icarus | SGA FIC: Out Of Bounds

At long last, the silly skating AU cooperates. *sighs* Hmm. The list below is kinda getting long, isn't it?

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.
Part eight: I'm sure when we were being chased by sabre-toothed tigers we did all kinds of neat tricks.
Part nine: 'You want to be alone?' Kim-the-unutterably-stupid asked.
Part ten: He mentally took back his den and no longer had to worry about John's exercise equipment.

Out Of Bounds
by Icarus

Rodney's shoulders hunched at the glimpse of the sedan in his driveway, and he almost asked the cab driver to circle the block -- until it occurred to him that the Korean duo had no way of knowing where he lived. As he drew closer he frowned, finally recognizing the burgundy of John's beat-up Duster. What the hell?

Rodney paid the taxi driver and gave him what was probably too large a tip; then he stalked over to John's car and rapped on the window like a cop who'd caught some teenagers necking.

John jumped and scrabbled gratifyingly, arms flailing, and one knuckle cracked against the glass. Rodney took pity on him and pulled open the door. John jerked back as he nearly fell out.

"What are you doing here?" Bright stunned eyes stared at Rodney, who remembered that John's heater was broken, among other things, and he suddenly realized why John was here. "Oh my God, you lost your apartment."

"What?" John said, still open-mouthed and bleary.

"You've been thrown out, you don't have a job -- and you still think my offer's good after your performance this morning?" Rodney caught his breath as the full ramifications sank in with a shock. "It's ten degrees out."

"What? Was it ever good?" John puzzled at him, obviously not quite awake.

"I was almost out all night with a gay leather threesome, it's ten degrees, and you could have frozen in my driveway waiting for me!" Rodney yelled.

"I wasn't waiting…." John began to explain.

"Get inside, now." Rodney opened John's door the rest of the way and pointed at his house. "You'd think you'd have the intelligence to at least call ahead to see if I was home."

"Gay leather threesome?" John asked, still catching up. He stayed where he was. "Look, I just wanted to talk. I guess I fell asleep. It's those damned painkillers -- are you drunk?" he interrupted himself as he peered up at Rodney, eyes narrowing to slits. "You smell like a brewery."

Rodney leaned on John's not very stable car door. "I might be. We'll know once I try the steps."

"Hang on." John ratcheted his seat upright and there was a jingle of car keys as he pulled them out of the ignition, pocketing them. "Let's get you inside."

John held out his hands for Rodney's house-keys, which was demanding, but Rodney didn't argue. They'd have to get off on the right foot -- if he was going to take John in. He hadn't really decided yet.

The house still smelled like spaghetti sauce and lemon dish-washing soap. Rodney handed John the blanket from the couch, shaking out some Cheetos that clung to it. John stared at these with a bemused expression. Then, quelling John's attempts at conversation, he brought out platefuls of spaghetti for them both. Since the kitchen table was still covered in cooking paraphernalia they ate at the couch, shoving aside Rodney's unpaid bills, the headphones, receipts, an oven mitt and stack of CDs.

"This sauce tastes like ketchup," John said, leaning over his plate to scoop up another mouthful more eagerly than his words suggested.

"I'm an excellent cook," Rodney corrected, licking a finger. "But this can be among your duties if you like. Though I would eventually expect you to find a job and pay part of the rent. An equitable amount; I'm obviously the bread-winner here."

He'd pretty much decided on the 'John question.' It would be a simple a matter of cleaning out the den, and John could use the hide-a-bed for now. Fifty dollars to do a criminal background check, just in case, though certainly John would be more affluent if he were living a secret life of crime, not to mention it would give him less time to skate.

John stared at him quizzically before a light of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oh." He finished his bite and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Look, about that." He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "It's not like I don't appreciate it or anything, but I haven't been thrown out of my apartment. I just wanted to talk. About skating."

"Ah," Rodney said, relieved. He mentally took back his den and no longer had to worry about John's exercise equipment. This was more familiar ground. "Come to beg me on bended knee to take you back, eh?"

"Well, maybe not beg exactly…."

"I thought you might," Rodney said victoriously. He set down his plate with a firm thump, brushing his hands off. "The answer's no."

John was silent a long satisfyingly dumbfounded moment.

Then he said, "You'd have me move in with you… but you won't coach me any more?"

"I'm sorry," Rodney explained to the poor, sad soul. "I'm not going to waste my time on someone who's pathologically incapable of listening."

"If it's about the money, I'll find a way—" John shook his head.

"Of course it's not about the money!" Rodney exploded. "If I cared about money I'd be, oh, a brilliant physicist or something, living off fat government contracts where I could charge whatever I wanted because no one understood my research. If I came up with anything deadly I'd bury it in the back yard and fill my notes with so much jargon they could never use it."

"That's pretty detailed." John blinked.

"I have a good imagination -- and I nearly won the science fair as a child. It was my back-up plan." Rodney went on, fingers making two okay signs. "But I'm an artist. I have a gift, John. Figure skating at it's best is… pure poetry. It's the perfect melding of movement and sound, clean and more smooth than dance could ever imagine," Rodney breathed, his hands making a flat gliding motion. He sat up straighter. "I'm not going to throw away my legacy on people who don't appreciate me."

John's lips were parted. Then he swallowed. "I appreciate you."

"Yes. I could tell when I found you playing hockey."

John leaned forward. "Look, Rodney." His mouth worked, then he sighed and put his foot up on the couch, knee bent. He let his hand drop to his lap, not looking at Rodney. "I dunno. I tried. I just felt so stupid… and then this kid showed up," John wrinkled his nose, "and I didn't want to do that in front of him. So, when he asked me to play hockey…." He an embarrassed shrug. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Someone showed up in the middle of your practice?" Rodney asked.

"We were over our skate-time," John pointed out.

"Huh." Then Rodney's lips made a hard line. "You're still doing the jumps. When I told you not to."

John didn't trouble to deny it. He reached into his pocket and tossed Rodney a phial of pills. Rodney caught them in mid-air.

"Mmmm… this is the good stuff. Tendonitis?" Rodney asked, reading the label and familiar prescription.

"Laid on top of an ACL injury," John admitted, glancing up with the cautious wince of someone taking a risk with that much honesty.

As indeed he was. There were people who would make him stay at home in bed for that, though Rodney wasn't one of them. Skaters were always injured. A skater who pulled out of competition because of an injury was simply saying they couldn't win with it, not that they couldn't skate. Although John wouldn't have any way of knowing Rodney's 'pragmatism' on the subject.

"Is that the one that took you out of the World's?" Rodney tipped his head in distant clinical curiosity.

"I heard this pop and then I went down. Didn't hurt nearly as much as the tendonitis."

Rodney pursed his lips meditatively, studying the pills. "No, it doesn't. Tendonitis makes you want to saw your knee off." He handed them back to John. "So you won't be jumping either way."

"Nope."

"Though not because I said so." If Rodney were a cat his tail would have flicked.

"Does it matter why?"

"Yes, it matters!" Rodney huffed. He pressed his lips together. "But…" he said, much against his better judgment, "I'll think about it."

John heaved a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping back into the couch. "That's all I ask."

"I haven't said yes!" Rodney insisted, and silently cursed himself for being weak.

But the truth was, John embodied everything he wanted to fix in the skating world, and John had come to him wanting to learn how to really skate. It was as if every soulless jumper who'd ever beaten Rodney had knocked on his door, begging forgiveness for their callous, unfair destruction of his artistry.

He decided he wouldn't tell Radek, because he knew exactly what he'd say.

John's earlier complaints about his cooking were disproved once again as John accepted an offer of seconds, quickly finishing his last bite. Rodney gathered up their silverware and dirty napkins, demurring John's offer of help. If John wasn't planning on moving in then he was a guest in Rodney's book.

"So, gay leather threesome-?" John prompted as he held out the plate, eyeing Rodney over it.

Rodney froze, and tried to remember when he'd told him that. He must have been more drunk than he realized.

"I'm not really into that kind of thing," John said, his eyebrows furled, sounding perplexed.

"No," Rodney sighed wistfully, "neither am I."

He explained from the kitchen, chuckling. He called out over the sound of running water as he washed a couple glasses. "I was caught a little off-guard in fact. But I've never been one to say no to an experiment… and sex," he gave a self-satisfied little smile, "well, that's the 'salt of life' as they say. One can see why they selected me, I mean obviously I'm quite limber…."

He returned from the kitchen with two full plates of spaghetti, steaming hot… only to find John with his head tipped back on the cushion, mouth open, and his long legs sprawled out under the coffee table… fast asleep.

I did say this was self-indulgent, didn't I?

Hmm. I may have a song for this. Okay, this is probably over the top, but it's such a great McKay song in general:
Prima Donna from The Phantom of the Opera. Hee.
http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=1X5ELTVY7LZD83FID8WXZUH5Q9

Part eleven is right here

Current Mood: artistic

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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20thcenturyvole.livejournal.com

Bwah! Rock. And Iiiii believe you; I think they sound closer than ever to nakedness.

From:

Students? I like to think of them as "test subjects".....

SGA FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney

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