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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: With a little snort of laughter, he realized that Rodney hadn't left him any space on the bed.
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Rodney's bathtub was built into the wall and John hesitated a moment, hand on the industrial green shower curtain, looking around at the ceiling before he turned on the water, testing it. It seemed Rodney's place had better water pressure than he had at home, although John couldn't find the soap and didn't know about how he'd feel about anyone using his shampoo, so he didn't.
The water echoed weirdly off of tile, instead of the pattering sound John was used to, and it was both colder and less airy than John's clawfoot tub with the curtains that gapped and always left a puddle oozing into the hall.
The lights suddenly shut off.
"Whoops. Sorry, sorry," he heard Rodney say through the door as the light came back on.
Rodney clicked a different switch. A loud fan started overhead and John glanced up. He heard the tinkle of Rodney taking a leak and wondered if Rodney was going to join him. He was sort of relieved when the toilet flushed and he didn't. It was 2 a.m. and he was tired.
He didn't discover that Rodney had no bath towels in there until he was dripping in the middle of the floor, so he wiped down with his tee-shirt instead.
The living room was dark by the time he popped open the door, a rush of cool air coming in. The only pool of light came from Rodney's room. The living room was cold and draughty, so John hurried through, carrying the damp tee-shirt he had planned to wear to bed.
He found Rodney out cold, flopped face down on his pillow, his jaw slack. With a little snort of laughter, he realized that Rodney hadn't left him any space on the bed. He ran a hand over his face, considering, but he was way too tired and bleary to even consider going home.
He sat down, the mattress sagging under his weight and poked Rodney, whispering, "Hey. Move over, buddy."
Without waking up, Rodney rolled over, one arm flopping across the entire other half of the bed. Good enough.
~*~*~
A few hours later, the dawn was just a bare hint of gray through the curtains, dusky, turning the refrigerator, boxes, and Rodney's overloaded kitchen table into vague angular shapes of shaded gray and black. There was just barely enough light to see by as John scuffed around. He blinked against the bright light of the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. He lifted the carton to his mouth out of sheer habit, then stopped. Looking around, he hunted for a glass, pulling open a cupboard – and just barely caught the line of CDs with his forearm before they fell, swearing under his breath. He'd forgotten Rodney's storage issues.
Shutting the cupboard, he surveyed the pile of dirty dishes doubtfully. With a shrug he gave up, sniffed the milk as a precaution, then drank directly from the carton and stuffed it in the fridge.
Back-lit against the kitchen window, John shrugged on his jacket and adjusted the shoulders. It turned out that pens were easy to come by in Rodney's pile of newspapers, envelopes, and open vitamin jars cluttering the kitchen table. John extracted what looked like a long grocery receipt from the pile. It curled under his hand as he flattened it and penned Rodney a note.
We slept through my practice. Sorry. I bet I shut off the alarm.
See you tomorrow, 4 a.m.?
John
He weighed it down with two vitamin jars and straightened this collar, leaning to peer out the window at his car in Rodney's driveway. The passenger side door was wide open.
"Fuck," John said, and hurried for the door.
Rodney's front door had also been left open a crack, Rodney's jacket was flung onto the floor, and John figured his underwear -- technically "dance belt" but same thing -- was in all likelihood tangled up in Rodney's sheets. Rodney was still out cold, probably slobbering like a big, friendly puppy.
Outside in the biting pre-dawn breeze, John missed his socks more than the underwear.
The car started, thank god for the broken dome light. John patted the Chevy's steering wheel affectionately and headed home, a smug smile reflected on the inside of the windshield.
~*~*~
The sun peeked over the horizon, warming the frosted windows in his bathroom in pink and gold as John brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. It was almost full daylight outside, filling the kitchen and filtering into his main room by the time he lay back and folded his arms behind his head.
He shifted.
After five minutes, John found he couldn't sleep, his mind buzzing, his body hopped up on adrenaline like he'd had too much sugar.
By 6:30 a.m. he gave it up.
The rest of the day was spent in a kind of mental haze.
He ate and washed the dishes, and found himself cleaning the entire kitchen for reasons he couldn't explain. He stopped himself once he realized he'd started in on the freezer, squeezing the sponge out and tossing it in the sink.
After breakfast he turned on some music, his rock n' roll a little quieter than usual since it was still eight o'clock in the morning. He pocketed his keys, and took a quick barefoot run down the hall of the apartment building, down the stairs and outside to the mailbox across cold pavement, and then back, using the trip for his warm up, legs feeling a little rubbery and tired. He tossed the mail on the table, ignoring the taut pull of certain clenched muscles on his inner thighs that he hadn't felt in far too long.
In the main room he pulled the weights away from the wall to the center of the floor, adjusting the workout bench. He picked a lighter set, spinning the wingnuts snug with a practiced gesture. He stretched out on the padded workout bench, feeling achy and tight everywhere. He yawned and sniffed. Then, frowning with concentration, he tried to force his shaky body into submission, a sharp exhale of breath as he started his first rep.
The bar wobbled on the way up.
~*~*~
It was a terrible day.
Rodney woke with a headache, a sore back, an empty bed and -- worst of all -- broad daylight. With a surge of panic Rodney grabbed his clock off the end table, peered at it, and swore, long and colorfully, dropping it onto the bed.
He was supposed to ride with John to the rink and now he was going to have to get a cab and, oh God, he had the Bevingtons again today. Plus he'd obviously missed John's skate time, not that either of them would have been of any use after last night.
Rodney allowed himself the luxury of gloating over that fact, even though, oh, this was very stupid of them. He lurched out of bed.
He saved time by brushing his teeth in the shower. And discovered he'd run out of bath towels -- this morning was getting better and better. John had probably used the last one. He was forced to use his tee-shirt, and rolled on deodorant, and then, with his shirt hanging open, he prowled into the kitchen. He opened a tub of peanut butter ate it straight from the jar with a spoon, leaving the open container on the counter while he dialed a cab.
~*~*~
John set the barbell down with a clank, vividly aware that around this time yesterday he'd been at the rink with Rodney and then practically running for the car, Rodney's warm chest under him as they'd—
He ran his hand through his hair and sat up. He really had to stop thinking about that. The exercises weren't all that effective if he couldn't pay attention and focus on the specific muscle groups. His mind just kept returning to the feel of Rodney under him, the flutter of his eyes closing and that little exhale when they... John pulled the hand towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat off his face. He let out his breath in a heavy sigh.
On the top shelf of his closet was a stack of thin white boxes. He pulled them out and stacked them on the bed. It was less than exciting but stuffing envelopes and sorting them by zip code was good for some grocery money. And it was something John could do when he was distracted.
~*~*~
Amanda Bevington was a perfect angel, at least according to her mother, so therefore her poor performance had nothing to do with her not practicing and everything to do with Rodney being five minutes late that morning. Of course.
Rodney had narrowly avoided the injudicious sarcasm that tended to lose him clients -- although it was a near squeak. He'd been up all night and therefore his notoriously limited patience was worn to a finely tuned thread. As it stood, his suggestion that her practice sessions be supervised – i.e. enforced – was not well received. Mrs. Bevington was a big woman with a haughty all-seeing air, certain that anyone who required her money would do as little for it as possible. Her mere presence was an insult.
"A glittering skating dress only makes you a make-believe skater," Rodney told Amanda, baring his teeth in a smile. He flickered his fingers like little sparkles rising.
All right, perhaps a teeny shred of sarcasm escaped.
~*~*~
The gears on John's ten speed whirred and clicked as he coasted to a stop in front of the nine-story building in downtown Toronto. He slung the overstuffed backpack to one shoulder while he went down on his knee to lock his bike. Gazing up the glass front of the office building, he slipped the pack onto his shoulders and tightened the belt. He swept past preoccupied people in business suits hurrying to lunch. Inside, he angled to the left, past the marble fountain in the lobby to the stairwell. He was only going to the fourth floor.
The office was small, with only six or seven desks tucked away in a lilac and beige cubicle maze. Fortunately, Julia was still at her desk. John hated waiting around for her. Places like these made him feel like they were closing in on him, like they didn't have enough air. He leaned a hip on her cubicle wall and waited to be noticed.
Julia wore a loose tunic, little make up, and had long blond hair in deliberate waves that was starting to show brown at the roots. She glanced up from her computer and blinked at him in surprise, smiling. "Oh, hi, John. You're early."
~*~*~
As if to add a little "spice" to Rodney's day, he learned he had apparently lost someone's check and therefore had been teaching them gratis for weeks. Not only was it embarrassing, it gave him worrisome entertainment throughout his entire break, chasing through files till he found it, stapled to their application, right where it ought to be – after it was cashed. Annoyed with himself and rolling his eyes, Rodney pried the staple off the application.
He stumbled across his Skate Canada rule book in the search and took a moment to flip through and look up the policy on coaches sleeping with students – it had never been an issue so he'd never bothered to read it. Who did? The rules printed in clear black and white made him swallow around a dry throat. Oh, no problem, John could just get him kicked out of coaching for good if he filed a complaint. Though it seemed like John would have to be the one to do it (or his parents if he were underage). How much could he trust John?
His day was destined yet to improve. With a little negotiation and creativity with his fees, he'd been able to move the nine-year-old Bethany Morris, his impoverished young star, to private instruction. He planned to keep her at the Novice level as long as possible, cleaning everyone's clocks to build her confidence. She was his best hope for a Junior Worlds and had that rare combination: Talent, and a willingness to work. If he'd known how unusually dedicated he'd been as a teenager he would have made his coach spit-shine his skates.
It quickly became apparent Beth was not exactly in top form today. Her fluffy brown ponytail flew, fluffed like a Persian cat's tail as her legs slid out from under her and she hit the ice.
"Okay," Rodney said with barely suppressed laughter as he skated over to her. "Now that is the first time I've seen you fall while just standing at the boards."
"It's not my fault," she pouted, her small blue eyes squinting petulantly. "I have cramps."
Rodney gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you to warm up properly before class. It prevents injury to you and keeps me from dying of boredom." He pointed his thumb at his chest.
"Not that," she said. Then gave him a bug-eyed meaningful look that he apparently was supposed to interpret. When he didn't respond, she said, "The other kind." She blushed, the color deepening her freckles.
"What other kind?" Rodney puzzled. "Stop speaking in riddles. I don't enjoy guessing games."
She gave him a more wide-eyed exasperated meaningful look, tilting her head. Then he got it. Of course he did. Ninety-seven percent of his students were girls.
"That's impossible! You're only nine years old!"
Her mouth fell open in appalled offense. "I'm ten and a half!"
"Oh," Rodney said, disappointment and unhappiness sliding across his face, warring with his immediate sense of oh, great, not this and why me? From here on out they were doomed to have one week in four that was limited in its productiveness. He had no idea why it effected so many skater's equilibrium. He slumped. "Um. Okay."
She looked up at him weakly. "Can I just...?" She inclined her head towards the stands, her eyes wistful. He hoped it was only a moment of weakness.
"Are you out of your mind? Do you think all your future competitions will be scheduled around, around—" He waved a hand, feeling a little out of his depth. "—that, for your convenience? If I don't see a cast or the stump of a missing limb, you're skating!"
~*~*~
Rodney pinched the bridge of his nose as he dropped his keys on top of the pile of unopened mail on the kitchen table, contemplating dinner versus just going to bed. It was already nine p.m. and he was due to be up in less than eight hours. Then he remembered that it was John he was going to be teaching tomorrow and warmed at the thought.
As if on cue, the phone rang. It was ridiculously late so either it was Radek forgetting the time difference again, or... Rodney checked the caller ID... John. He fumbled the phone as he picked it up.
There was hard rock blasting in the background, sounding like Metallica.
"Hi," John said, a little breathless.
"Hi."
"Got my note?"
"Yes."
"Tomorrow then."
"Right."
"Okay." There was a reluctant pause. "See you then."
"Yeah."
"Bye."
"Bye."
They hung up. And such a brief conversation should not have left Rodney flying.
[Previous][Next]
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: With a little snort of laughter, he realized that Rodney hadn't left him any space on the bed.
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view. Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing flirtatious friendship developed, over a month later, into much more.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Rodney's bathtub was built into the wall and John hesitated a moment, hand on the industrial green shower curtain, looking around at the ceiling before he turned on the water, testing it. It seemed Rodney's place had better water pressure than he had at home, although John couldn't find the soap and didn't know about how he'd feel about anyone using his shampoo, so he didn't.
The water echoed weirdly off of tile, instead of the pattering sound John was used to, and it was both colder and less airy than John's clawfoot tub with the curtains that gapped and always left a puddle oozing into the hall.
The lights suddenly shut off.
"Whoops. Sorry, sorry," he heard Rodney say through the door as the light came back on.
Rodney clicked a different switch. A loud fan started overhead and John glanced up. He heard the tinkle of Rodney taking a leak and wondered if Rodney was going to join him. He was sort of relieved when the toilet flushed and he didn't. It was 2 a.m. and he was tired.
He didn't discover that Rodney had no bath towels in there until he was dripping in the middle of the floor, so he wiped down with his tee-shirt instead.
The living room was dark by the time he popped open the door, a rush of cool air coming in. The only pool of light came from Rodney's room. The living room was cold and draughty, so John hurried through, carrying the damp tee-shirt he had planned to wear to bed.
He found Rodney out cold, flopped face down on his pillow, his jaw slack. With a little snort of laughter, he realized that Rodney hadn't left him any space on the bed. He ran a hand over his face, considering, but he was way too tired and bleary to even consider going home.
He sat down, the mattress sagging under his weight and poked Rodney, whispering, "Hey. Move over, buddy."
Without waking up, Rodney rolled over, one arm flopping across the entire other half of the bed. Good enough.
A few hours later, the dawn was just a bare hint of gray through the curtains, dusky, turning the refrigerator, boxes, and Rodney's overloaded kitchen table into vague angular shapes of shaded gray and black. There was just barely enough light to see by as John scuffed around. He blinked against the bright light of the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. He lifted the carton to his mouth out of sheer habit, then stopped. Looking around, he hunted for a glass, pulling open a cupboard – and just barely caught the line of CDs with his forearm before they fell, swearing under his breath. He'd forgotten Rodney's storage issues.
Shutting the cupboard, he surveyed the pile of dirty dishes doubtfully. With a shrug he gave up, sniffed the milk as a precaution, then drank directly from the carton and stuffed it in the fridge.
Back-lit against the kitchen window, John shrugged on his jacket and adjusted the shoulders. It turned out that pens were easy to come by in Rodney's pile of newspapers, envelopes, and open vitamin jars cluttering the kitchen table. John extracted what looked like a long grocery receipt from the pile. It curled under his hand as he flattened it and penned Rodney a note.
We slept through my practice. Sorry. I bet I shut off the alarm.
See you tomorrow, 4 a.m.?
John
He weighed it down with two vitamin jars and straightened this collar, leaning to peer out the window at his car in Rodney's driveway. The passenger side door was wide open.
"Fuck," John said, and hurried for the door.
Rodney's front door had also been left open a crack, Rodney's jacket was flung onto the floor, and John figured his underwear -- technically "dance belt" but same thing -- was in all likelihood tangled up in Rodney's sheets. Rodney was still out cold, probably slobbering like a big, friendly puppy.
Outside in the biting pre-dawn breeze, John missed his socks more than the underwear.
The car started, thank god for the broken dome light. John patted the Chevy's steering wheel affectionately and headed home, a smug smile reflected on the inside of the windshield.
The sun peeked over the horizon, warming the frosted windows in his bathroom in pink and gold as John brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. It was almost full daylight outside, filling the kitchen and filtering into his main room by the time he lay back and folded his arms behind his head.
He shifted.
After five minutes, John found he couldn't sleep, his mind buzzing, his body hopped up on adrenaline like he'd had too much sugar.
By 6:30 a.m. he gave it up.
The rest of the day was spent in a kind of mental haze.
He ate and washed the dishes, and found himself cleaning the entire kitchen for reasons he couldn't explain. He stopped himself once he realized he'd started in on the freezer, squeezing the sponge out and tossing it in the sink.
After breakfast he turned on some music, his rock n' roll a little quieter than usual since it was still eight o'clock in the morning. He pocketed his keys, and took a quick barefoot run down the hall of the apartment building, down the stairs and outside to the mailbox across cold pavement, and then back, using the trip for his warm up, legs feeling a little rubbery and tired. He tossed the mail on the table, ignoring the taut pull of certain clenched muscles on his inner thighs that he hadn't felt in far too long.
In the main room he pulled the weights away from the wall to the center of the floor, adjusting the workout bench. He picked a lighter set, spinning the wingnuts snug with a practiced gesture. He stretched out on the padded workout bench, feeling achy and tight everywhere. He yawned and sniffed. Then, frowning with concentration, he tried to force his shaky body into submission, a sharp exhale of breath as he started his first rep.
The bar wobbled on the way up.
It was a terrible day.
Rodney woke with a headache, a sore back, an empty bed and -- worst of all -- broad daylight. With a surge of panic Rodney grabbed his clock off the end table, peered at it, and swore, long and colorfully, dropping it onto the bed.
He was supposed to ride with John to the rink and now he was going to have to get a cab and, oh God, he had the Bevingtons again today. Plus he'd obviously missed John's skate time, not that either of them would have been of any use after last night.
Rodney allowed himself the luxury of gloating over that fact, even though, oh, this was very stupid of them. He lurched out of bed.
He saved time by brushing his teeth in the shower. And discovered he'd run out of bath towels -- this morning was getting better and better. John had probably used the last one. He was forced to use his tee-shirt, and rolled on deodorant, and then, with his shirt hanging open, he prowled into the kitchen. He opened a tub of peanut butter ate it straight from the jar with a spoon, leaving the open container on the counter while he dialed a cab.
John set the barbell down with a clank, vividly aware that around this time yesterday he'd been at the rink with Rodney and then practically running for the car, Rodney's warm chest under him as they'd—
He ran his hand through his hair and sat up. He really had to stop thinking about that. The exercises weren't all that effective if he couldn't pay attention and focus on the specific muscle groups. His mind just kept returning to the feel of Rodney under him, the flutter of his eyes closing and that little exhale when they... John pulled the hand towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat off his face. He let out his breath in a heavy sigh.
On the top shelf of his closet was a stack of thin white boxes. He pulled them out and stacked them on the bed. It was less than exciting but stuffing envelopes and sorting them by zip code was good for some grocery money. And it was something John could do when he was distracted.
Amanda Bevington was a perfect angel, at least according to her mother, so therefore her poor performance had nothing to do with her not practicing and everything to do with Rodney being five minutes late that morning. Of course.
Rodney had narrowly avoided the injudicious sarcasm that tended to lose him clients -- although it was a near squeak. He'd been up all night and therefore his notoriously limited patience was worn to a finely tuned thread. As it stood, his suggestion that her practice sessions be supervised – i.e. enforced – was not well received. Mrs. Bevington was a big woman with a haughty all-seeing air, certain that anyone who required her money would do as little for it as possible. Her mere presence was an insult.
"A glittering skating dress only makes you a make-believe skater," Rodney told Amanda, baring his teeth in a smile. He flickered his fingers like little sparkles rising.
All right, perhaps a teeny shred of sarcasm escaped.
The gears on John's ten speed whirred and clicked as he coasted to a stop in front of the nine-story building in downtown Toronto. He slung the overstuffed backpack to one shoulder while he went down on his knee to lock his bike. Gazing up the glass front of the office building, he slipped the pack onto his shoulders and tightened the belt. He swept past preoccupied people in business suits hurrying to lunch. Inside, he angled to the left, past the marble fountain in the lobby to the stairwell. He was only going to the fourth floor.
The office was small, with only six or seven desks tucked away in a lilac and beige cubicle maze. Fortunately, Julia was still at her desk. John hated waiting around for her. Places like these made him feel like they were closing in on him, like they didn't have enough air. He leaned a hip on her cubicle wall and waited to be noticed.
Julia wore a loose tunic, little make up, and had long blond hair in deliberate waves that was starting to show brown at the roots. She glanced up from her computer and blinked at him in surprise, smiling. "Oh, hi, John. You're early."
As if to add a little "spice" to Rodney's day, he learned he had apparently lost someone's check and therefore had been teaching them gratis for weeks. Not only was it embarrassing, it gave him worrisome entertainment throughout his entire break, chasing through files till he found it, stapled to their application, right where it ought to be – after it was cashed. Annoyed with himself and rolling his eyes, Rodney pried the staple off the application.
He stumbled across his Skate Canada rule book in the search and took a moment to flip through and look up the policy on coaches sleeping with students – it had never been an issue so he'd never bothered to read it. Who did? The rules printed in clear black and white made him swallow around a dry throat. Oh, no problem, John could just get him kicked out of coaching for good if he filed a complaint. Though it seemed like John would have to be the one to do it (or his parents if he were underage). How much could he trust John?
His day was destined yet to improve. With a little negotiation and creativity with his fees, he'd been able to move the nine-year-old Bethany Morris, his impoverished young star, to private instruction. He planned to keep her at the Novice level as long as possible, cleaning everyone's clocks to build her confidence. She was his best hope for a Junior Worlds and had that rare combination: Talent, and a willingness to work. If he'd known how unusually dedicated he'd been as a teenager he would have made his coach spit-shine his skates.
It quickly became apparent Beth was not exactly in top form today. Her fluffy brown ponytail flew, fluffed like a Persian cat's tail as her legs slid out from under her and she hit the ice.
"Okay," Rodney said with barely suppressed laughter as he skated over to her. "Now that is the first time I've seen you fall while just standing at the boards."
"It's not my fault," she pouted, her small blue eyes squinting petulantly. "I have cramps."
Rodney gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you to warm up properly before class. It prevents injury to you and keeps me from dying of boredom." He pointed his thumb at his chest.
"Not that," she said. Then gave him a bug-eyed meaningful look that he apparently was supposed to interpret. When he didn't respond, she said, "The other kind." She blushed, the color deepening her freckles.
"What other kind?" Rodney puzzled. "Stop speaking in riddles. I don't enjoy guessing games."
She gave him a more wide-eyed exasperated meaningful look, tilting her head. Then he got it. Of course he did. Ninety-seven percent of his students were girls.
"That's impossible! You're only nine years old!"
Her mouth fell open in appalled offense. "I'm ten and a half!"
"Oh," Rodney said, disappointment and unhappiness sliding across his face, warring with his immediate sense of oh, great, not this and why me? From here on out they were doomed to have one week in four that was limited in its productiveness. He had no idea why it effected so many skater's equilibrium. He slumped. "Um. Okay."
She looked up at him weakly. "Can I just...?" She inclined her head towards the stands, her eyes wistful. He hoped it was only a moment of weakness.
"Are you out of your mind? Do you think all your future competitions will be scheduled around, around—" He waved a hand, feeling a little out of his depth. "—that, for your convenience? If I don't see a cast or the stump of a missing limb, you're skating!"
Rodney pinched the bridge of his nose as he dropped his keys on top of the pile of unopened mail on the kitchen table, contemplating dinner versus just going to bed. It was already nine p.m. and he was due to be up in less than eight hours. Then he remembered that it was John he was going to be teaching tomorrow and warmed at the thought.
As if on cue, the phone rang. It was ridiculously late so either it was Radek forgetting the time difference again, or... Rodney checked the caller ID... John. He fumbled the phone as he picked it up.
There was hard rock blasting in the background, sounding like Metallica.
"Hi," John said, a little breathless.
"Hi."
"Got my note?"
"Yes."
"Tomorrow then."
"Right."
"Okay." There was a reluctant pause. "See you then."
"Yeah."
"Bye."
"Bye."
They hung up. And such a brief conversation should not have left Rodney flying.
[Previous][Next]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 04:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 04:32 am (UTC)Icarus
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 04:34 am (UTC)But it's 6:33am; I got up at 5am to give my friend Cee a ride to the airport and her Sardinia vacation. (Mmh, vacation. But after reading the flist, I'll use the time to study; can't do REM sleep any more, anyway.)
And yes, yes. You totally could. *foolish happy grin on her face*
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 06:49 am (UTC)Eloquence and length are not relevant.
Icarus