![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusMore silly AU skating fic-ness. John/Rodney.
I debated whether or not to post this by itself, or to wait and complete the next part first. I decided to be impatient. ;) The next section is coming quite soon however.
Part one: 'Get back out there.' – 'No. I'm taking up hockey. It'll *hurt* less.'
Part two: 'So why do we have to skate in the nude again?'
Part three: Naturally, John had brought the boom box but had forgotten to bring any music.
Part four: Rodney wondered if John knew 'Mustang Sally' was a favorite with strippers the world over.
Part five: 'This is hero worship, isn't it?'
Part six: 'Me coach. You student. You keep forgetting that lately.'
Part seven: It was just hockey. Not a cardinal sin.
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Rodney was wrapped in the telephone cord, one coil over his hip stretched tight as he reached up to grab the oregano. He slammed the cabinet door with an elbow. The water ran at full blast where he was washing dishes, multi-tasking, the steam rising. Rodney believed in temperatures that could boil lobster. Several cans of organic tomatoes from the co-op advertising 'No preservatives!' in bright letters were open the counter.
"You wouldn't believe it!" Rodney fumed.
He readjusted the phone, giving the cord a good yank. He padded over to peer into his fridge. "Hold on, hold on, I can't find --" He grabbed a plastic bag of herbs from the back. "-- Never mind. Disaster averted."
"How much is this phone call costing you?" the voice on the other end wondered. "And what are you doing?"
He disentangled his arm, flopping his elbow impatiently, and poured an enormous amount of oil into a pot the size of a small vat.
"It's cooking day," Rodney snapped into the phone. "I wouldn't have to do this if all the restaurants in town weren't out to kill me -- anyhow, you'd think someone could follow simple directions. All I said was skate. A one-word direction isn't overly complicated."
"Skate?" said the voice on the phone. "That is all?"
Rodney took a breath and started to explain, "He's one of those types that jumps—"
"Yes, yes, I've seen him, good jumps but not much—"
"Not much style, no," Rodney sighed. He dropped garlic into the pot and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The garlic sizzled. He leaned closer and decided to add more.
"Have you tried getting him to—"
"That was exactly what I was doing!" Rodney exclaimed, flailing the spoon. "I went to take a shower -- to give him a little privacy, to get into it of course."
"Of course, of course…."
"I came back out, and he was playing hockey with some nine-year-old! Hockey!"
"What did you do?" The voice was suddenly wary.
"I threw my gym bag at him!" Rodney said, exasperated. "I don't have time to waste my talents on someone who doesn't have the brains to realize that by ignoring me, he's throwing away his entire career!"
"You threw your gym bag at him?"
"And his! And the water bottle! I would have thrown the boombox next, but the owners of the rink have been very nice to me and I didn't want to do any lasting damage." Rodney stirred the contents of the pot with unnecessary vigor, throwing in the oregano. "I told him that at least if he were paying me I might be getting something out of this."
"You threw things at him?"
"As it was, he was an endless black hole into which I throw my time and energy -- and nothing ever emerges!" Rodney banged the spoon on the edge of the pot.
He added in the silence. "And I don't think I don't know he's still doing the jumps, because he looked twitchy when I brought it up."
"Rodney… how much is this telephone call costing you?"
"I can never figure out Euros; it's not a real currency." Rodney brushed the question off with a gesture. "He even made me late for Mrs. Bevington's daughter. Yes, yes, the kid will never reach John's level and probably give up skating to join the marching band, but having the little automatons do what I say is infinitely preferable to watching talent go down the drain."
"Rodney. Why is it you are calling me?"
"What?"
"Go out, Rodney."
"What?"
"Your house, it is probably big mess and looks like shit—"
"It does not!"
"--and you have nothing in your life but these babies," the voice went on, undeterred. "Go out. See people."
"My house is fine!" Rodney said, clear-eyed and hurt.
The voice grumbled in Czech. Probably vivid swear words.
"Okay, maybe it could use a little tidying up."
"I will not say it again," the voice said.
"I miss you," Rodney said miserably.
"If I will be honest, I do not miss you. I want you, yes, sometimes. And I like you, so much. But you are crazy-making!"
"I'm disgustingly overweight and I'm eating more," Rodney switched the phone to his other ear, shifting his hip to slump against the counter. "I just got rid of a hot, hot student I would gladly molest on or off the ice, and now my ex doesn't love me any more."
"Yes. I do. Or I would not accept your phone call. It is just safer on different continent."
"How's the committee thing going?" Rodney changed the subject brightly, his voice a little high and desperate.
"It has been six months since you last called: I am not on the committee any more. Go out," he said, as relentless as ever. "Promise me you will go out, please?"
~*~*~
"At least if you were paying me I'd be getting something out of this!"
John collected all the scattered stuff from his gym bag -- which had been open, thank you -- skating from one item to another. He left Rodney's shit all over the ice. Let him clean up his own mess. He turned to apologize to the kid on Rodney's behalf, but unsurprisingly, the kid was long gone. John skated to the edge of the rink and dumped the empty water bottle into the trash.
It was just hockey. But McKay treated it like it was a cardinal sin.
John got dressed in the locker room, skipping the shower. He didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be. Outside in the bright morning, it was probably about seven o'clock, John unlocked his car and tossed his stuff into the back seat. He cranked the engine, then reached over to turn on the heat.
It gave an unresponsive click.
John banged the steering wheel with both fists, then shifting gears hard, slammed the car into reverse. At the stop sign he put on The Clash just to match his mood.
~*~*~
Clean and freshly shaved, Rodney pulled on a pair of tight jeans that hadn't been quite so hard to button when he first bought them, but still did the trick. The nice thing about having an ex-boyfriend a continent or two away is that he couldn't gloat if you actually followed his advice.
Rodney leaned closer to the mirror, baring his teeth to make sure he didn't have anything stuck between them. Then he stepped back and examined the merchandise, turning one hip towards the mirror, then the other.
"Not bad, not bad," Rodney told his reflection with a smile, puffing out his chest. "Still hot. There's definitely something to be said for skating."
He slapped his back pocket to check for his wallet and then picked his jacket off the floor -- he'd been a little melodramatic and thrown it when he'd come home. Although he was feeling much better now.
He recalled he hadn't thrown his gym bag here, largely because he'd already done so at the rink. He'd have to get it back from John later.
Rodney frowned, his good mood momentarily disrupted by his rebellious protégé. But he put all thoughts of John Sheppard, his long legs, that little smile, out of his mind. He took a deep calming breath. The spaghetti sauce, set to a slow burbling simmer, made the whole house smell good: there was something about the smell of food that helped make a house a home.
Rodney sighed, checked his watch, and decided he wouldn't be too early if he left now. Not owning a (working) car was inconvenient at times, but he'd be taking cabs for the rest of the night anyway.
Unless he got a ride home, which -- Rodney checked himself out in the mirror again, blue eyes gleaming as he ran a hand through his hair -- looked to be a distinct possibility.
And on to the rest of this chapter (which I posted a little late).
Music coming up: The Guns Of Brixton by The Clash (especially for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ngaio and bibliokat).
http://s19.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=39WELYTBHAQK50KPPSD2GRYJCO
I debated whether or not to post this by itself, or to wait and complete the next part first. I decided to be impatient. ;) The next section is coming quite soon however.
Part one: 'Get back out there.' – 'No. I'm taking up hockey. It'll *hurt* less.'
Part two: 'So why do we have to skate in the nude again?'
Part three: Naturally, John had brought the boom box but had forgotten to bring any music.
Part four: Rodney wondered if John knew 'Mustang Sally' was a favorite with strippers the world over.
Part five: 'This is hero worship, isn't it?'
Part six: 'Me coach. You student. You keep forgetting that lately.'
Part seven: It was just hockey. Not a cardinal sin.
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Rodney was wrapped in the telephone cord, one coil over his hip stretched tight as he reached up to grab the oregano. He slammed the cabinet door with an elbow. The water ran at full blast where he was washing dishes, multi-tasking, the steam rising. Rodney believed in temperatures that could boil lobster. Several cans of organic tomatoes from the co-op advertising 'No preservatives!' in bright letters were open the counter.
"You wouldn't believe it!" Rodney fumed.
He readjusted the phone, giving the cord a good yank. He padded over to peer into his fridge. "Hold on, hold on, I can't find --" He grabbed a plastic bag of herbs from the back. "-- Never mind. Disaster averted."
"How much is this phone call costing you?" the voice on the other end wondered. "And what are you doing?"
He disentangled his arm, flopping his elbow impatiently, and poured an enormous amount of oil into a pot the size of a small vat.
"It's cooking day," Rodney snapped into the phone. "I wouldn't have to do this if all the restaurants in town weren't out to kill me -- anyhow, you'd think someone could follow simple directions. All I said was skate. A one-word direction isn't overly complicated."
"Skate?" said the voice on the phone. "That is all?"
Rodney took a breath and started to explain, "He's one of those types that jumps—"
"Yes, yes, I've seen him, good jumps but not much—"
"Not much style, no," Rodney sighed. He dropped garlic into the pot and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The garlic sizzled. He leaned closer and decided to add more.
"Have you tried getting him to—"
"That was exactly what I was doing!" Rodney exclaimed, flailing the spoon. "I went to take a shower -- to give him a little privacy, to get into it of course."
"Of course, of course…."
"I came back out, and he was playing hockey with some nine-year-old! Hockey!"
"What did you do?" The voice was suddenly wary.
"I threw my gym bag at him!" Rodney said, exasperated. "I don't have time to waste my talents on someone who doesn't have the brains to realize that by ignoring me, he's throwing away his entire career!"
"You threw your gym bag at him?"
"And his! And the water bottle! I would have thrown the boombox next, but the owners of the rink have been very nice to me and I didn't want to do any lasting damage." Rodney stirred the contents of the pot with unnecessary vigor, throwing in the oregano. "I told him that at least if he were paying me I might be getting something out of this."
"You threw things at him?"
"As it was, he was an endless black hole into which I throw my time and energy -- and nothing ever emerges!" Rodney banged the spoon on the edge of the pot.
He added in the silence. "And I don't think I don't know he's still doing the jumps, because he looked twitchy when I brought it up."
"Rodney… how much is this telephone call costing you?"
"I can never figure out Euros; it's not a real currency." Rodney brushed the question off with a gesture. "He even made me late for Mrs. Bevington's daughter. Yes, yes, the kid will never reach John's level and probably give up skating to join the marching band, but having the little automatons do what I say is infinitely preferable to watching talent go down the drain."
"Rodney. Why is it you are calling me?"
"What?"
"Go out, Rodney."
"What?"
"Your house, it is probably big mess and looks like shit—"
"It does not!"
"--and you have nothing in your life but these babies," the voice went on, undeterred. "Go out. See people."
"My house is fine!" Rodney said, clear-eyed and hurt.
The voice grumbled in Czech. Probably vivid swear words.
"Okay, maybe it could use a little tidying up."
"I will not say it again," the voice said.
"I miss you," Rodney said miserably.
"If I will be honest, I do not miss you. I want you, yes, sometimes. And I like you, so much. But you are crazy-making!"
"I'm disgustingly overweight and I'm eating more," Rodney switched the phone to his other ear, shifting his hip to slump against the counter. "I just got rid of a hot, hot student I would gladly molest on or off the ice, and now my ex doesn't love me any more."
"Yes. I do. Or I would not accept your phone call. It is just safer on different continent."
"How's the committee thing going?" Rodney changed the subject brightly, his voice a little high and desperate.
"It has been six months since you last called: I am not on the committee any more. Go out," he said, as relentless as ever. "Promise me you will go out, please?"
~*~*~
"At least if you were paying me I'd be getting something out of this!"
John collected all the scattered stuff from his gym bag -- which had been open, thank you -- skating from one item to another. He left Rodney's shit all over the ice. Let him clean up his own mess. He turned to apologize to the kid on Rodney's behalf, but unsurprisingly, the kid was long gone. John skated to the edge of the rink and dumped the empty water bottle into the trash.
It was just hockey. But McKay treated it like it was a cardinal sin.
John got dressed in the locker room, skipping the shower. He didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be. Outside in the bright morning, it was probably about seven o'clock, John unlocked his car and tossed his stuff into the back seat. He cranked the engine, then reached over to turn on the heat.
It gave an unresponsive click.
John banged the steering wheel with both fists, then shifting gears hard, slammed the car into reverse. At the stop sign he put on The Clash just to match his mood.
~*~*~
Clean and freshly shaved, Rodney pulled on a pair of tight jeans that hadn't been quite so hard to button when he first bought them, but still did the trick. The nice thing about having an ex-boyfriend a continent or two away is that he couldn't gloat if you actually followed his advice.
Rodney leaned closer to the mirror, baring his teeth to make sure he didn't have anything stuck between them. Then he stepped back and examined the merchandise, turning one hip towards the mirror, then the other.
"Not bad, not bad," Rodney told his reflection with a smile, puffing out his chest. "Still hot. There's definitely something to be said for skating."
He slapped his back pocket to check for his wallet and then picked his jacket off the floor -- he'd been a little melodramatic and thrown it when he'd come home. Although he was feeling much better now.
He recalled he hadn't thrown his gym bag here, largely because he'd already done so at the rink. He'd have to get it back from John later.
Rodney frowned, his good mood momentarily disrupted by his rebellious protégé. But he put all thoughts of John Sheppard, his long legs, that little smile, out of his mind. He took a deep calming breath. The spaghetti sauce, set to a slow burbling simmer, made the whole house smell good: there was something about the smell of food that helped make a house a home.
Rodney sighed, checked his watch, and decided he wouldn't be too early if he left now. Not owning a (working) car was inconvenient at times, but he'd be taking cabs for the rest of the night anyway.
Unless he got a ride home, which -- Rodney checked himself out in the mirror again, blue eyes gleaming as he ran a hand through his hair -- looked to be a distinct possibility.
And on to the rest of this chapter (which I posted a little late).
Music coming up: The Guns Of Brixton by The Clash (especially for
ngaio and bibliokat).http://s19.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=39WELYTBHAQK50KPPSD2GRYJCO