SGA FIC: Out Of Bounds - NC-17 - John/Rodney

[icarus]

You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.

Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Rodney couldn't fathom why the press would follow him into the bathroom anyway, unless they wanted to report on how he smelled.
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. Our special guest star beta is sarka with her sparkling knowledge of Czechoslovakian cold war politics. Thank you, sarka. And, yes, I know there are no 1986 Olympics. ;)

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. At the 1986 Olympics, Rodney had befriended a young Czech ski jump judge and began a quiet affair. His attempt to show Radek the world outside the iron curtain backfired, however. Meanwhile in the present, after John gave up on making it to the America Cup this season, their teasing friendship developed into much more. Now it appears John might be able to compete after all. Of course, Rodney thinks John has followed his directions.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus



"And now for a word on the Canadian controversy... two days ago, seventeen-year-old figure skater, Rodney McKay, was spotted in an airport bar in Amsterdam, far from the Olympic games. Here's what some of his fans have to say."

"If he doesn't want to be there, I bet there are plenty of others who'd be glad to be at the Olympics. I'm just saying."

"Rodney's my favorite skater. I'm sure he had a good reason to be in Amsterdam. I mean, no one's said he was actually drinking."

"For me, I don't care what he does in his spare time, but while he's at the Olympics he's supposed to be representing us."

"What I wonder is who's keeping an eye on that boy? Where are his parents? And what were they doing serving alcohol to a minor in that airport? Something should be done about that."

"I usually think of the Olympics as being totally intense and stuff. But he's just a figure skater, so I guess that's easier than, like, skiing."

~*~*~

Squeezed into a tiny table at a Chinese take-out joint, Rodney dropped noodles from his chopsticks – John wrinkled his nose, watching him stuff his face – and they reviewed John's schedule. He crossed off John's laundry, his grocery shopping, and nixed two of his cardio sessions.

"Okay, I get why you don't want me to have a life -- though I don't see what you think I'm going to wear in Colorado -- but taking off the cardio?" John rumpled his eyebrows and shot him a funny look.

Rodney wolfed down noodles, pointing with a chopstick. He said, muffled through his mouthful, "Trust me, you'll have more cardio than you can stand, given the number of times I'm going to make you run through your program this week." He swallowed. "Now. How much anaerobic training do you do on average?"

With a grudging tip of his head, John admitted, "I train to near muscle failure about three or four times a week."

"On average?" Rodney leaned towards him with a puzzled expression.

"I like to see how far I can push it."

"Okay," Rodney breathed. "Your status as a complete masochist is confirmed. Good. Keep that up." His sharp eyes scanned the list for anything he'd missed. "And no, no, no." He sliced three big dark X's through all of John's training plans for Friday. "Nothing on Friday."

"If we go – and that's a big if – I won't be able to train Saturday," John complained.

"You still haven't heard from them?" Rodney asked, looking frazzled as he ran his hand through his short hair.

"Not a word."

"Hmm. That's disturbing...." Rodney muttered. He squared his shoulders in determination anyway. "Well. We must assume that you're going, and given that's the case, I want you to spoil like a racehorse for the Kentucky Derby on Friday. You are not to do anything."

"Can I do my laundry?"

Rodney frowned and thought about it, tipped back in his chair, running a knuckle along his lower lip. "How much laundry?" he asked, eyes slitted in suspicion.

John gave him a dirty look, head tilted at him, annoyed.

"All right, laundry's allowable." Rodney held up a finger. "But one load only."

~*~*~

The music cut off, leaving John in his final pose, his right fist punched into the air. It was the best moment of his choreography, and they were so fortunate it was at the end. Rodney clapped several times.

"Again," he said, biting into a sandwich from the other side of the boards. "This time straight through, no stopping for missed elements. You miss it, you miss it – move on. Leave it on the ice like dog shit you don't want to clean up." He waved the hand with the sandwich as if magically making all mistakes disappear. "Don't even notice it."

John slid over with several sweeping strokes to slump in front of the boards. His long-sleeved red t-shirt was stained dark with sweat halfway down his back and stuck to him. After a minute he reached for his water bottle, draping himself over the edge. He slanted his eyes at Rodney. "Didn't you just eat lunch?"

Rodney held the sandwich out, bemused, like it had sneaked up on him and leapt into his hands. "Um. I tend to eat when I'm nervous." He set the sandwich down on a bench and complained, hands rolled into fists. "And I hate this program, hate it, hate it, hate it. The only thing that's worse is your long program -- what possessed you to choose Holst for your music?"

"You know, I'm the one who's supposed to be a neurotic wreck," John noted.

"Well, I've got that covered it seems, so just... get out there and skate." Rodney made a wide brushing gesture. "This time with the jumps."

John moaned, dropping his head onto his folded arms. Rodney tried to ignore how much he sounded like that on other, far more intimate occasions, eyes going wide as he squirmed.

"Most people practice the jumps separate."

"And most people miss at least one of their jumps. Hmm...." Rodney tapped his chin, gazing up at the ceiling. "...I wonder if there's a connection...."

"You're killing me, Rodney."

Rodney's beaming response was smug. "Told you that you wouldn't need your cardio, Mr. I-Train-To-Muscle-Failure-Four-Times-A-Week."

"You're trying to prove something, aren't you?" John scowled at him.

But he finished his water and tossed the bottle into the trash, skating back out to center ice with quick smooth strokes. He struck his beginning pose, both palms in the small of his back. Rodney restarted the music, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to not think how similar this was to the starting pose for the Funky Chicken.

John began in a straight line step sequence, arms held in a circle as he bounced and turned like he was blown by the wind – right up into his first triple with the run of the violins.

It was a relief to see John jump, such great height, his evident delight. The piece had wonderful high notes to emphasize his jumps, too, in contrast to the unrelieved boredom of the rest of the program. Rodney could see why his former coach chose Brahms' "Hungarian Dance #5."

He realized he'd stopped watching, and forced his eyes back to John, scratching the back of his head. What made him so unwatchable when he wasn't in the air?

Rodney could feel the music and the choreography in his bones, how he himself would let his body turn first and let his head whip around after. How he'd fold his arms Cossack style and emphasize the low bounce of the cellos, bending his knees in his stroking. John was doing it right, yes, but the little touches just weren't there. He wasn't feeling it.

Machine-like, he drilled across the ice, and – ah! – another jump. It was like an oasis. John finished the program.

"How was that?" he asked, running his hands through wet sweat-slick hair.

Rodney took a breath. He'd learned from hard experience that one week before a competition was not the time for excessive honesty. "Accurate."

~*~*~

"Welcome to Sports Talk. A French reporter has revealed footage of Canadian skating star, Rodney McKay, slipping out at other points during the 1986 Olympic games when most athletes are preparing for their competitions. These photos show Rodney speaking with his fans—"

"Rodney always has a moment for his fans."

"—and going to museums in the town near the Olympic village."

"And another museum, and another museum... here's another one...."

"Ha. He must like museums. Maybe he was in Amsterdam for the Van Gogh?"

"Yeah right, maybe. Jeeze. I did less sightseeing on my vacation in Greece last year."

"While Rodney may have plenty of energy for his fans, he's declined to be interviewed on this matter – citing, get this, his rigorous training schedule."

"Guess he needs to make up for lost time."

~*~*~

Rodney was grounded. Grounded! Umteen thousand miles from home, he was in Europe for Christ's sakes, and his coach had him under lock and key. He stared up at the beige ceiling of his room – which didn't get any more interesting with familiarity – and folded his arms with a huff. The room was tiny and cheaply made, with aluminum trim around the windows. It was particularly stifling after the heady freedom he'd experienced over the last week. He had magazines he was allowed to read but the press was strictly off-limits in person. His coach-cum-jailer sat in the adjoining bedroom, turning pages like the steady tick of a clock. He was silently furious with Rodney, giving off a storm cloud vibe that even Rodney knew to avoid.

Rodney did his best not to read the news, but curiosity had got the best of him. He flung the newspaper across the room. Everything he'd said or done was getting twisted, and it was like the French press were out for blood!

"Rodney," his coach snapped, closing his magazine. "Do I need to come in there?"

"No."

Three times a day his coach accompanied Rodney to the cafeteria, stalking behind him, where Rodney was allowed to eat but not to interact with any of the other athletes sitting at the long tables. Not that there was any chance of that anyway.

Rodney glared back at the looks he was getting. A young girl with dark hair falling in her face, an Austrian skater he didn't know, gave him a pitying flick of her eyes before she looked away. But most people seemed all too smug. The Americans clustered together, laughing as a group, casting Rodney quick glances as they grinned. Rodney smothered a sigh as he looked at the ceiling. The topic of conversation was quite apparent. The east German, Hans-or-whatever-his-name-was, stood tall, radiating satisfaction as he picked up his tray. He didn't look in Rodney's direction as he went through the cafeteria line, though his shoulder was turned enough towards Rodney that it was obvious he was aware of his presence.

The other Canadian skaters pointedly sat at another table, pretending not to notice him. Rodney had never socialized with them anyway, he assured himself, surprised at how much it stung. What did he care? But these supposedly were his friends and teammates.

Huh. So much for that.

His training sessions were the only respite he had from the boredom and the cloud of gleeful disdain. But there it was impossible to avoid his coach. His heavy air of anger and disappointment hung over their sessions.

Other than the compulsories, Rodney hadn't even competed yet.

He threw himself into his training and did his best not to invite conversation. Or look at the newspapers. Though the headlines drew him....

After two days of misery -- it seemed like twelve -- Rodney managed to excuse himself during his morning practice to go to the bathroom. His coach had begun to relax enough that he was permitted to go on his own. Rodney climbed the flights of stairs through the stands. The bathrooms for the audiences were nicer than the ones for the athletes.

"Psst!" said a voice. "Rodney."

Cautious and worried that this might be some kind of prank or something to land him in even more hot water, Rodney looked around. It came from an alcove by the ladies bathroom.

"Rodney, please, I haven't much time."

It was Radek.

Rodney hesitated, then walked over, squinting in confusion. There Radek grabbed his arm and herded him into the ladies room, shooting a quick look over his shoulder. Inside, he pulled Rodney through another little door into a diaper changing room. Rodney had had no idea women's bathrooms had these. There was even a padded bench for a nap.

"They won't think to look in here," Radek said, twitching toward the door on tiptoe, gazing through the little window.

Rodney couldn't fathom why the press would follow him into the bathroom anyway, unless they wanted to report on how he smelled -- although he wouldn't put it past them at this point.

"I don't have time for any cozy moments, Marc will notice I'm gone -- and where have you been anyway?" Rodney started in on him. "I went all the way to Amsterdam – without you! Thanks for hanging me out to dry, by the way, you ruined the whole trip."

"Yes. I know. I heard. I could not go. The director of the Czech Olympic team wanted to speak with me, personally."

"Couldn't he wait? This was important!"

"Given what happened, I think it was a good thing I did not go."

"Great. Wonderful. So now you're avoiding me, too?" Rodney said. "I wondered why you disappeared. I just made one tiny little mistake and it's not even relevant to my skating!"

Radek made a frantic panicky gesture. "Keep your voice down," he hissed.

"I'm getting ripped to shreds here! I'm not doing anything different, my practices are the same, but now every move I make is a bad one. And my coach won't even let me talk to the press so that makes me look even more guilty! They can say whatever they want."

"Rodney, I should not even be speaking to you now."

"Oh, thanks a lot!"

"Rodney," Radek said, hands down in an emphatic gesture. "The director is paying attention to me. They want my brother to not do his jump."

"Fine. Kick me when I'm down. My future's on the line here!"

"His is 'on the line' as you say, too! Through no fault of his own," Radek said, frowning.

Rodney's eyes went wide. "So you're saying I deserve this? I brought it on myself?"

"That is not what I said."

The door outside to the bathroom swung open and the click of high heels echoed off the tile. Rodney and Radek ducked below the little window in the changing room, crouching on the floor.

Several moments later, a toilet flushed. A faucet ran for a moment. Then the clicking heels walked by them again. The door squeaked open and the heavy outer door shut.

"You know what?" Rodney leaned close, pointing a finger at Radek's chest, his voice an undertone now. "I did it for you. So that just once in your insignificant little communist life you had a glimpse of the world outside, before they slammed the door shut for good and melted the key. But, fine, throw it all back in my face. See if I care."

Radek put his hands out in a forestalling gesture. "Rodney, I'm telling you, it is getting dangerous." He took a deep breath, and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his voice soft and urgent. "My brother, he is going to win something. I've done the calculations and I don't know who is connected to who, but I know that after his first jump? The next, no matter what it is, will push the U.S.S.R. off the podium."

Rodney's face crumpled as he realized where this was headed. He said unhappily, "I thought you were my friend."

"I cannot see you any more, Rodney. I'm sorry."






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Comments

[d_odyssey.livejournal.com]

I like how you are paralleling young Rodney to the current competition with John. Poor Rodney, so young to have so many problems thrown at him at such a critical time. Now, we are finding out what happened and seeing how he has grown from his past. He is applying that knowledge to John's training and worrying for him. I love this series.

[icarusancalion.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Yes, Rodney is very young for this, and he's been built up awfully high by the press. He has no experience to know that this wasn't reliable.

The next part is up (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/669966.html).