searching fingertips, and it's John, his voice tightly controlled. In the background, he can hear Sophie crying, and Rodney's stomach plummets instantly, instinctively, heavily. "What's the matter?"
"It's - it's okay," John says, but he doesn't sound like it's okay. He sounds tense and something else that Rodney has come to associate with John when he's trying not to punch somebody. "We're both okay. Just... can you--"
"I-- yes, I'll be right there," Rodney says, and makes his excuses to the Constable and blows out of the station so fast he probably leaves skidmarks.
When he gets home, though, everything seems all right - John and Sophie are sitting on the couch, the television playing Powerpuff Girls at low volume. Sophie is curled up in John's lap, wearing the purple kitty-ear hat they haven't been able to get her to take off for three days. John looks tired, but neither of them - as per Rodney's speedy, frantic, thorough visual inspection - seems hurt. John just looks... tired. Resigned, maybe.
"Is she--" Rodney ventures, stopped still at the edge of the living room rug, he has no idea why - Sophie's his daughter, John's his - it's John, he's got nothing to be afraid of.
"She had a talk with Mrs. Arden next door this afternoon, while we were in the garden."
Rodney stares for a minute, then remembers. The swoopy, plummeting feeling re-descends. Mrs. Arden is their next-door neighbour, a sweet, nosy old lady who often hooks her elbows over the garden wall and gossips for hours on end, while Rodney's skin burns in the sun and bugs feast on his blood.
She died in her sleep four days ago.
"Oh," Rodney says, faintly, and is unfrozen, crossing the rug to sink down onto the couch and tentatively stroke Sophie's hair - she blinks up at him, groggily, then smiles when she sees him. There are pale teartracks running through the grub on her cheeks.
"Hi, Daddy," she mumbles, rubbing knuckles into her eyes. "Y'r home." Like it's a revelation. All at once it's too much, and Rodney meets John's eyes - troubled, uncertain, a little mad - for only a second before he can't help himself, has to gather up an armful of warm, sleepy, loose-limbed little girl unresisting from John's lap. Arms wind around his neck, and Sophie makes a noise, a sort of "mmm," into his neck, muffled and drowsy and happy.
"Yeah," he tells her, and buries his face in her hair for just a second before he looks at John again, who is watching them both with his eyebrows drawn together, but Rodney refuses - refuses - to feel guilty. "Yeah. Sorry I took so long."