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icarusI don't know why I have a feeling I should post this now, I just do. So you now get to see what only ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teaphile has read (thank you, teaphile, uh... am I too late on those covers?).
Title: Out Of Bounds
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: The skating fic.
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
His scores echoed throughout the rink, loud and unintelligible like an airport announcement, canceling each other out while young skaters scoured the ice for thrown flowers and dropped gloves. The crowd was noisy and disinterested, with a smattering of applause for John, biding their time impatiently for the big names.
In the center of the ice, John Sheppard let his hands drop. He didn't look up, his shoulders heaving as he shut his eyes and skated tiredly to the Kiss-and-Cry. He accepted a bottle of water from Ed, his coach, then dropped his head to his knees, running his fingers through sweaty dark hair, which made it stand up even more, half his bangs stuck to his forehead. He was still breathing heavily.
"Five three … four point six …
"That was good, Sheppard," someone said, his footsteps loud and hollow on the raised wooden platform. John didn't notice who it was, just nodded as he slumped back against the wall, staring up at the lights as disembodied voices declared he'd moved up to thirteenth place.
"Pretty good, John," that was his coach's gravelly voice, "if Lacardi's injuries pan out you could place as high as eighth this year."
"Yeah. Thanks," John said. He took a swallow of water so he didn't have to say more.
"Better than last year," his coach added. He was met with silence. John snapped the plastic guards over the blades of his skates.
"Your jumps are good," he continued, in a determined voice. "Really very good."
"Yeah," John said, squinting at the next skater who took to the ice in a flame-red costume with trailing sleeves, head down in concentration, just as John's had been five long minutes earlier.
And that was it. John's coach patted him on the arm and John blinked up. They gathered their gear to leave the Kiss-and-Cry as Scheherazade began. The next skater made a sweeping gesture. They stepped over duct-taped microphone and camera wires and found a space on the nearest available bench. An overweight man in a warm-up jacket got up and edged by them, angling towards the snack stand, and John leaned back, pulling his gear out of the way.
There was a patter of applause as the other skater did his first double-triple combination.
"We'll work with your strengths, aim for the quad flip," his coach was saying.
John's breath misted as he let out a sigh. He bent his head and pulled a battered pair of sneakers from his bag.
"If you want to hang in there, that is. You've been at it ten years now. You might want to think about going pro." John's narrow shoulders tensed a moment in a barely perceptible pause but he didn't answer, keeping his eyes on the floor as he dug carefully around in his gym bag. "The kids sure like you."
"You think I'm doing good." John winced, unlacing his skates. He'd have to ice the knee tonight. He licked his lips as he watched his numbers disappear from the scoreboard.
"Yeah, you're good," the coach said, earnest and encouraging. "John, these are the best in the country. Few people make it this far. Eighth place, hell, even thirteenth is better than I ever hoped for."
John pursed his lips and stared off over the rink, nodding his head slowly. He got the picture. "Don't take this the wrong way, but," he said in a calm, thoughtful tone as if the idea had just occurred to him, "You're fired."
~*~*~
They met at a coffee shop a block from Rodney McKay’s little rink, after a series of phone calls through a friend of a friend. John wasn't hard to spot, wearing battered warm-ups with his skates tied together and slung over his shoulder like a teenager. He had a firm handshake, was ridiculously good-looking, tall for a skater, with a shock of unruly brown hair and sharp eyes. He was also easily in his late twenties sliding towards thirty, not much younger than Rodney.
"Nice to meet you," John said with a polite nod and diffident smile.
He didn't have a shot in hell.
"I take it Ed Wilcoxin thought you should be taken to the glue factory," Rodney answered with an amused gleam, returning the handshake with interest.
His new student -- because of course Rodney was going to take him on -- covered his laugh with a cough, his shoulders relaxing as he scuffed the floor. "Yeah. That pretty much sums it up."
Except that wasn't the half of it.
Then the story picks up where it started in the first place.
teaphile has read (thank you, teaphile, uh... am I too late on those covers?). Title: Out Of Bounds
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: The skating fic.
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
His scores echoed throughout the rink, loud and unintelligible like an airport announcement, canceling each other out while young skaters scoured the ice for thrown flowers and dropped gloves. The crowd was noisy and disinterested, with a smattering of applause for John, biding their time impatiently for the big names.
In the center of the ice, John Sheppard let his hands drop. He didn't look up, his shoulders heaving as he shut his eyes and skated tiredly to the Kiss-and-Cry. He accepted a bottle of water from Ed, his coach, then dropped his head to his knees, running his fingers through sweaty dark hair, which made it stand up even more, half his bangs stuck to his forehead. He was still breathing heavily.
"Five three … four point six …
"That was good, Sheppard," someone said, his footsteps loud and hollow on the raised wooden platform. John didn't notice who it was, just nodded as he slumped back against the wall, staring up at the lights as disembodied voices declared he'd moved up to thirteenth place.
"Pretty good, John," that was his coach's gravelly voice, "if Lacardi's injuries pan out you could place as high as eighth this year."
"Yeah. Thanks," John said. He took a swallow of water so he didn't have to say more.
"Better than last year," his coach added. He was met with silence. John snapped the plastic guards over the blades of his skates.
"Your jumps are good," he continued, in a determined voice. "Really very good."
"Yeah," John said, squinting at the next skater who took to the ice in a flame-red costume with trailing sleeves, head down in concentration, just as John's had been five long minutes earlier.
And that was it. John's coach patted him on the arm and John blinked up. They gathered their gear to leave the Kiss-and-Cry as Scheherazade began. The next skater made a sweeping gesture. They stepped over duct-taped microphone and camera wires and found a space on the nearest available bench. An overweight man in a warm-up jacket got up and edged by them, angling towards the snack stand, and John leaned back, pulling his gear out of the way.
There was a patter of applause as the other skater did his first double-triple combination.
"We'll work with your strengths, aim for the quad flip," his coach was saying.
John's breath misted as he let out a sigh. He bent his head and pulled a battered pair of sneakers from his bag.
"If you want to hang in there, that is. You've been at it ten years now. You might want to think about going pro." John's narrow shoulders tensed a moment in a barely perceptible pause but he didn't answer, keeping his eyes on the floor as he dug carefully around in his gym bag. "The kids sure like you."
"You think I'm doing good." John winced, unlacing his skates. He'd have to ice the knee tonight. He licked his lips as he watched his numbers disappear from the scoreboard.
"Yeah, you're good," the coach said, earnest and encouraging. "John, these are the best in the country. Few people make it this far. Eighth place, hell, even thirteenth is better than I ever hoped for."
John pursed his lips and stared off over the rink, nodding his head slowly. He got the picture. "Don't take this the wrong way, but," he said in a calm, thoughtful tone as if the idea had just occurred to him, "You're fired."
~*~*~
They met at a coffee shop a block from Rodney McKay’s little rink, after a series of phone calls through a friend of a friend. John wasn't hard to spot, wearing battered warm-ups with his skates tied together and slung over his shoulder like a teenager. He had a firm handshake, was ridiculously good-looking, tall for a skater, with a shock of unruly brown hair and sharp eyes. He was also easily in his late twenties sliding towards thirty, not much younger than Rodney.
"Nice to meet you," John said with a polite nod and diffident smile.
He didn't have a shot in hell.
"I take it Ed Wilcoxin thought you should be taken to the glue factory," Rodney answered with an amused gleam, returning the handshake with interest.
His new student -- because of course Rodney was going to take him on -- covered his laugh with a cough, his shoulders relaxing as he scuffed the floor. "Yeah. That pretty much sums it up."
Except that wasn't the half of it.
Then the story picks up where it started in the first place.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-11 05:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-11 05:23 pm (UTC)Have you posted your porn battle yet?
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2007-01-11 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-11 09:24 pm (UTC)