![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusTitle: If Wishes Were Fishes; an Out Of Bounds ficlet
Pairing: John/self-pity
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I think I know how John feels. Unbeta'd.
Summary: Two years ago John was picked for the U.S. Worlds team. So what was he doing home?
John edged his hips deeper into the couch, lifting himself up on his palms as he tried not to move the leg. He grimaced, then reached for the remote on the floor. Roommates sucked and he couldn't wait to have his own pad again, but he'd been saving money for--
John cut off that thought with a scowl, because it went places that hurt more than the leg. He wrapped the ace bandage tighter, tugging at it. The electric buzz on the back of his knee felt like it had fallen asleep, though it was probably something worse, muted by the drugs.
At least his roommates had sprung for cable. John clicked on ESPN and lay back against the arm of the couch, not watching it, staring at the ceiling. The sharp pitch of a whistle sounded over the hiss and roar of the crowd. John idly identified it as football.
He popped the cap off a beer and sipped, his one rebellion against the meds. He was getting seriously dizzy and he couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Pounding footsteps interrupted the haze.
Nate lumbered down the stairs, unshaven, wearing a sloppy stretched sweatshirt and a pair of boxers that just barely peeked out over his hairy white legs. He stopped just before the last step, catching sight of John, hands trailing along the low ceiling.
"Sheppard?" He had that look of unpleasant surprise you got when a relative dropped by. "Aren't you supposed to be in, like, France or something?"
John supplied the translation: I thought I'd have the place to myself to fuck my girlfriend.
"Ecuador, but close enough," John said with a deliberate easy gesture, dangling the beer from two fingers and hating him with a passion. "Injured my leg. ACL."
Nate took in "ACL" with a blank look followed by a disinterested shrug. "Too bad. Sounded like a cool place. Better luck next year." He headed for the kitchen and John heard the fridge open and close.
"Yeah," John muttered to himself aloud. "Because I get picked for the Worlds team every year."
The TV switched to a blaring commercial, an electric guitar run and flashing images in the corner of John's eye. Then an announcer shouted, "Next up: Live coverage of the Worlds Championship men's figure skating short program! Will Kyle--"
With quick-draw speed, John switched the channel to a bad soap opera.
Even ESPN had betrayed him. He didn't throw the remote at the TV, but it was a near thing.
The sound of the soap opera washed over him, barely sounding like English. John had heard that they had Spanish soap operas in Ecuador. He brushed that thought away.
The doorbell rang, too close and loud to be on the TV. Then there was Nate's girlfriend's voice, Shayla, with her effusive "Hiiii!" and the sound of kissing in the hall. The door closed. John shut his eyes and could almost feel the moment when she stopped cold, just on the edge of the living room.
"John. Aren't you supposed to be in France or something?" she said.
"Ecuador," John snapped, biting off the word. He tried to follow it with a smile. It wasn't her fault after all. "Quito."
"Oh." She squirmed a moment, then asked, "You don't mind if I--?"
"No, no, go right ahead," John lied smoothly, his voice rising and not quite sarcastic.
He heard them scamper up the stairs, her squeal and giggle at the top of the steps, and silently vowed to get drunk this weekend. Maybe all week.
With a limp gesture he picked up one of the vials on the folding TV dinner tray, turning it in his fingers. The label warned in capital letters: DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL.
Drunk and stoned, he amended.
Pairing: John/self-pity
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I think I know how John feels. Unbeta'd.
Summary: Two years ago John was picked for the U.S. Worlds team. So what was he doing home?
John edged his hips deeper into the couch, lifting himself up on his palms as he tried not to move the leg. He grimaced, then reached for the remote on the floor. Roommates sucked and he couldn't wait to have his own pad again, but he'd been saving money for--
John cut off that thought with a scowl, because it went places that hurt more than the leg. He wrapped the ace bandage tighter, tugging at it. The electric buzz on the back of his knee felt like it had fallen asleep, though it was probably something worse, muted by the drugs.
At least his roommates had sprung for cable. John clicked on ESPN and lay back against the arm of the couch, not watching it, staring at the ceiling. The sharp pitch of a whistle sounded over the hiss and roar of the crowd. John idly identified it as football.
He popped the cap off a beer and sipped, his one rebellion against the meds. He was getting seriously dizzy and he couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Pounding footsteps interrupted the haze.
Nate lumbered down the stairs, unshaven, wearing a sloppy stretched sweatshirt and a pair of boxers that just barely peeked out over his hairy white legs. He stopped just before the last step, catching sight of John, hands trailing along the low ceiling.
"Sheppard?" He had that look of unpleasant surprise you got when a relative dropped by. "Aren't you supposed to be in, like, France or something?"
John supplied the translation: I thought I'd have the place to myself to fuck my girlfriend.
"Ecuador, but close enough," John said with a deliberate easy gesture, dangling the beer from two fingers and hating him with a passion. "Injured my leg. ACL."
Nate took in "ACL" with a blank look followed by a disinterested shrug. "Too bad. Sounded like a cool place. Better luck next year." He headed for the kitchen and John heard the fridge open and close.
"Yeah," John muttered to himself aloud. "Because I get picked for the Worlds team every year."
The TV switched to a blaring commercial, an electric guitar run and flashing images in the corner of John's eye. Then an announcer shouted, "Next up: Live coverage of the Worlds Championship men's figure skating short program! Will Kyle--"
With quick-draw speed, John switched the channel to a bad soap opera.
Even ESPN had betrayed him. He didn't throw the remote at the TV, but it was a near thing.
The sound of the soap opera washed over him, barely sounding like English. John had heard that they had Spanish soap operas in Ecuador. He brushed that thought away.
The doorbell rang, too close and loud to be on the TV. Then there was Nate's girlfriend's voice, Shayla, with her effusive "Hiiii!" and the sound of kissing in the hall. The door closed. John shut his eyes and could almost feel the moment when she stopped cold, just on the edge of the living room.
"John. Aren't you supposed to be in France or something?" she said.
"Ecuador," John snapped, biting off the word. He tried to follow it with a smile. It wasn't her fault after all. "Quito."
"Oh." She squirmed a moment, then asked, "You don't mind if I--?"
"No, no, go right ahead," John lied smoothly, his voice rising and not quite sarcastic.
He heard them scamper up the stairs, her squeal and giggle at the top of the steps, and silently vowed to get drunk this weekend. Maybe all week.
With a limp gesture he picked up one of the vials on the folding TV dinner tray, turning it in his fingers. The label warned in capital letters: DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL.
Drunk and stoned, he amended.
