SGA Fic: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17 someday

[icarus]

Hoping monanotlisa is feeling better and thanking cesperanza for the sga_flashfic Virgin!Challenge.


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.
Part eleven: 'I take American Express.'
Part twelve: Give John a spotlight and what does he do? Skate in the dark.
Part thirteen: Something about a dead hamster-?
Part fourteen: Being a UPS driver had been great, nice people, but it worked all the wrong muscle groups.



Out Of Bounds
by Icarus



The music started, 1940s and kicky. John bobbed his head in time with the beat, watching.

Rodney rocked his shoulders and glanced over at the little girl beside him, up on her toe picks. He gave a sharp nod and they put their hands on their hips on the trumpet lead-in, then hands shoulder-high, then waved them in the air with the reveille, wiggling their hips as they edged backwards into a broad circle as the boogie-woogie piano kicked in, doing a couple of easy half-turns as they picked up speed.

Beside John, the woman in the expensive-looking coat and classy jewelry snickered. "She has a competition next week," she explained to John proudly.

"Speed, keep up your speed!" Rodney clapped twice, circling out of the routine to watch.

The little girl's dainty skirt ruffled in the breeze as her skates worked, forcing more energy into her routine. John remembered when he used to have to work at that, losing steam between elements. She popped up on "and now the company jumps!" and John smirked. "It's cute."

John sat down and pulled off his skate.

"If you'd like to skate longer…" the woman offered John with a gesture to the rink.

He demurred, sighing as his foot came free. "Nah, I've been at it for hours."

"Did I hear a benefactor? Offering skate time?" Rodney's sharp voice cut across the rink -- and how he heard, John had no idea. "He'd love to!"

"Slave driver." John snorted, weighing his skate in his hand with a smile. "If he could make me skate in my sleep he would."

"Who? Rodney?" The woman pursed her lips, blinking in surprise.

"Well yeah," John spluttered.

"Huh." The woman gave a doubtful tilt of her head, watching the two skaters critically. The girl did a salute as she jumped into a spin, snapping it out in a sharp out-of-control gesture. "A lot of the parents feel I should go with somebody tougher. But she really loves Rodney, and my husband and I feel the experience should be just as important as the competitions."

John didn't say anything.

"If you don't get more speed, I'll make you skate the Bette Midler version," Rodney called out. "This isn't a dirge!"

The Andrews Sisters sang "the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B!"

"So," Mrs. Weir turned towards John with polite curiosity. "What do you do, John Sheppard?"

"Skate." John grinned up at her impishly.

Her smile spread, amused. "I mean, besides skating of course."

They always asked. John pursed his lips and considered, making a show of giving it some thought. "No. Skating's pretty much it."

At her expectant silence he finally gave in and shrugged. "I was in college for a while."

She brightened. "Oh, really? What were you studying?"

"Engineering."

John left out the part about skipping all the classes and just taking the exams. It had worked -- and funded his training -- until the school figured it out. She nodded, lips together with the usual impressed expression.

"But now I just skate."

"Yes, we saw as we came in. You're pretty good. Are you in the Skate Canada or-?"

Now that was really polite of her. Only the top-ranked "Olympic-level" skaters were invited -- everyone else had to qualify at the lower echelon competitions. The top skaters mostly trained at the Schmidt Center anyway. Rodney was the only international class coach who chose this tiny rink, John didn't know why.

"Well, I've already qualified. The Chicago Regionals are next."

"That's coming up."

John grimaced and stared across the ice, thinking of his jumps. He licked his lips. "Yeah."

Mrs. Weir folded her arms on the guardrail and watched her daughter with a proprietary smug air. "I hope Melanie will be as good as you are someday."

"It'll take a while," he smiled, with just an edge of competitiveness. She grinned at him.

"Freeskate!" Rodney announced. "We have some mystery music. I want you to skate whatever comes to you, all right?"

Mrs. Weir shook her head subtly, taking a breath and sounding frustrated. "Tsk. Now see, she can do that in her own time." She frowned, eyes narrowing as she folded her arms across her chest. "We're not paying him to baby-sit for a play period."

"He's a good coach," John said defensively.

"Sheppard!" Rodney jerked his thumb towards the ice. "You can flirt with the ladies later!"

Slave. Driver. John mouthed to Mrs. Weir as he skated back onto the ice feeling achy and more than a little tired, and she laughed.

Rodney pointed to Mrs. Weir's daughter. "You think you can keep up with her?"

"Oh, I dunno…" John said, grinning at the beaming girl as he slowed his approach with a swing of one skate. A strand of long dark hair was plastered to her face but she glowed up at John.

"Good. Because I want you to copy everything that she does. Melanie, you're little Miss Choreographer today so make it hard."

~*~*~

In the dull gray light that filtered through the tiny stack of windows in John's bathroom, John stripped off his shirt and tossed it to the floor, running his hands tiredly over his face. He kicked off his underwear and winced, feeling every muscle in his body. He stooped to pick them up, then decided that, bending down too far-? Not a good thing.

He didn't bother to turn on the lights.

Sitting on the cold toilet seat he cringed and examined today's "collection." The big bruise on his knee was turning greenish-yellow, but it was overlaid with a smaller dark purple stab from the back of his blade. He tipped open his right thigh to follow the long scrape and dark indentation from a simple spin he'd done when he was too tired. Skate slid out and he went down while he was still in tuck.

It was the stupid ones that bugged him.

He twisted and examined the outside of his left thigh. The left leg always took less damage. There was nothing wrong with that knee.

The left elbow was another story. John turned it towards the light, feeling the almost-good-but-kinda-not soreness. No bruise, but there should be. He squinted at it and worried a second before he reached for the Arnica lotion his former coach had sworn by, slowly working it into the new tender areas that didn't show any damage, yet. John was never sure how or it homeopathy worked but anything to avoid a trip to the doctor's.

He stood, slowly, his muscles stiff from sitting in the cold that long. With a limp he reached into the old clawfoot tub. Cold then hot water spurted over his hand. He fiddled with the knobs but the old building never really got consistent temperatures.

As the water steamed, he groaned inwardly, remembering one other thing on the to-do list today.

He left the water running and crossed the apartment to his closet -- and if anyone saw him naked it was their problem -- digging out an old suit with dusty shoulders. He brushed it off, then grabbed the laundry detergent and a pillowcase of clothes and tossed them into the bathroom. The suit he hung on the bathroom door. Steam should take care of most of the wrinkles.

Shampoo stung on cut knuckles he'd neglected, and John stood in the shower just letting the hot water run in rivulets down his back, an arm braced against the wall. Then he shut off the showerhead, and scrubbing a rough towel over his chest and arms, he tossed in the plug and let cooler water run. He emptied the pillowcase of clothes in the tub, letting it fill with splash of detergent. Saved hours at the laundromat. The suit was still wrinkled, but John didn't care all that much.

It was eleven o'clock, but he'd already been up for eight hours. An hour till lunch.

He sank into bed to take a nap.

~*~*~

The phone woke him forty-five minutes later. With a grimace, John, still flat on his back, reached for the receiver on the floor.

"'Lo…?" He listened quietly. "Job's filled?"

There was another long silence as John sat up, the blankets pooling in his lap. He sniffed, blinking, as he struggled to wake up. He rubbed his face, running his hands through rumpled hair, making it stand on end. "That's okay, yeah… thanks for letting me know."

He dropped the phone and cheerfully swung out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers. The first thing he did was stuff the suit back into the closet.

The second phone call was completely expected and John picked it up halfway through the first ring.

"Hello..? Hey, mom. Yep, she just called. Better luck next time." John wiped at his mouth, adjusting the phone on his shoulder, seeming to shrink in on himself as he stared up at the ceiling. "Well, I'll keep looking. Thanks for setting -- yeah, they're nice people."

He listened attentively, chewing his lower lip, nodding like a chastised child. "I liked the UPS gig. Okay, six years ago but … uh-huh." He chuckled. "The boxes were fine, good PT, the heavier the better … What? The knee?" John raised his eyebrows as he started to restlessly pace. The phone dragged across the floor behind him.

"That was last year. Ancient history," he assured her. "…Nope." He sucked in a breath through his teeth, leaning his back against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the bedroom. His head touched the wood with a light thump. "Haven't heard from Dad … No, I don't need any money." John cringed. "I'm fine."

The room fell silent as John pushed away from the wall and hung up the phone. Then he squeaked open the mostly-empty kitchen cabinet and grabbed a can of Campbell's soup, dumping it into a pan.

He picked up his inline skates and set them on the table. They fell a little to the side. Being a UPS driver had been great, nice people, but it worked all the wrong muscle groups.

The phone rang again not an hour later. Slowly John picked it up. "Hi, Dad."

"Dad?" Rodney's voice chirped in indignant confusion. John could almost see the dismissive wave as he ignored John. "I've a cancellation, and I figure since you're not paying me anyway you can use your copious free-time to train."

"Sure." John put the inline skates back on the floor, leaned against a table leg. "But how 'bout we go to the Schmidt Center? It's closer."

There was a pregnant pause. "Um. Okay."



The next part is here!


Couldn't find ngaio, so the fic is nakedly unbeta'd. The Andrews Sisters "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" is uploading as we speak available! Hmm. This may need more skating.

Comments

[2naonh3-cl2.livejournal.com]

shower scene? bzzuh?

[icarusancalion.livejournal.com]

Oh, the injury scene where John gets into the shower. Sorry.

Maybe we'll have another kind of shower scene later.

Icarus