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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
I'm now busting tail to post as much of Out Of Bounds as I can for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mad_maudlin before she leaves for the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan this Sunday. This is for you, babe. ;) Thank you for many years of excellent stories, your twinking sense of humor, and fascinating posts on linguistics. I want to hear alllllll about it when you get back.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Isn't that your little brother?"
A/N: Thank you toperfica 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. ;)
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
John and Rodney threaded their way through the airport terminal, edging between sliding glass doors that popped back open, bumping past busy travelers towards the Air Canada check-in. It was totally Rodney's fault they were cutting it close.
John had his costumes in a garment bag slung over his shoulder, a backpack on the other arm as he trailed Rodney. He scowled in annoyance that they had to get in line because Rodney didn't know how to pack. Dressed in a comfortable sport jacket and button down shirt, Rodney had an expensive-looking leather carry-all on one shoulder plus two large suitcases, complete with the annoying little wheels. John just wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He didn't know why it bugged him when people didn't carry their own shit, but it did. He looked around the airport in frustration as they inched forward to check Rodney's bags. On his own he would be at the gate by now, parked in front of a window, watching the planes take off and land.
He shut his eyes and listened to the high rumble and whine of what was probably a DC-9 or DC-10. The 757s had a much lower and louder boom. The sound mixed with the nasal echo of an announcement, the squeak of some kid's tennis shoes, and the liquid murmur of chatter heard at a distance.
And fingers snapping next to his ear. "Earth to Sheppard," Rodney said.
John opened his eyes. The line had finally moved. "You know, they'll have towels at the hotel," he said.
"They use harsh detergents and my skin is very delicate." Rodney handed over his bags to be dropped on the conveyer. "At least I brought more than just a change of underwear -- how are your costumes holding up?"
They hadn't had time to run through John's programs in full costume.
John tipped his head, pursing his lips as they made their way down the dark stairs to the shuttle for terminal one. "I may have picked a few sequins off the sleeves but it's nothing anyone will notice. Of course, it is the end of the season."
"Meaning they could probably crawl to Colorado unaided?" Rodney quirked a smile back at him, taking the steps to the shuttle quickly at least.
"I'm more worried about setting off one of these fire alarms," John said, tongue in cheek, looking around at the ceiling over the stairs.
"Someday they'll invent a sequin that can be dry cleaned. Just don't open it in my hotel room."
They walked past bare drywall cordoned off with yellow tape, the floor dry and gritty underfoot from Toronto International Airport's never-ending construction.
"Weren't they renovating this section last year?" Rodney sniped.
John studied the walls. "Someone's milking it."
They reached the shuttle, only to watch it pull away, the soft ding as the doors closed. Of course they had to wait.
"Your hotel room?" John puzzled, with a little frown of disappointment as his mind caught up with what Rodney had said. "We have separate rooms?"
Rodney rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation.
"I'm courting enough trouble as it is," Rodney admonished him, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "Skate Canada is tied to professional hockey -- which is big business in Canada -- but the U.S. Figure Skating Association?" He squinted at John, forehead creased in a worried expression. "They're little more than an elitist country club that makes it up as they go along. They'd probably invent a 'McKay Rule' just for me, kick me out of the country and portray me as some kind of child molester, never mind that you're twenty-eight years old and perfectly capable of making your own sexual decisions, and not to mention you're only three years my junior."
The shuttle arrived, setting loose a flood of passengers. They boarded, Rodney dropping to a seat with huff. John held onto a rail. He didn't see the point of sitting down when they'd be at the terminal in a minute.
"I'm not messing with that," Rodney continued as if they hadn't been interrupted, crossing his legs, arm stretched across the back of the seat. "So, no, we're not sharing a room. And guess what else is off-limits for the duration."
"Too bad," John said, leaning closer. "I've had some good times on these trips."
Rodney sagged and looked mournful. "Don't tell me. I don't want to spend the entire competition jealous of your dozens of ex-lovers."
"Hundreds, even," John said. He raised his eyebrows and suggested with a little smile, "Some of them might be there, too."
They pulled up to the mid-field terminal. As they stepped off the shuttle, Rodney gave him a miserable backward glance.
John just beamed a smirk at him.
~*~*~
The midfield terminal one had a tall glass wall and John paused and looked across the airfield, starry-eyed. Other travelers had to walk around him. Outside, a cool-looking 727 taxied down the runway while right below them a Fokker F-27 was being loaded up with baggage, it's huge propellers still and waiting. The 50-passenger plane was probably bound for Montreal or someplace else close. John ignored Rodney... who mumbled something about "snacks" and "stay right here"... to find a seat by the window, setting his backpack on the floor, the garment bag all but forgotten on his shoulder as he identified aircraft.
An L-1011 thundered, its powerful engines igniting as it took on the runway... and it was airborne. A large styrofoam cup with a straw cut across John's field of vision. John accepted the soda just to get it out of the way.
"You look approximately nine years old at the moment," Rodney commented.
John took a sip from the straw and let it trail across his lower lip, undistracted from the aircraft. "I always wanted to fly," he admitted with a sheepish glance up at Rodney.
Rodney motioned towards the door with a jerk his head, "Well, here's your chance. Get on the plane." John checked over his shoulder. The line had already started moving. "Looks like they've been boarding for several minutes though it seems I can't expect you to pay attention, despite the fact that I asked you to come fetch me when they called our flight."
John picked up his pack and cut ahead of Rodney. "I call the window."
~*~*~
At thirty-six thousand feet, Rodney's head lolled to the side, his mouth slack.
"Rodney?" John said in a stage whisper. When he got no response, he stretched his leg and stood, staggering stiff-legged. Outside the restroom he leaned his shoulder against the wall to take the pressure off the right side.
"Are you all right, sir?" a blond stewardess with gentle eyes asked.
"Yeah. Long flights just make the knee act up." John shrugged. "Old war injury," he lied.
Inside the bathroom, John rattled several pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. He held the bottle up to examine the number he had left. He only needed to make it to the end of the competition.
By the time John returned to his seat, Rodney was awake and snacking on salted peanuts, the crumbs decorating his jacket. "How's it going?" he asked, smiling.
"Feeling no pain," John said, and sighed as he settled into his seat.
~*~*~
"Oh, there's no question that Rodney McKay has raw talent. But what McKay lacks is maturity. It shows in his dealings with the press, his attitudes towards other skaters like myself, and it shows on the ice, too. He doesn't have the consistency and control of a seasoned skater."
"Well. He has consistently won consecutive World titles."
"Yes, but the Olympics are different. The whole skating community watches the World Championships. The whole world watches the Olympics."
~*~*~
The ski lift allowed only Olympic competitors, their coaches, and support crew during the events, with spectators restricted to the stands at the base of the ramp. The judges, of course, had the best view of the actual landing site, sectioned off with fluttering ribbons. Most ski jumpers' support teams carried with them an alternate pair of skis, back-up ski poles, even ski boots, along with extra goggles, hats, gloves... there wouldn't be time to go back down the slope if they forgot anything, and no one was more superstitious than a ski jumper.
The small young man in a sky blue and red skin-tight jumpsuit skied off the lift alone, with nothing but his ski poles and the hat and goggles he was wearing. Two officials, clipboards in hand, bundled in parkas against the cold that made them look twice as imposing, checked his name and his country. There was some confusion at first until they found him on the injured list.
"You cut it close, kid," said a referee with an American accent and five interlocking rings on his deep red coat. "You're not supposed to write on your number, you know," he added. Getting no answer, he glanced over to the windsock and waved the all clear signal to the group at the gate. They had taken this mess aside so that it wouldn't distract the current jumper from his intense concentration.
In the judges stand below, wishing he'd brought warmer gloves, Radek ducked his head and dutifully marked his scores as an assistant trial judge. It was hard being on the slope when his brother had been forced to withdraw, it was wrong, but it was also his job.
The primary Czech judge beside him poked him in the ribs with an elbow.
"Isn't that your little brother?"
Radek shook his head. "No. He's not coming today."
"No, I mean -- isn't that him?" The judge pointed to the top of the ski ramp.
Radek looked up and caught the glimpse of a sky blue and red jumpsuit disappearing into the starting gate. His mouth opened to say something that didn't come. It was not possible.
Up at the top of the slope, the ski jumper tightened the velcro on his gloves, and wrapped the straps of ski poles tightly around his hands, testing them. There was no coach to shout last minute encouragement, which for the officials made the starting gate strangely silent. Everyone else fell still in response.
The kid planted his ski poles in the slushy trampled ice at the top and got in tuck. He rocked forward, once, twice... on the bell, he was off. He stabbed the poles into the snow, fighting for speed, then tucked in tight, a blue and red blur rocketing down the ramp.
The loudspeaker had announced his name, Jiri Zelenka of Czechoslovakia, but Radek didn't hear it, his breath taken away. He sat frozen in horror and yet somehow impressed as his sixteen-year-old brother flew off the edge of the world.
Radek saw the landing, forward knee bent and perfect, though he couldn't score the jump if his life depended on it. He discovered himself standing, a hand pressed to his forehead, the crowd cheering around him, and remembered that he hadn't brought his camera, before he realized that the whole world would have this on film.
[Previous][Next]
I almost forgot there's music for this postcoming here: Bratøíèku, zavírej vrátka, Daniel Landa
I'm now busting tail to post as much of Out Of Bounds as I can for
mad_maudlin before she leaves for the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan this Sunday. This is for you, babe. ;) Thank you for many years of excellent stories, your twinking sense of humor, and fascinating posts on linguistics. I want to hear alllllll about it when you get back.Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Isn't that your little brother?"
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, Radek Zelenka, and began a quiet affair that turned dangerous once the Czech government began to pressure Radek to prevent his brother from making his final ski jump. 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.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
John and Rodney threaded their way through the airport terminal, edging between sliding glass doors that popped back open, bumping past busy travelers towards the Air Canada check-in. It was totally Rodney's fault they were cutting it close.
John had his costumes in a garment bag slung over his shoulder, a backpack on the other arm as he trailed Rodney. He scowled in annoyance that they had to get in line because Rodney didn't know how to pack. Dressed in a comfortable sport jacket and button down shirt, Rodney had an expensive-looking leather carry-all on one shoulder plus two large suitcases, complete with the annoying little wheels. John just wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He didn't know why it bugged him when people didn't carry their own shit, but it did. He looked around the airport in frustration as they inched forward to check Rodney's bags. On his own he would be at the gate by now, parked in front of a window, watching the planes take off and land.
He shut his eyes and listened to the high rumble and whine of what was probably a DC-9 or DC-10. The 757s had a much lower and louder boom. The sound mixed with the nasal echo of an announcement, the squeak of some kid's tennis shoes, and the liquid murmur of chatter heard at a distance.
And fingers snapping next to his ear. "Earth to Sheppard," Rodney said.
John opened his eyes. The line had finally moved. "You know, they'll have towels at the hotel," he said.
"They use harsh detergents and my skin is very delicate." Rodney handed over his bags to be dropped on the conveyer. "At least I brought more than just a change of underwear -- how are your costumes holding up?"
They hadn't had time to run through John's programs in full costume.
John tipped his head, pursing his lips as they made their way down the dark stairs to the shuttle for terminal one. "I may have picked a few sequins off the sleeves but it's nothing anyone will notice. Of course, it is the end of the season."
"Meaning they could probably crawl to Colorado unaided?" Rodney quirked a smile back at him, taking the steps to the shuttle quickly at least.
"I'm more worried about setting off one of these fire alarms," John said, tongue in cheek, looking around at the ceiling over the stairs.
"Someday they'll invent a sequin that can be dry cleaned. Just don't open it in my hotel room."
They walked past bare drywall cordoned off with yellow tape, the floor dry and gritty underfoot from Toronto International Airport's never-ending construction.
"Weren't they renovating this section last year?" Rodney sniped.
John studied the walls. "Someone's milking it."
They reached the shuttle, only to watch it pull away, the soft ding as the doors closed. Of course they had to wait.
"Your hotel room?" John puzzled, with a little frown of disappointment as his mind caught up with what Rodney had said. "We have separate rooms?"
Rodney rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation.
"I'm courting enough trouble as it is," Rodney admonished him, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "Skate Canada is tied to professional hockey -- which is big business in Canada -- but the U.S. Figure Skating Association?" He squinted at John, forehead creased in a worried expression. "They're little more than an elitist country club that makes it up as they go along. They'd probably invent a 'McKay Rule' just for me, kick me out of the country and portray me as some kind of child molester, never mind that you're twenty-eight years old and perfectly capable of making your own sexual decisions, and not to mention you're only three years my junior."
The shuttle arrived, setting loose a flood of passengers. They boarded, Rodney dropping to a seat with huff. John held onto a rail. He didn't see the point of sitting down when they'd be at the terminal in a minute.
"I'm not messing with that," Rodney continued as if they hadn't been interrupted, crossing his legs, arm stretched across the back of the seat. "So, no, we're not sharing a room. And guess what else is off-limits for the duration."
"Too bad," John said, leaning closer. "I've had some good times on these trips."
Rodney sagged and looked mournful. "Don't tell me. I don't want to spend the entire competition jealous of your dozens of ex-lovers."
"Hundreds, even," John said. He raised his eyebrows and suggested with a little smile, "Some of them might be there, too."
They pulled up to the mid-field terminal. As they stepped off the shuttle, Rodney gave him a miserable backward glance.
John just beamed a smirk at him.
The midfield terminal one had a tall glass wall and John paused and looked across the airfield, starry-eyed. Other travelers had to walk around him. Outside, a cool-looking 727 taxied down the runway while right below them a Fokker F-27 was being loaded up with baggage, it's huge propellers still and waiting. The 50-passenger plane was probably bound for Montreal or someplace else close. John ignored Rodney... who mumbled something about "snacks" and "stay right here"... to find a seat by the window, setting his backpack on the floor, the garment bag all but forgotten on his shoulder as he identified aircraft.
An L-1011 thundered, its powerful engines igniting as it took on the runway... and it was airborne. A large styrofoam cup with a straw cut across John's field of vision. John accepted the soda just to get it out of the way.
"You look approximately nine years old at the moment," Rodney commented.
John took a sip from the straw and let it trail across his lower lip, undistracted from the aircraft. "I always wanted to fly," he admitted with a sheepish glance up at Rodney.
Rodney motioned towards the door with a jerk his head, "Well, here's your chance. Get on the plane." John checked over his shoulder. The line had already started moving. "Looks like they've been boarding for several minutes though it seems I can't expect you to pay attention, despite the fact that I asked you to come fetch me when they called our flight."
John picked up his pack and cut ahead of Rodney. "I call the window."
At thirty-six thousand feet, Rodney's head lolled to the side, his mouth slack.
"Rodney?" John said in a stage whisper. When he got no response, he stretched his leg and stood, staggering stiff-legged. Outside the restroom he leaned his shoulder against the wall to take the pressure off the right side.
"Are you all right, sir?" a blond stewardess with gentle eyes asked.
"Yeah. Long flights just make the knee act up." John shrugged. "Old war injury," he lied.
Inside the bathroom, John rattled several pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. He held the bottle up to examine the number he had left. He only needed to make it to the end of the competition.
By the time John returned to his seat, Rodney was awake and snacking on salted peanuts, the crumbs decorating his jacket. "How's it going?" he asked, smiling.
"Feeling no pain," John said, and sighed as he settled into his seat.
"Oh, there's no question that Rodney McKay has raw talent. But what McKay lacks is maturity. It shows in his dealings with the press, his attitudes towards other skaters like myself, and it shows on the ice, too. He doesn't have the consistency and control of a seasoned skater."
"Well. He has consistently won consecutive World titles."
"Yes, but the Olympics are different. The whole skating community watches the World Championships. The whole world watches the Olympics."
The ski lift allowed only Olympic competitors, their coaches, and support crew during the events, with spectators restricted to the stands at the base of the ramp. The judges, of course, had the best view of the actual landing site, sectioned off with fluttering ribbons. Most ski jumpers' support teams carried with them an alternate pair of skis, back-up ski poles, even ski boots, along with extra goggles, hats, gloves... there wouldn't be time to go back down the slope if they forgot anything, and no one was more superstitious than a ski jumper.
The small young man in a sky blue and red skin-tight jumpsuit skied off the lift alone, with nothing but his ski poles and the hat and goggles he was wearing. Two officials, clipboards in hand, bundled in parkas against the cold that made them look twice as imposing, checked his name and his country. There was some confusion at first until they found him on the injured list.
"You cut it close, kid," said a referee with an American accent and five interlocking rings on his deep red coat. "You're not supposed to write on your number, you know," he added. Getting no answer, he glanced over to the windsock and waved the all clear signal to the group at the gate. They had taken this mess aside so that it wouldn't distract the current jumper from his intense concentration.
In the judges stand below, wishing he'd brought warmer gloves, Radek ducked his head and dutifully marked his scores as an assistant trial judge. It was hard being on the slope when his brother had been forced to withdraw, it was wrong, but it was also his job.
The primary Czech judge beside him poked him in the ribs with an elbow.
"Isn't that your little brother?"
Radek shook his head. "No. He's not coming today."
"No, I mean -- isn't that him?" The judge pointed to the top of the ski ramp.
Radek looked up and caught the glimpse of a sky blue and red jumpsuit disappearing into the starting gate. His mouth opened to say something that didn't come. It was not possible.
Up at the top of the slope, the ski jumper tightened the velcro on his gloves, and wrapped the straps of ski poles tightly around his hands, testing them. There was no coach to shout last minute encouragement, which for the officials made the starting gate strangely silent. Everyone else fell still in response.
The kid planted his ski poles in the slushy trampled ice at the top and got in tuck. He rocked forward, once, twice... on the bell, he was off. He stabbed the poles into the snow, fighting for speed, then tucked in tight, a blue and red blur rocketing down the ramp.
The loudspeaker had announced his name, Jiri Zelenka of Czechoslovakia, but Radek didn't hear it, his breath taken away. He sat frozen in horror and yet somehow impressed as his sixteen-year-old brother flew off the edge of the world.
Radek saw the landing, forward knee bent and perfect, though he couldn't score the jump if his life depended on it. He discovered himself standing, a hand pressed to his forehead, the crowd cheering around him, and remembered that he hadn't brought his camera, before he realized that the whole world would have this on film.
[Previous][Next]
I almost forgot there's music for this post
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 09:06 am (UTC)Angie
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 10:09 pm (UTC)The Czech government is perfectly capable of making the entire Zelenka family's life miserable over this.